DISCLAIMER: This is just a story what never happened because Uncle Buddy would never have let me get that close to no elk in the first place. It is a story for grownups only, because it talks about things that only grownups do or talk about and when you get to be grown up, you'll know what I mean. Until then, wait. This story belongs to me on account of I wrote it down and have the copyright on it and Uncle Buddy and me will find out where you live if you mess with it any more than reading it here on CRVBOY and telling your grownup friends where they can read it to if you like it which I hope you will.

Uncle Buddy had this real sour expression on his face. Anybody who's seen "Return of the Jedi" - that's just about everybody, I figure - knows the expression I mean. It's the way Princess Leia looked a lot of the time, but especially when she was chained up alongside Jabba the Hutt's throne waiting for Luke Skywalker to come save her before Jabba ate her or slimed her or whatever Hutts do to Princesses in off-the-shoulder, captive- slave-girl outfits.

That's the way Uncle Buddy looked -- pissed off. Except, of course, he was pissed off at me, not at Luke for being late, and Uncle Buddy wasn't wearing an off-the-shoulder, captive-slave- girl-outfit. Fact is, he wasn't wearing much of anything. He had some kind of collar around his neck with a chain clipped to it, and his special parts were all squinched up in a sort of leather sack, and his skin was all shiny from a real heavy coat of baby oil or something. But the look he was giving me - "What the fuck have you got me into now, asshole?" - would have done Princess Leia proud.

What I'd gotten him into wasn't actually that bad. Just a wrestling match, and not even a real one. He and the Twink was going to do the wrestling, and the big-time film crew was going to get pictures of everything. Especially the part where Uncle Buddy and the Twink, whose special parts were all bunched up, too, but in a pretty small piece of shiny gold-like cloth, would get one hundred percent naked and kind of excited and start fooling around. It's not as if Uncle Buddy had never been one hundred percent naked with another dude because of course he had, mostly with me. But we'd never had no film crew around, and I think that's what had Uncle Buddy pissed off. Uncle Buddy had a modest streak, coming like he does from a God-fearing family run by his father who looks a lot like God and can talk like Him, too.

I come from the same family. And at near the same time, having got born about five months before Buddy did. But Buddy's father is my granddad, and my father is Buddy's half-brother, which makes me Buddy's nephew, except I'm older, so I never had to pretend to show him much respect beyond calling him Uncle now and then in company. Buddy's momma was a pretty little thing - that's what my dad always said about his dad's second, late-in-life wife - and Buddy took after her for the longest time. He was pretty and he stayed little whilst I got big, which meant I could pretty well tell him what to do and where to get off and could get away with it. Which I did. So by the time Buddy got big, too, he was used to doing what I said. Still is. But he can get pissed off at me. Like he did the day before the wrestling match in front of the big-time film crew.

Looking back on it, he had some cause to be pissed off at me. It was on account of me spotting this great big bull elk in the shallows of the Bitterroot River and flat out insisting that Buddy and me take our canoe in for a closer look. Now I know you don't want to mess with no elk in rut, but this one looked to be alone and still had some of that moss-like covering hanging down off his antlers. So I figured he was just building up attitude for mating season and was safe to get close to long as we stayed real quiet and downwind.

The thing is, I figured wrong. Just about the time we got the canoe into the shallows, tiptoeing kind of, two things happened. The wind shifted, and the elk's lady friend strolled out of a stand of aspen trees to hint kind of that time was wasting. Could be, that elk had Buddy's kind of modest streak, or, more likely, was easily pissed off. At any rate, he spotted us and charged the canoe with Buddy and me in it. Until we got out of it. Fast. Like I said, we was in the shallows, so I figured we'd best leave the canoe for the elk to mess up so it wouldn't bother with messing us up too.

It did. Mess up the canoe, that is. Looking back at it - the elk, that is, to see if it was going to come after us - I saw the canoe go spinning a good 15 feet up in the air, spilling out all our camping gear, some into the shallows, some into deeper water. Which left Buddy and me in our cut-offs and boots up shit creek without any paddles or tent or bedrolls or fishing line, rifle, flashlight, or food. Well, you get the idea. At least, it was a real warm day for the second week in June in the Tetons, and me and Buddy was on the east bank of the river where the north- south roads run some ways from the river and the elk looked to have worked its upset out of its system. Which you couldn't truthfully say about Uncle Buddy.

He didn't go for his hunting knife. He was pissed off but not murderous. But he did curse me for having shit for brains, and he said that if he fucked me between the ears, which he just might decide to do, I'd never feel a thing since the inside of my head was as hollow as a politician's promise. Then he said that before he starved to death on account of I'd been an asshole, he would take out his hunting knife and remove pieces of me bit by bit for his meals and he asked me to guess which pieces of me he'd start in on first.

