Wilfred

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WILFRED: Chapter One: Midnight

It was nearly midnight; I had not slept even though I had been in bed since about 10 PM. The wind howling outside the little apartment seemed to be tearing the building to shreds, and the blizzard was whipping everything in sight. Freezing, I was shaking in my futon and wanted two or three of my mother's quilts to pile on top of me. Central Japan in the winter is not a friendly place; the life of a Mormon missionary in Central Japan in the middle of winter is harsh.

I looked next to me and noticed that Elder Branson was not sleeping either. "Elder?" I called softly, in case he was asleep.

"Yes?"

"Sleeping?"

"No, I can't, I am freezing and the noise is making me crazy."

"Maybe we can find a way to get warm."

"How is that?"

"Let's huddle together next to the sekyu stove."

The little kerosene-burning stove in our one-room apartment was intended to keep us warm through the night, but the battle against the wind and the blizzard had been lost hours ago. We were both freezing cold, were shaking in our beds, and needed warmth and comfort. There was a lost tone to Elder Branson's voice, and I could tell he was more than miserable, he was scared.

"Elder, get up and bring your futon over next to the stove and let's huddle together to double our body heat. That will help us at least get warm, maybe not enough to sleep, but we won't freeze to death."

Elder David Branson slowly dragged himself, all six feet blonde-and-blue-eyed Utah missionary, to the center of the room next to the stove, and we wrapped the two futon around us as we awkwardly tried to negotiate how to press our bodies together. Two male Mormon missionaries in the prime of life, 21 years old, standing together in a cold dark Japanese apartment in the middle of the mountains west of Tokyo, were not accustomed to pressing themselves together in an intimate embrace, whether to guard against death by freezing or not. It was a brand new experience for both of us.

I wrapped my arms around Elder Branson's waist, and he wrapped his around my shoulders. The futon were draped around us and starting to slip off our shoulders, so he suggested we sit down. As we did so, the futon fell off completely, making us even colder. I stood up, told Elder Branson to stand up, and turned him by his shoulders to put his back against my chest. Then I had us sit down again, as close to the stove as possible, and wrapped us in the futon, mine around our shoulders and his around our chests, covering our feet and legs.

He was still shivering, and as I wrapped my arms around his waist, sitting together, we began to warm each other. The thought crept into my head that I had never felt this before: a man against my chest, in an intimate embrace, and even as innocent and brotherly as it was supposed to be, I could not help but feel something strange.

The feeling was not negative, it was warm and inviting, and sooner than I thought possible, as my arms held onto that blonde man with whom I had spent three months walking through the mountain villages of Japan "proclaiming the Gospel", I was no longer thinking about the Gospel. I was thinking about the urgent need pumping blood into my crotch.

"Elder?"

I cleared my throat, tried to sound as innocent and detached as possible, and mumbled "mmhh hmm?"

"Elder, thank you."

"For what?"

"Keeping me from freezing to death."

"No problem, you are doing the same for me."

"Really? I was wondering if actually you were getting a little warmer than me?"

"Why do you ask, Elder Branson?"

"Well, there is this stiff thing rubbing my back."

I wanted to throw the covers off us and run away and hide. I was embarrassed, humiliated, and felt betrayed by my cock once again. I had never held a man in my arms, much less in such a vulnerable situation, and had absolutely no idea what to do or say. Elder Branson solved it for me.

My arms were wrapped around his chest, and he reached his left hand up and took my right hand, and slowly slid it down to his waist. My other hand followed, and we sat that way for a couple of minutes, my arms resting on his waist, my heart pounding, not knowing at all what to expect. I knew what I wanted but would drink poison before I said it out loud to my missionary companion. Branson did not say anything either, but continued to move my left hand, this time past his waist and down his left leg, and slowly rubbed it up and down his thigh, at last coming to rest against his crotch.

I was not breathing; I did not know what to do. My right hand was still lying softly against his waist, and he moved it as well, repeating the actions of my left hand. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he took my right hand, and moving it softly upwards toward the waist band of his temple garment, pushed it down inside. What I discovered was two things: the man whom I had seen numerous times naked in the showers or the neighborhood o-furo, the public bath house, was much thicker and sturdier than I had imagined, even though I had masturbated to fantasies of his cock more than once a week, usually after coming home from the bath house. Second, he was hard as stone.

In my mind, I had to insist to myself that Elder Branson was to guide the next move; he did so, slowly encasing his stiffness with my hand, and then moving his hand away as if to say "go ahead." I did. I gripped his thickness, measuring it, running my fingers down the length of it, re-discovering his foreskin, double the length of my imagination, and began playing with that flexible and delightful length of loose skin at the head of a beautiful cock. As I pushed it downwards, I noticed he had drops of pre-cum on the head, slightly oozing out, inviting me to take it and drink it. The cold and the wrappings of the futon prevented me from doing that, as did my sudden shyness.

