The Legend of Kevin & Chelsea

[sasha]

 
(This is a true story. Happened the same weekend I found & wept at the grave of HP Lovecraft. No connection between the events. Just sayin'.
I wrote it up when the details were fresh so I could forget them.)


September 2, 2011 – Labor Day weekend, warm & pleasant. Summertime – when the livin’ is easy. The perfect time to complete an aborted hike first attempted on a frigid day the previous December, to Potters Pond near the Troy/Fitzwilliam NH town line. Grabbed my camera and headed out the door, whence I drove to Rte 12 and parked at the end of the public utility’s access road to the power lines.

This track first passes under the power lines before splitting into three separate trails. There were two SUVs parked under there, maybe 100 yards from the trailhead. There didn't appear to be anyone about, so I assumed they were out hiking or cycling. Not in the mood for company, I hoped for the latter, and scanned the dusty ground for tire tracks to confirm my hypothesis - but found none. No footprints, either - the dust appeared to be undisturbed. A little puzzled, I glanced back at the SUVs, where I thought I saw motion in the front seat of the nearer one, as though someone had been watching me and ducked out of sight when I turned. Assuming they were as loath for company as I was, I just continued on my way, and thought no more about it.

This time I went the distance, to a beautiful, boggy little pond (or a pondy little bog) at the bottom of a bowl surrounded by low hills. I left the trail and bushwhacked all the way around it before continuing. Shortly after that the wood road became a maintained road, at which point I turned back.

I returned to the pond and chugged past it, heading back up into those low hills. In the distance ahead of me I heard shouting and engine revving. I remembered the SUVs by the power lines, and supposed I was about to meet a convoy. After rounding a bend I saw a single heavy-duty pickup in a mud wallow, being tended by a man and woman, each probably around 50. The man was clad only in shorts, barefoot and covered with gray mud up past his ankles. He had a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and appeared to be berating the woman, who was using a stick to retrieve some red nylon strapping wrapped around an enormous log. Drag marks suggested they'd been pulling the log down the road towards them so they could roll it out of the way. I assumed we'd acknowledge one another, maybe chat for a few seconds, then proceed our separate ways, per the unwritten rules of hikers’ etiquette.

“Well, well!” he called out when he saw me approach. “Here comes the cavalry!” and he scatted the cavalry-charge call made famous by the John Wayne movies of the 1940s & 50s. He smelled of beer, and with an alcohol-fueled bonhomie grinned and stuck his hand out. "Hi, I'm Kevin. This is Chelsea.”

“Roy,” I said taking his hand a little reluctantly, and hers. My first thought was that their fawning welcome had to do with recruiting a third body to help them move the log, which I would not be unwilling to do. But something about them didn’t feel right, and I wanted to hold back. He just seemed too friendly, too jovial, coming on just a tad too strong for what my script said was to be a courteous and brief trailside encounter. But I didn't want to seem like an unfriendly jerk, so I went with the flow.

“Say, that’s a nice camera you’ve got there!” he said. “Can I offer you a cocktail? Beer, wine, something stronger? “ There was something in the self-conscious irony of his delivery that ratcheted my apprehension up a notch. He was trying to be smooth and witty, trying too soon and too hard to be my buddy. I felt like he was steering me into a position where I'd be in breach of etiquette if I did anything less than accept his gracious invitation.

“Well,” I hedged. “I really don't like drinking while I'm hiking...” And I certainly didn't feel like drinking with HIM. Sharing a drink with a man is an act of rough, masculine intimacy, and I didn't want that. He was just too chummy, and coming dangerously close to smarmy.

“Gatorade, then?” he quickly offered. “Water?” I imagined the social tendrils wrapping around my ankles like a kraken's tentacles. To refuse such kind generosity might be seen as boorish and insulting. Dammit, I thought, he's trying too hard. I found myself on low alert.

“Maybe a Gatorade,” I reluctantly said. When I took it from his hands I felt manipulated and beholden. I'd have to engineer my withdrawal carefully so as not to appear hostile & unfriendly.

So we made small talk. He said they were from Leominster, and he asked me if I was local. I allowed as I was, but refrained from naming which town. I started talking about my hike. He latched onto that, & kept re-iterating “We're out here exploring, too. You know, playing – out in nature… just playing....” He looked over at her with a grin. “Aren’t we?”

She said nothing, but gave a noncommittal Mona Lisa half-smile, and returned to the truck. She climbed into the cab on the passenger side and pulled out her cell phone, speaking in a low voice. From the few words I happened to overhear, I gathered she was talking to the other SUV, presumably still at the power lines. “Yeah… yeah, I think so… he’s here now…”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard that last bit correctly, but it did nothing to allay my growing unease.