I didn't need to guess. He'd had a thing about my dick and my nuts ever since I first showed him how the one got big when it got stiff and how the others tried to climb up it. He was downright fascinated. For close to two years till his turn came to get big and stiff - he was something of a late bloomer in that department - he couldn't get enough of the sight and the feel and even the taste of me. And he was pretty, like I said, so I didn't have no objection to the business of getting one hundred percent naked with him even if he was my own uncle.

Then when he started in to get stiff and big on his own, I was the one who got fascinated. Most of the time Uncle Buddy's dick and my dick were just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill, human male sex organs, and when mine got stiff and big, it got adequate to the occasion but that's about all. Uncle Buddy, though, his pecker could go from zero to sixty in about the time it takes a snake to strike. The speed was remarkable, but the size shift was purely astonishing. One minute he was run-of-the-mill and the next thing you knew, he had a war club waving there between his legs. Which is why I got fascinated and why this big-time film crew wanted him to wrestle till his leather sack came off.

The way the director of the big-time film crew had it figured, once Uncle Buddy busted loose, in a manner of speaking, the Twink was either going to settle down and do what he was getting paid for or he was going to break his contract out of pure unadulterated terror, in which case Uncle Buddy and me, the director said, would have the opportunity of a lifetime. I hadn't exactly spelled everything out to Uncle Buddy because the director didn't want to interfere with what he expected to be the spontaneity of it all. I had just told Uncle Buddy that if he won the wrestling match which he was sure to being strong and a champion high-school wrestler, he was going to be able to fuck the Twink in the face and the ass right there by the barn at the X Bar L ranch resort. Uncle Buddy agreed that the Twink looked like he'd be easy to wrestle and fun to fuck so he, Uncle Buddy, that is, went along with the idea. Then he found out that the big-time camera crew would be taking pictures of the proceedings, and that's when he got that pissed-off, Princess Leia look. But by then everything was set, and he couldn't back out, and the director seemed to like the pissed-off look anyway. "He looks mean" is what he, the director, that is, whispered to me. "That's great. A mean angel. Real kinky."

The director's name is Jack, and he was the first member of the big-time film crew Uncle Buddy and me met when we walked up to the X Bar L ranch resort kind of late in the afternoon of the day that the elk got upset with us. Jack was walking up and down and talking to himself when we showed up, saying things like "Calls himself a cocksucker, does he?" and "Can't take it up the ass!? He could take a Ryder truck up that ass and still have room for Rock Hudson, Liberace and the Trockaderos."

I kind of didn't want to interrupt such an interesting discussion, but the truth is Uncle Buddy and me was hungry and thirsty and scratched up and so tired and footsore that until we saw the fence around the X Bar L ranch resort we was almost ready to lay down and give up. Not having no shirts on nor no way to make a fire and with evening coming, we had about given up on our chances of getting home in good health. Uncle Buddy had started in to talk about the wolf packs that the pointy-headed godless Communists in Washington had raised up in Yellowstone and how when they came for us in the night, he'd make sure they took me first. He was still pissed off at me on account of that elk and our canoe and the camping trip I'd fucked up.

So when we saw Jack, not that we knew his name at the time, we was not at our most presentable. I had some dried blood over one eye where I hadn't seen a tree branch coming on account of looking back at the elk, and Uncle Buddy had his pissed-off, Princess Leia look and his long, white-blond hair was full of leaves and twigs. So when Jack finally looked up and saw us, what he said was "Holy Charles Manson!" and he took a step or two backwards and put up his hands and said something kind of short about how we were on private property and shouldn't plan to stick around long. Then he yelled, real loud, "Benny, Luther, Arnie, we got company! Strangers! And," he yelled this even louder, "they got knives!"

Quick as I could I explained who me and Uncle Buddy was and how we'd been attacked by an elk in the shallows and had been walking ever since looking for a road to hitchhike our way back home. And I said that if maybe we could borrow shirts and get directions to the road, we'd be on our way and didn't want to be no trouble. Just when I was getting ready to ask for a drink of water, too, three men ran up to where we was talking and one of them was carrying a two-by-four and seemed a little anxious. So I started in again on the explaining and apologizing, but just about when I'd gotten to the elk and our canoe, I heard Uncle Buddy sort of sigh and then I heard a thump on account of he'd keeled over.

