Jim whistled when he woke up that warm Wednesday morning. He whistled off key and loudly and he didn't give a damn who heard him. He was going to roll over another seven grand into his IRA account and he wished he could shout it into the uncaring, unhearing, unresponsive wind. He marched into the bathroom, stripped off his robe and hopped into the shower. He shaved as he showered, which was a habit he'd developed as a teenager, since it saved both time and water. Jim's widowed mom had always been frugal with her money and had spent half her life cutting off the lights and turned back the thermostat. For years, she'd left an egg timer on the hall table just outside the bathroom door and each time she heard the shower running, she'd flip the timer. If the shower was still running when the sand finished dribbling through its tiny tube, she'd bang on the door to let the offending showering son know his time was up. Jim grew up watching reruns of The Wizard of Oz and that sand timer always reminded him of that huge hourglass in the film, so like Dorothy Gayle, he knew he was out of time as soon as his mom pounded on the door. Jim's mom also darned and mended everything his family owned since she passed clothes down from son to son to son. Unfortunately, Jim was the youngest of five boys and thought he looked more like a refugee from a war-torn nation than like the rest of the boys in his school.

The only way he survived the humiliation was by joking about it, so he told his friends he was the professional poster boy for the world's impoverished children association, the I. C. A., an acronym as well as a pronounceable word: ICA. Unfortunately, they never admired his creativity or his ability to change their thoughts and magically transform the things around them-a gift Jimmy thought so special that he wondered if it or he was an extraterrestrial.

But those days had fled years ago and now James was rich because his scheme to make money was more successful than he'd ever dreamed. He and his buddy, Aron, had devised a plan to retire within the next five years and spend the rest of their lives making love together.

Naked, tall and powerful Jim admired himself in his full-length mirror. He had a face to die for: deep brown eyes, an elegant Roman nose and just enough freckles to give his pockmarked cheeks the boyish image everyone adored. He dressed meticulously in silk boxer shorts, over-the-calf black socks, freshly pressed long-sleeve white shirt, gray business suit, black loafers, and a striped tie with a platinum tie tack. Giving the tie tack a final straightening touch ensuring that both long thick pieces of the tie were united strong powerful overpoweringly manly as a pylon from his neck to his navel. Jim thought back to his junior high school days when the girls would ogle the boys with flopping ties. "You know what that means," they'd giggle, as they snapped a surreptitious picture and texted it to their friends. Gone now were those days-thank the gods!

Then James clambered down the stairs of his five-bedroom split-level immaculate (like him) hilltop home and hurried into the kitchen. He kissed his wife full on the lips and held her so tightly in his arms that she was almost parallel to the floor. Both Marge and Jim loved to romance each other first thing in the morning, reveling in the sight and smell of each other's bodies as they made love in their own special way. It was a habit, a rut of a routine-like everything in their lives-it was something to set the clock by.

"No time for breakfast this morning, sweetheart," Jim said as he gently lifted his wife to her toes, held her in his arms and gave her a long passionate kiss. "I'll eat a huge lunch … but I promise to save room for your key lime pie tonight." He blew Marge another kiss as soon as he reached his car.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mondays were Marge's baking days and she always baked key lime pies on Mondays. Some people thought Marge was in a rut-a deep moon-like rille of a rut-but if she was, she was happy living in her tiny moon creature trench with her husband, two sons, chow-chow whom James had named Lance for no discernible reason that could enter Marge's mind, Merriweather, their declawed black as sin Persian cat, a gerbil named Hippity Hop and three white mice, as yet nameless-but contented.

Marge thought about how perfect Jim was. They had known each other since junior high (and yes it was that tie of his, flopping so merrily though not as thick as they were today, that got her full attention), And then, they'd become high school sweethearts on that day when Jim pinned her at the Holy Comforter Saint Valentine's Day Dance during their sophomore year. Now they were celebrating their fourteenth wedding anniversary. Fourteen years without an argument, Marge thought aloud, fourteen years living with the most perfect man in the world, there could only be one thing better . . .

Barry and Larry, Marge's twelve-year old twins, barged into the kitchen a moment after Jim left, just as Marge finished gathering her pie pans, flour sifter and mixing bowls.