I began slowly jacking his cock with my right hand, as my left hand began exploring deeper into his crotch, between his thighs, wondering what was to be found there, what would happen if I pushed inside of him? I was brought back to consciousness by his moaning, his head softly coming to rest against my shoulder, which encouraged me to do something I have never attempted. I kissed him. I kissed his shoulders, I kissed his neck, I kissed his ears, and finally I kissed his cheek. He did not pull away, he did not react, he rolled his head closer to mine, and moaned even more.

"Oh, God."

"Elder?"

"David."

"Sorry?"

"You have to call me David."

"David." I said it softly, lovingly. I was not in love with this man, I did not really know what that would feel like, I just wanted this moment to go on forever, in fact I wanted this moment to freeze us to the floor and let us die right here and now in a Japanese apartment in the mountains in the middle of a blizzard at midnight.

"Paul?"

"Yes?"

"I am cumming."

He said it so softly, so matter-of-fact, it was more a benediction than an alarm. I had no idea what to do next, but Elder David Branson took charge, moving my hand in a fashion which he wanted me to repeat, and I began sliding my right hand swiftly up and down his beautiful cock, and within a few seconds, we were rewarded by an amount of cum that I thought would drain the life from him. He slumped against my shoulder, almost as if he had passed out. I moved my arms to his waist again and held him tightly.

I needed to say something but could not form the words.

"How did you know?"

"David, what are you talking about?"

"Paul, how did you know I was gay?"

"I did not know, I don't know, I was just following a path to keep us warm and alive. I am sorry this happened."

"Really? You are sorry? How can you say that? I am disappointed to hear you say you are sorry." He started to pull away from me.

"No, I mean, well, yes I liked it, yes, it was fun, but you know, all the missionary rules, the stuff we cannot do, we have to go home and get married and then..." I was babbling.

"Elder Paul Campbell from some farm in Sacramento, California, tell me you did not want to do this?"

"OK, you got me."

"Paul, are you gay?"

After a long silence, in which he rested himself against my chest again, I muttered "Yes".

"I suppose then that whatever happened here tonight is pretty normal, pretty natural, even though we may have crossed a couple of barriers?"

"A couple of barriers? Elder, I think we may have leaped across the Grand Canyon of missionary rules here. But yes, I liked it, yes, I want to find out what it means to be gay, and obviously that is not going to happen here in Japan as missionaries."

David turned to look at my face.

"Paul Campbell, there is no need to upset the missionary system, the mission president, our parents and families, so we need to continue just acting like normal missionaries. I have six months left to go in this frozen Hell, and then return to "normal" life or at least "civilian" life in Utah. What happens between now and then, we shall see, but I am sure we are both going to learn a lot."

"Wow."

"That's it, `wow'?"

"Well, I suddenly have a lot to think about. I have nine months to go, and when I go back home to Sacramento, I have no idea what to do next. Do you realize this is the first time in my life I have ever said, out loud, I am gay?"

"Me too."

"You did not say it; you asked me how I knew you are gay."

"OK, then, I AM GAY."

"Wow."

"Again? You boys in California have small vocabularies?"

"Maybe, but that's the only small thing about us California boys."

"Yeah, I noticed that monster rubbing my back."

"Yeah, well it's not such a monster now, I am still cold."

"Can I fix that?"

I did not have to reply, I took David Branson in my arms again, and this time I kissed his lips, not his neck or his cheek. He kissed me back, fervently, softly, lovingly, eagerly. And then he slipped his hand down to my still soft cock and began repeating the motions we had enjoyed earlier. I was ready to cum in just a couple of minutes; this was the first time anyone had ever touched me in this way, and I could not hold back.

At six the next morning, when the usual missionary alarm rang, we both ignored it and rolled over, grasping each other to maintain body contact for the needed warmth. It was another half hour before David muttered "I have to pee."

"Gonna be a cold one."

"Well, you don't want me to pee in the bed, do you?"

"Nope, get your white Utah buns out of here and go pee."

He trotted down the hall to the communal benjo, and I could faintly hear the splashing of the night's revelry into the ceramic bowl. I suddenly had to pee as well, and rather than worry about any suspicions from the neighbors, ran to the benjo and stood beside him. He reached over and touched my dick, partly hard, and he laughed.

"Ready for round two?"

"I am ready for breakfast."

"My treat."

We ran down the hill from the apartment toward the main street, slipping and sliding most of the way, the entire landscape blasted with wind-driven snow onto every surface. Weird snow sculptures at every corner, it was an eerie landscape bound in white and ice-blue. There was practically no movement on the main street, and we decided to grab a snack from a street vendor, and then head to the see if the o-furo was opened, so we could get a lot warmer. Luckily, both happened, in that order, and we were snacking on baked sweet potatoes and roasted ears of corn, while we turned the corner to the bath house. The steam shooting from the roof told us we were in luck.

While we were sitting in the steaming tub, David looked at me and said "You know, despite last night, I know practically nothing about you."

I blushed. "Well, at least you know one important thing about me."