That pretty well broke the ice. The fellow with the two-by- four dropped it and ran to pick up Uncle Buddy and said, "poor kid, poor kid" over and over after I said not to worry that Uncle Buddy was probably just tired and hungry and only needed a little rest. The other men kneeled down, and one of them who was holding a can of pop poured some of it into Uncle Buddy's mouth, and he came to, looking confused and asking what happened. The fellow holding him up said he'd fainted, Uncle Buddy, that is, but he'd be all right and just to stay calm, and the fellow patted him on his shoulders and his arms and his legs in a nice, considerate sort of way. He also started picking the leaves and twigs out of Uncle Buddy's hair and trying to unsnarl it and smooth it down with his fingers. That was nice and considerate, too, but Uncle Buddy must have thought it was a little too friendly because he sort of pushed the fellow off and stood up. All that patting and smoothing and unsnarling was making Uncle Buddy nervous and more, as I could tell by the way his cut-offs was squeezing him.

Once it was generally agreed that Uncle Buddy was a poor kid, the fellows warmed right up. One of them ran off to get us some sandwiches. Another followed him but high-tailed it right back with beer and pop and water. Jack, the director, told us his name was Jack, and I said mine was Seth and that this was my Uncle Buddy. Then we shook hands, and Jack led us around the main house of the X Bar L ranch resort to where he said we could get cleaned up.

The cleaning up place was an outdoor shower - something Uncle Buddy and me had never seen before that day - with a stockade fence so it was hard to see everything inside if you was outside and room for two to lather up and rinse down. Whilst I was getting the dirt and dried blood off me, I noticed that I'd been right about how nervous Uncle Buddy had gotten whilst that fellow patted and smoothed and unsnarled him. Not that he'd gone from zero to sixty, but nobody outside who looked inside the outdoor shower would call him run-of-the-mill. Jack did look inside, but just long enough to leave some towels and tell us to come to the hot tub when we was done showering.

Right away, of course, Uncle Buddy wanted to know what a hot tub was. I had to do some fancy footwork with my mouth about how I couldn't believe he was so green and out of it that he didn't know what a hot tub was and how all the ranch resorts had at least one of them for the guests. Finally, I said the best thing I could do was just show him the hot tub so he'd understand and stop pestering me with his pitiful ignorance. Before we left off showering, though, I made Uncle Buddy run the cold water on his special parts to get them back to looking run-of-the-mill. I couldn't tell you why I had this feeling that the time hadn't come for Uncle Buddy to show himself off, but I just had it, the feeling, that is. And since I didn't have a single idea myself about what a hot tub was, I thought that keeping an ace up my sleeve, in a manner of speaking, couldn't hurt.

I didn't have no sleeve, of course, but I did have a towel cinched around my waist when me and Uncle Buddy went looking for the hot tub, which was actually just around the corner from the shower and where, the hot tub, that is, there wasn't much of any call for a towel, not around your waist, nor no place else. I've seen men one hundred per cent naked before. But in a locker room after a football game, to take a for instance, there's generally a good deal of movement and covering up and towel-snapping and yelling and general carrying-on, and unless you want to get a bad name for yourself, you don't do a lot of staring. The hot tub was something else. No matter where you looked, everybody was one hundred percent naked and, you'd have to say, pretty casual about staring and being stared at.

The fellow who'd poured the pop into Uncle Buddy's mouth - his name turned out to be Arnie and he was the cameraman - was leaning back on his elbows in the water with his legs stuck out in front of him so that the parts of him that you don't ordinarily stare at were floating out on the surface. Arnie looked like he didn't have a care in the world. Part of the reason, I guess, was the fellow sitting on the rim of the tub behind Arnie with his legs spread wide who was rubbing Arnie's shoulders and neck. He was called Bernie, and Jack said he was the producer and was Arnie's partner. I started to ask what business the two of them was in, but they looked more like real, close personal friends than fellows who was in business together so I held my tongue.

Jack himself was about to get into the tub when me and Uncle Buddy showed up, but he stopped and introduced us to the other fellows instead, including to one who was all the way in the water who he said went by the name of Dick B. Long. "He's our Star," Jack said, but Dick B. didn't act much like no Star. Being one hundred per cent naked, of course, he wasn't in condition to offer us no autograph. Still he could have been civil, which he almost wasn't. He hardly even looked up when Uncle Buddy and me was introduced and just muttered a "Hi" at us before he went back to hanging his head.