"Mom, tell Larry to give me back my mitt," Barry screamed in a voice that was still mid-way between soprano and alto.

"It's my glove," Barry yelled. "Mine. Don't believe him, Larry's a damned liar!"

"Barry, where did you learn such language? You know better, for goodness sakes. Give your brother his mitt."

"Ah mom . . . how'd you know?"

"Mothers know. Mothers know everything; remember that until the day you die-it's in the Bible: Mothers know everything."

Barry shrugged, but he tossed his brother the mitt as he skulked out of the kitchen and muttered. "I'll get you later, but you'd better watch out, worm dick."

Larry took his glove and went outside to play. He knew his brother was filled with pipe dreams and hot air just like his dad-volatile one minute and as cool as a Penelope, their Persian cat that they found dead at the food of the steps one morning a year ago and how they cried. He also knew that by the next time he saw his brother, Barry would have forgotten all about the almost magically mislaid mitt.

Jim drove his limited-edition Miata convertible to work, laughing as the wind blew his hair in nine hundred and twelve directions. When he reached the first red light, he combed his hair with his thin fingers, remembering his midnight rides with his closest friend Aron, wishing he could remain young and virile forever.

Jim knew that as soon as he walked into his office dressed like the Prince of Monaco with his hair blown to kingdom come, everyone would admire him. He could picture the tits rising mountainously, the dicks saluting! And God, how he relished these moments as he lived for the time he could make his grand entrance. By now, Jim's entire staff had made it part of their morning ritual. Only Georgette, Jim's private secretary, refused to play his game. She just left his four-inch-long, fine-toothed comb on his desk next to his telephone messages and hoped he'd take the hint and take care of business so that she and her staff (whom James hand-picked, of course) could allow everyone ample time to enjoy his wild hair style.

Jim then would slowly answer all his messages before sauntering into the men's room to straighten his hair, admire himself and give his tie one long long stroke from neck to its tip. When he came back, he'd stop off at the coffeepot, pour a cup two-thirds full, dump in a pack of pink stuff and head into his private office. There he'd go over the company's books, pay the bills and move millions of dollars into the company's pension multiple ICA (a name he trademarked) programs before swallowing a sip or two of his coffee. Jim had been following the same pedantic routine for thirteen years, two months and three days, and to everyone on the outside, it looked as kosher as a pickle. Little did anyone know what Jim was really like.

Georgette buzzed him on the intercom to tell him that Aron, Jim's friend since elementary school, wanted to make plans for lunch.

"Hey big guy, Chinese or Italian?"

"Thai," Jim said, as he stroked his tie from tip to top.

Aron laughed. As soon as Jim said the word Thai, Aron knew Jim wanted to go camping. Eating at a Thai Restaurant was the secret signal they'd developed years before when Aron's wife, Helen, wanted to butt in on all their activities. Now, whenever one or the other wanted to camp on Big Domino Mountain, he just used the double entendre code word, Thai.

"How's noon at the Luang?"

"I've got tons of money to transfer," Jim said as his fingers punished his keyboard. "Just keep backing me up on our little project and I'll have it all taken care of by two o'clock," Jim's eyes twinkled, thinking of his last camping adventure with Aron. "Can we do it at two thirty?"

"Sure can, big boy" Aron giggled, "but if you're five seconds late, I'm starting without you."

"I'll be on time, the Thai Luang's only a block from my office, besides, I'll have Georgette remind me-Hey, wait a minute! Do you hear that? It's the mountain calling, 'Jimmy, Aron, can you guys come out to play?' I think she's wiggling her hips. . . or perhaps her breasts."

"Her ass, more than likely," Aron laughed as he hung up the phone.

Jim transferred twenty million dollars into a hundred bank accounts. His cold cup of coffee sat beside him as unfinished as his business with Aron was. A few minutes before noon, he walked to the window and gazed at the mountain-at his mountain-smiling as he remembered the first time he and Aron camped there, as two fifteen-year-old boys losing their virginity and bonding forever on Big Domino Mountain.