"Yes, nice, sure, and I want a lot more of that, but all I know is you are Elder Paul Campbell from Sacramento, California, and you grew up on a farm. I don't even know your middle name."

"Wilfred."

"Pardon?"

"It's Wilfred; my middle name. You had to ask." I was blushing, I hated that name, it was a family relic from many generations back.

He smiled, but thankfully he did not laugh. "I have a horrible middle name", he confided. I grinned, relishing this opportunity. "Frank."

"Really? Frank? Why do you think that is horrible?"

"Because I am named after my great-uncle, a bachelor farmer and farm supply store owner in Boise, who never married, and everybody in the family whispers he was gay. Actually, I am lying. He was gay, but that's not my name."

"Wow."

"Your favorite word."

"What?"

"You say `wow' all of the time." He grinned broadly at me, lounging in the steaming tub.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize, it's cute."

"Wow, so now I am cute?"

"Well, you have always been cute, now there is just another reason to think that about you."

Now I was really blushing, and he laughed softly. "Elder Paul Wilfred Campbell, Sacramento farmer, gay missionary, the "W" in your middle name should be `wow."

"You are teasing me."

"Do you mind?"

"Not really, it feels kinda good. I have never had a relationship with a guy, and this is kinda like what I think it might be."

"So, we are in a relationship?" He looked suddenly worried.

"No, I did not mean that, I just meant that if I was in a relationship, it might feel like this. You are easy to be with, and I like it."

"Is that just your cock talking?"

Now I really blushed. "Well, I liked all of that, but no, that is not the main reason, it is just that the whole time I was growing up, and now the whole time I have been in Japan, I knew I was different, never really knew why, and now it makes me feel a little more courage, a little more hopeful, for the future."

"Paul, you know there are going to be some hurdles ahead."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, first off the next six months- for me anyway, nine for you- we have to get through this Japanese torture chamber of being gay missionaries in the world's most conservative church which has no sense of humor at all about guys like us, especially guys like us having sex while we are spreading the Gospel', cause you notice it ain't spelled `Gayspell'. You have heard of Elder Boyd K. Packer, President of the Council of the Twelve, who hates gays?"

"Yeah sure, probably because he is gay and is jealous that he is never gonna get laid."

Branson laughed out loud. The O-Basan looked sharply in our direction. "I ought to wag my cock at her."

"Please don't!"

"And then?"

"And then, we have to go home and face the world."

"So?"

"So, are you ready to come out of the closet? Are you ready to be the little gay Sacramento farmer? Is your family ready for that?"

"Nope, I am dead sure they are not ready, and in fact I am not at this very moment ready, but I wonder if the next few months might help me, give me some time to think, to `ponder and pray' as we teach the converts, and then maybe I can see which way to go."

"And besides there is college, there is career planning, all of that stuff."

"What are you going to do? I have always just assumed I was going to stay on the farm."

"Is it lucrative?"

"Sorry?"

"Are you rich?"

"Nope, not by a long shot if you listen to my parents and grandparents, we are poor as church mice, but in actual fact I suspect, if I ran the numbers through my head, they might be worth at least a hundred million in land value, but I have no idea what their cash flow is like. All I know is I get a salary from working the farm all year, and have no living expenses. "

"Whoooosh, a hundred million?"

"Land value, Elder Branson."

"Well, living in the little quiet one-horse town of West Jordan, Utah, in the south end of the Great Salt Lake Valley, a hundred million sounds like a lot of tacos."

"Tell me about Utah."

"Not much to tell, I am pretty much the poster-child for Utah families, blonde, oldest son goes on a mission, goes home, marries in the temple, has 3.5 kids, graduates BYU or U of U, pays ten percent tithing for the rest of his life, and lives quietly and desperately with an annual vacation to Lake Powell."

"That sounds like someone else; it does not sound like you."

"Really?" He sat quietly, staring at me intently, curiosity in his eyes.

"So how do you see it?"

"Oh, I don't know, lawyer, maybe college professor, something like that, not really sure, but certainly not a suburbanite southern Salt Lake County mow-the-lawn-on-Saturday Daddy who goes to Baskin-Robbins every Monday night for family home evening."

"Thanks, you make it sound so horrible."

"To me, it is."

"You just described my family."

"Sorry, really, I am sorry, didn't mean to offend you."

"It's OK; I just have to think about how to manage my own life, now that there is something to think about managing."

"Girlfriends?"

"Yeah, a couple that write to me still, but nothing I am interested in pursuing. I was Mister Clean-Cut, Priest's Quorum President, and all that, four-year seminary dude, never kissed a girl, never held hands, never drank, never smoked, just a regular Salt Lake City jock."

"Elder Branson, I have an idea."

" `K?"

"Come and visit me on the farm, maybe next summer after I get home from here, spend a couple of days, just hang out, we can go down to San Francisco, spend a day or two, just hang out, see what happens."

"Like a date?"

"Nope! You're not all that."

He laughed and splashed water at me, hitting me in the face. Yep, this felt good- very good.