Kevin continued dwelling on the theme of how they were “just playing”, and enthused how nice it was to be out in nature. Walking around. Just, you know, playing, out in Nature. He seemed to be driving somewhere, but I couldn't make out to where. My alert level went to medium.

She got off the phone and wandered to the rear of the truck to join us. “You like walking around in the woods, don't you?” he asked her, more as a statement than a question. She said nothing, but composed her expression into one of bland neutrality. “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Why don't you take your clothes off for the photographer, here, and pose for him?” To me he added, “What do you say? Isn't this a great place for a photo op?”

I assumed he was teasing her, and glanced her way expecting the mock-outrage or the mock-disgust – the rolled eyes, the sigh, the exasperated “Oh, Kev…” But apart from that Mona Lisa hint of a smile, she showed no reaction. I'm beginning to think he might be serious and my continued attempts to deny this lock up my speech center. “Ah… you… you’re… Uh… You are kidding... right?” is all I can manage to say.

“Why would we be kidding?” he replies. For the first time he seems sincere. He’s dropped the self-conscious irony and dialed back the joviality. I’m unable to think of an answer.

He turns towards Chelsea. “There,” he points. “I think it'd make a great shot if you were sitting on that log.” She calmly walks over to it, peels off her jersey, & drops her shorts. She’s not wearing any undergarments, standing there in nothing but shower thongs. She’s a bit narrow-hipped, but her breasts are still firm, and she exhibits only the slightest hint of belly-sag. “Oh yeah,” he chortles. “Go on,” he urges me, gesturing with his cigarette. “What are you waiting for? Take her picture!”

I'm thunderstruck and have no idea how to extricate myself gracefully, so I dutifully set about taking her picture. In truth, I've toyed with the idea of shooting nudes, perhaps in emulation of some of the gorgeous black-and-white images of the masters. So I made an honest attempt to approach her as I would want to approach a nude under controlled studio lighting – but I’d been blindsided, and totally unprepared for this bizarre turn of events. I tried to emphasize her curves with shadows, but the light was wrong, tinted green by the foliage, too dim for the long lens, and I was too unnerved to move in close with the other. The sylvan backdrop is mostly slash left over from a timber harvest – gray, weathered tops and stumps. After a half-dozen or so shots I straightened and backed away, indicating I Was Done.

“What next?” he wonders. I shrug. “You're the director,” I say, still wondering how in hell I was going to make my escape. He was about my height, leaner & more wiry, and (by his admission) past 50. I'm a little stockier, and while I have no talent or inclination as a fighter, maybe I didn't look it to him. Also, he was barefoot, while I was robustly shod in hiking boots. She was only wearing flip-flops (and I do mean ONLY). And their truck was facing the wrong way. I'm 10 years older, but fitter. I suppose I could have bolted & easily outdistanced them; but what an undignified retreat that would be! And what if it went wrong? What if he’d packed more than booze in the truck? Like a 9mm pistol?

So she ended up posing for me again atop a boulder. While she was getting comfortable I actually got a nice impromptu shot, but that wasn't the one he'd sent her up for. That one was a crotch spread, shot from the ground looking up.

“Oh, yeah, that'll be great!” His enthusiasm was anything but infectious. I felt dirty, and not from the residue of my Roman Catholic upbringing. This was nothing more than gratuitous ob-gyn porn. I just wanted out, but still dithered over how best to manage it.

“Let's go back to the truck,” he suggested. “Maybe we can play... hide-and-seek...?” Again she was noncommittal, but I was aghast at the prospect of competing with all those motel-trolling photographers in San Bernardino.

So she climbs up into the bed of the pickup and gingerly lays down while he stows jack handles and rope into the side compartment. “Couldn't she even have a blanket to lie on?” I ask. He produces a sleeping bag from the cab, which she spreads out. She lays back down and presents herself to him. He starts rubbing her. She presses his hand harder against her, closes her eyes, & tilts her head back.

“Are you getting this?” he says to me. I reluctantly take a few shots of the spectacle. Then, on the pretense of artistic experimentation, I squat down to get a lower view - one that includes the truck's license plate. You never know.

By the time they start inserting different things into her, I've lost any hope of shooting anything I wouldn’t be ashamed to share. I take a few shots to appease him, but eventually can bring myself do nothing more than stand there looking away. My apparent disinterest confuses them, and they stop. I do nothing to break the silence now stretching between us.

“Now THAT's a nice picture!” He exclaims. She is spread-eagled, leaning back on her elbows, knees bent and held apart. He has grasped one flap her inner labia and pulled it back to reveal the moist pinkness beneath. “That'd be a great shot,” he says. “Maybe you could pull back the other one...”