Jim rubbed his hard crotch and cursed himself for wearing such tight pants. Slowly, he sat back down at his computer, his manhood throbbing nine inches down his left leg. It's going to be a hard afternoon, he thought as he massaged his thigh, very hard.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two hours later, Georgette tapped on his door twice, one long, one short, and entered. "It's getting late; you've got to meet Aron in ten minutes."

"Thanks," Jim said as reached his hand under his desk and caressed his stiff member through the heavy cloth of his trousers. "I really need to see Aron."

It was a little past two by the time Jim got to the restaurant-and he found his friend sitting at the table.

"I love Thai food," Aron said, "it's one of those few occasions when I get to eat with my fingers."

"And I love the way you lick them," Jim replied, knowing that only he and Aron would catch that double entendre.

Aron smiled, blushed, and glanced down at Jim's massive manhood straining in his trousers.

"I don't know about you," Jim said, "but I need to schedule a camping trip soon."

"Is Saturday, okay?" Aron asked.

"Make it Thursday night-we can make it a long weekend." Jim slowly slid his hand down the bulge of his penis, but Aron got the hint.

"Can you wait that long?" Aron asked.

Jim smiled, "The longer we wait, the longer it becomes," he said.

Aron had already ordered their favorite meal and their food arrived as soon as they finished planning what to bring on their date.

"But what'll I tell Helen?"

"Don't worry about Helen. I'll tell her I have a long project for you to help me complete. Jim emphasized the first syllable of complete and Aron blushed outwardly, although inside he quivered.

~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the week proceeded smoothly. Jim called Helen and explained that he'd need Aron's services for an extended weekend. "Jerk," Jim said when he hung up. "I can't understand why she lives with that wimp. He can't be giving her anything-" He smiled as he held a finger an inch away from his thumb.

Jim, unlike his buddy, didn't hold anything back; he never did. Jim loved living life on the edge. He screwed his wife that Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday-and he screwed her again Thursday morning-hard and heavy the way they liked it best-over the kitchen counter, knocking over the Cheerios box, spilling the happy little O's one by one onto the floor. He even went home Thursday at lunch for one more quick romantic reminder.

When he went back to the office, he moved $1,421 of company money into his Swiss bank account. Then, just for the hell of it, he transferred another $93.75 He was the CFO and since Aron audited the books, he knew he could do anything he wanted. Between them, they'd already embezzled three million dollars, a year from now they'd have enough money to buy Big Domino Mountain and transform it into their magical dreamland.

At 4:00 p.m., Jim examined the overnight bag Marge packed for him. It contained two pairs of jeans, his favorite hiking boots, four flannel shirts, a sweater, four pairs of heavy-duty socks, and four pairs of extra-long silk boxer shorts (Last week, Marge confessed that she always took a ruler to the department store-measuring each pair to make sure it was long enough). There was also a large box of homemade fudge and a small box of brownies along with a homemade card that Marge made with her pinking shears. Jim hated those damned pinking shears but it was he had bought them for her on their tenth anniversary-along with a ruby necklace so he was, no pun intended, stuck with them!

Meanwhile Aron brought the supplies: the camp stove, the pots, the pans, the utensils, the food, the green and yellow folding picnic table and chairs, the blankets, the air mattress, the tent . . . and the condoms. Aron was the mule. That was his role. He not only played it well, but he seemed to enjoy it.

The ride to the mountain took less than forty minutes. Aron wanted to snuggle, but he knew it was too dangerous; he did, however, rub his hand up and down Jim's thigh, dreaming of the time they'd soon have together.

"Careful," Jim said, "I'm only good for three or four loads a day and Marge already got two of 'em."

Jim meant it in jest, but Aron was hurt-honestly hurt. He loved Jim. Aron's marriage was a mistake. He'd never even consummated it and he wondered why Helen hadn't dumped him years before. Perhaps she was one of those women who just didn't like sex-Aron didn't know. Aron didn't care. All he knew for certain was that their marriage was good for both their careers. Without her, Aron could never have become the head of his own actuary firm and without him, Helen could never have become the department chair of the most prestigious university in the country. Perhaps, Aron thought, our fruitless, sexless, loveless marriage really works in its own perverted way.

As he thought about his marriage, Aron fought back tears, knowing Jim could never understand Aron's fear. I'm just his toy, just another hole for him to use.