Jack said Uncle Buddy and me should just come on in to the tub and Luther would be along after a while with something for us to eat which we could do, eat, that is, in the tub. Jack got into the tub himself next to Dick B. but one level higher and stretched out his legs like Arnie with pretty much the same results as far as floating went. Jack pointed to a space next to him for me to take and a place on the other side for Uncle Buddy. There was nothing for it. I uncinched my towel and walked bareass to the rim of the tub whilst everybody in it except Dick B. stared at me and the parts of me I consider run-of-the-mill. I tried to make like climbing into hot water one hundred percent naked with fellows I'd only just got to know was something I did all the time. Acting casual though, I missed my step and sort of spun around so that Jack had to grab me around the waist and pull me down into his lap to keep me from falling. He behaved like he didn't mind a bit and even kept his hands on me some extra time, except more on my backside than my waist, in the kind of way that would have made Uncle Buddy nervous if it had been his backside, that is.

Whilst I created this diversion without exactly doing it on purpose, Uncle Buddy got out of his towel and into the water on the other side of Arnie's floating legs without getting stared at. But because he didn't get all that far in, the staring squad came round to him pretty quick after I got off Jack's lap and settled down. Bernie was the one who said what all the rest of them were thinking. What he said to Uncle Buddy was "Jesus, kid, how do you get it to look like that?"

Uncle Buddy looked confused, which he was, because even though it was obvious where Bernie had been staring, the cold water treatment in the shower had gotten Uncle Buddy to where he - or, I ought to say, his special parts - were in your average, run- of-the-mill, non-operational condition. So Uncle Buddy looked down at his dick which was actually under water and then up at Bernie and what he said was "Get what like what?"

"Your hair, kid," Bernie leaned over and sort of ran a finger through the curly blond fringe on Uncle Buddy's lower belly, "I've never seen a better dye job."

"It's just the way it growed" was what Uncle Buddy said and then slid deeper into the water. On his way down, he gave me a flash of the Princess Leia, pissed-off look, and I knew I'd better create another diversion before Uncle Buddy got nervous again. I was getting a little nervous myself on account of being one hundred percent naked in the warm water with Jack and Arnie and Dick B. Long, especially Jack whose legs and hands seemed to keep finding different parts of me to rub up against. I didn't really mind. Jack was a well-set-up fellow, and he had a real warm smile which he had just turned on for Luther and the big plate of sandwiches Luther was holding.

That made Luther the diversion. At least he was whilst Jack introduced him to Uncle Buddy and me and told us Luther was the light man and the sound man and the make-up man for the big-time film crew. "And the best boy, too," Luther said, and the rest of them laughed except for Dick B. Long who didn't even look up. Luther handed Uncle Buddy and me sandwiches which we launched into then and there because we were hungry as one of those Yellowstone wolves the godless Communists in Washington had raised up and because they were really good, the sandwiches, that is, not the wolves nor the godless Communists. Whilst I was working my way through my third sandwich and not spilling so much as a crumb into the hot tub, I had a thought. I would never have another day in my life that started out with being charged by an elk and ended up sitting in a hot tub eating sandwiches with a bunch of strangers, all of us one hundred percent naked and some of us floating or being rubbed up against or both. Which I was, floating, that is, and being rubbed up against by Jack who made as if the rubbing up against was just an accident on account of he was too busy staring at the floating parts of me to pay attention to what his legs and hands were doing.

Luther said he could make more sandwiches but Uncle Buddy and me thanked him kindly, and I said he shouldn't go to the trouble we would just get dressed and borrow some shirts if that was all right and be on our way to a north-south road where we could hitchhike our way home. Jack wouldn't hear of it, our being on our way, that is. It's a long way to the road is what he said and it's going to be dark before you know it. You boys stay here tonight and get rested up proper and tomorrow we'll call a limo to come get you is what he said. I could see that Uncle Buddy was about to ask what a limo was, so before he could show how green and out of it he was, I said that Jack was real hospitable and considerate but that Uncle Buddy and me didn't want to put everybody to a lot of trouble. Jack said it was no trouble at all, we've got plenty of room, it is a ranch resort, after all, and we'd be glad of your company is what he said. Bernie and all the others said they'd be real glad, too. Only Dick B. Long didn't chime in, but he hadn't said a thing but "Hi" since Uncle Buddy and me had showed up.

Later on, Jack told me that Dick B. Long was having "creative differences" with his co-Star, the Twink, and the whole reason the big-time film crew had come on a "retreat" to the X Bar L ranch resort was to patch things up so the "Project," is what Jack called it, could get "wrapped up" and "put in the can." But things weren't going too good is what Jack said which is why, after he got to know me some, he started in to talk about giving Uncle Buddy and me the opportunity of a lifetime.

[This story originally appeared in January 2000 under the title: "Uncle Buddy and Me" in the Nifty Erotic Stories Archive.]