Aron sighed and Jim picked up on it, but not as quickly as he would have picked up one of Marge's moods; Jim always read her moods-he knew how to please her-he wanted to please her. But Aron was impossible to understand. Jim suspected Aron was in love with him, but Jim wasn't a fag and hated the fact that Aron had that ugly Q word written all over him. Jim couldn't understand why Aron chose that lifestyle, besides Jim was too intelligent to devote all his time to just one man . . . or to just one woman. Jim needed everyone. He loved women for being women-soft and sensual, and he loved men for their muscular bodies and their servitude. Most of Jim's homosexual friends serviced him better than his wife, but he knew he could never fully understand them; they were incomplete, broken, misconnected somehow-more like old-fashioned tinker toys longing to be put together. . . to be whole.

Jim and Aron reached their campsite a little past five that night. Aron unloaded the Jeep, set up camp, started the fire and slid several hot dogs onto sticks. So small, Aron thought aloud, so very, very small.

Meanwhile, Jim explored the area looking for new places to play. He found an open clearing, a log, a tree stump and a hundred-year-old felled white oak tree. "Four places," he said, "plus the tent, in front of the fire, in the back of the Jeep and on the hood-that should hold me 'til Saturday afternoon." He laughed, "I'll just have to scout out more places after that." Aron really made Jim hot. Despite his thick bulbous nose and elongated forehead, Aron could almost deep throat Jim's entire nine-inches and Aron knew every position in the gay version of the Kama Sutra. Marge was more traditional; she only liked the missionary position-although she'd occasionally take it like a dog. But that's all she did. Marge had stopped sucking years ago and Aron was a pro at that . . . and as far as being tight, Aron was as tight as any virgin Jim had ever known. I wonder if the boy stuffs alum up his ass, Jim laughed as he headed back to the campsite, nobody can stay that tight so long without something to help him.

By the time he returned to camp, Aron had stripped off all his clothes and sat squatting by the fire, loading the chubby hot dogs onto the five-inch three-ply cardboard Valentine Day's plates that Marge packed for Jim. How sad! The hotdogs nearly fill up the plates and cover the hearts, Aron thought. As soon as he saw Jim coming out the woods, however, Aron's tiny dick stretched to its full four inches and his smooth ass quivered as he teasingly turned his back on the man he loved.

"Dinner can wait," Jim said. "My dog's hot right now-wanna go for it?"

"Do I have a choice?" Aron giggled, as he turned around, jerked down Jim's jeans and boxers and swallowed him down to his short hairs.

"My God, where'd you learn that?" Jim asked, "Have you been practicing?"

Aron wanted to nod, but his fat nose got in the way. He wanted to prove to Jim once and for all that he loved him and would do anything to please him.

"Take it easy, stud!" Jim said. "The way you're going, you'll drain me in a heartbeat!" Jim's left arm whacked one of the hot dogs off the Valentine plates and the paper dish slipped into the fire-burning the heart down to its watermark: Rosebud, Jim thought.

Aron tossed his plate into the fire as he rubbed his serpentine fingers up and down Jim's thighs-higher and higher until they reached Jim's low hangers.

"Take them," Jim commanded as Aron slipped his massive salami out of his mouth and swallowed Jim's left nut.

"Damn it, man, you're gonna make me cum and I don't want it this way. I-"

But it was too late. Aron's tongue had done its work. Cum covered his face and hair.

Jim sat on the ground more spent than he'd been since his wedding night.

"Damn it, with a mouth like that you'd make a perfect wife."

"I'm all yours" Aron said.

"You know that can never happen, not with me anyway, but you'll make somebody a great wife."

"Thanks again," Aron said, but he didn't mean it. He was hurt that Jim would even think about him loving another man. Aron had loved Jim since he first busted his cherry; his ass belonged to Jim and he didn't want it to be any other way.

"Let's eat," Jim said as he wiped himself on his handkerchief and tossed it away. "I'm famished!"

"I thought I already ate," Aron smiled, as he wiped his face with his fingers, but as soon as Jim turned his back, Aron licked his fingers clean, savoring the taste and smell of his man.

"We've got to get a good night's sleep," Jim said as he stripped and paraded his body in front of the dying fire, "but Mr. Priapus might come back for another visit if you'd like to dance to the screeching of the Valkyries."

Aron needed no further instruction. He gyrated, twisted, turned and nearly somersaulted. He would have kissed his own asshole if he had thought it would have won Jim's heart.

~~~~~~~~~~

At 9:15 the next morning, Jim and Aron were still nestled naked in each other's arms. Neither heard the sound of the landslide until it was too late. It seemed as if half the mountain collapsed on them, replacing their evils underneath a pylon of rocks.

~~~~~~~~~~

Marge had already sent the boys off to school and was making out with Helen when the mountain shook. They rushed to the window and looked out, "Sweetheart," Marge said, "You don't suppose the guys are camping there, do you?"

"Probably," Helen said with the cold calculated certainty of a college math professor, "Probably".

The naked women hugged each other as they watched the dust fly out and away from the mountain. They hugged and cried all through the morning and into the early afternoon. At 2:30, the women showered together, helped each other get dressed and freshened their make-up. The boys arrived home at 3:09.

"Where's daddy?" Barry and Larry asked at the same time.

"I'm afraid he went camping on Big Domino," Marge said as she opened her arms, encompassing her sons, "but I'm here for you and so is Aunt Helen. No matter what happens, we will survive-we're family-remember that! I'm your mother; I will always take care of you."

But the words sounded empty and hollow to the boys, like something the Stepford wives might have said. In the past, their mom had glowed with warmth and love-now she was nothing more than a cold distant stranger.

"Run upstairs and take your nap, boys, we'll have a lot of things to do in the next few days and there's nothing we can do right now--nothing."

"But . . . " the boys said simultaneously.

"Don't argue with me," Marge said, "Moms know everything-we know what to do in good times . . . and in the bad ones. Go upstairs, put on your PJs, and take your nap. We'll sort everything out as soon as we know what's really happened-there's nothing we can do for daddy-or for Aron-until we learn the facts." Marge tried to lose some of the grimness that hovered over her, "Trust me," she said, sounding more like their old mom, "Daddy's fine. I'm sure he's on his way home right now. Now, go upstairs and take your nap."

The boys pouted, but they knew it was futile to argue, so they high-tailed it upstairs.

Just after they stomped heavily upstairs to their bedroom, Marge reached out to grab Helen's hand and led her to the bedroom.

Marge closed the door and sat on the bed. Helen joined her, quickly sweeping Marge into her arms as the women kissed. "What'll we do without them? How will we survive?"

"I've got that covered, Jim-"

The boys entered the room quietly for the first time in their lives. Blushing, Helen slid away from Marge as the women rose and walked toward the window.

The four of them stood silently for a terrible moment until Barry screamed, "Look, look at the mountain. It's changed."

"Of course it's changed," Marge said as she pulled her boys toward her. "The landslide changed everything; it's a whole new mountain now."

They faced the mountain together as the dwindling sunlight revealed the mountain's new face. "Look," Barry said, "the entire shape is different. The mountain looks like two big ugly faces!"

Exactly in the center, there were two images, vaguely resembling human faces. The one on the right had a long Roman nose with pockmarked cheeks and huge hollow black dents where its eyes should have been. The one on the right had a thick bulbous nose and a high forehead. It appeared to be sobbing. And the two families stood and stared and watched as the shadows slowly crossed and crisscrossed the mountain, until the faces darkened and the shadows began to change. First, they seemed to smirk; then they looked like demons struggling to escape the fire and brimstone of hell. Then they looked like they were hiding the darkest secret mankind has ever known and it was then, as the mountain remolded, reshaping itself, surrounding itself by evil until nothing was left but two hideous faces, that Marge recognized the faces of Aron and Jim.

~~~~~~~~~~

Marge and Helen stayed up late after their love making that night. "Look at all these Swiss bank accounts," Marge said, "Jim had been keeping them as a surprise for me-but I found out about them years ago."

"It looks like we won't have any problems after all," Helen said.

"No problems," Marge said, "we've got each other and we'll be well off financially forever."

And Marge kissed Helen.

And the boys slept fitfully.

And the faces of evil remained etched on the mountain for all the world to see.

The End

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