This is my tipping point. We have finally reached my Rubicon. This is the line I cannot cross. I cannot, will not, be pressured into taking that step from reluctant spectator to participant. I don't want to be It in this game of hide-and-seek. Besides, for me sex just isn't a team sport - it's one-on-one, like tennis. Or maybe chess.

“No. No, sorry... I-I can't do that.” He looks at me in what appears to be astonished confusion. “Why not?” he demands. “We're just playing...”

“And that's fine,” I said as reassuringly as I could. “But I'm not really into threesomes. It's just not my thing...”

I tried to project a non-judgmental ruefulness, without effect. He got a little huffy and laid some sarcasm on me, but I'm too old to be bothered by that peer-pressure bullshit. Then he got defensive, even to the point of assuring me he wasn't gay. I assured him I'd never thought so, and asked for his email address so I could send him the pictures. (All this time, she's lying there, slowly massaging herself - idling the engine perhaps, until I could be persuaded to stay and play a little longer.) In a gesture of goodwill I give him one of mine - the anonymous “lesnyk” account with Yahoo – before finally taking my leave.

I double-timed my way back down the hill, keeping my ears attuned to the sound of an engine approaching from behind, but never heard one. Maybe they'd resumed “playing” after my departure, improvising their games without me. So I chose to hope, anyway.

Then a disquieting thought hit me.

Another SUV awaited me down by the power lines, and she’d been on the phone with them confirming my presence. I’d have to get past it to reach my car, risking another bizarre encounter – or worse.

Maybe not. I've explored this area enough to know of an alternate - if circuitous - route. I took a little-traveled track that dead-ends behind the new power substation on Rte 12. I bushwhacked through chest-deep brush across the power lines, where I could see the other SUV way down at the bottom of the hill. I fancied it was waiting for me like a spider, and gloated a little shakily that I was going to end-run around it.

That's where the story really ends. From the utility depot, the trailhead is maybe a half-mile down the road, just off the highway. So I had a long walk ahead of me, but by this time of day the commuter traffic was heavy enough that even if they did come looking for me, we wouldn't be alone. Still, I kept a wary eye on each oncoming car, and took the additional precaution of changing my appearance by removing the hat I’d worn. I reached the car without incident.

I sent him his photos from my anonymous Yahoo account, then took a long, hot shower.

What a day. Right out of the Penthouse letters column. “Dear Penthouse: I never believed it would happen to me...”

Out of a few dozen shots, there are maybe one or two rising slightly above “sordid” into the rarified realm of “mediocre”.

There’s a post-script to this story, as well. A little over a year later I received an email from her a few days before the Columbus Day weekend. I’ve long since deleted it, but it ran something like: “Hi! Kev and I will be up by the power lines this weekend, and you did such a great job taking pictures we were hoping you’d join us! Wouldn’t that be fun?”

I never answered. I didn’t think she was in the slightest way being ironic.

[saw]

I delighted in the suspense you strung along( as this may be a horror story ).....great writing and man oh man, What a story.....and i've been in similar situations in remote areas, and well, You just never know what might come next......and all the while the reader is allowed to know your thoughts as you try to access the situation.....and the element of intoxicants always is a wild card.....and that over friendly thing definitely creeps me out.......Had a few of those encounters as young man....and my spidey-sense was correct !.......Con men use that welcoming tactic to reel you in....

[sasha]

Hey, thanks - yeah, these trailside encounters are usually cordial and harmless, but every once in a while... I can only think of one other that made me uncomfortable - two young guys at a campfire who'd surrounded me - but at least then I'd had a big dog with me.

Our subconscious minds rarely lead us astray - we ignore the vibes it sends at our peril....

[saw]

humanity has certain built-in sensors to keep us safe....our animal instincts....and we need to trust them.....I don't like that obvious sense of being manipulated....be it nefarious or not.....I bristle when I feel someone to trying to dominate and steer my involvement......and when you are up in years, you more than likely have experienced these situations......some folks seem to kick a kick from making others uncomfortable......but I don't play that shit......it's gamesmanship and best not to participate whenever possible.....

[sasha]

yeah, for sure. Had a "friend" - former colleague - who fawned over me, poured on the flattery - called me Mr. Spock, talking up my laboratory expertise - contacted me infrequently after I retired, but only when he wanted something from me. Months, years could go by without a word - then out of the blue, "Say, could you write me a computer program to (fill in the blanks here)..." I ended up ghosting him, haven't heard back from him... yet.

[saw]

Once I got a call from a guy I had trusted who left town owing me a lot of money. This was 10 years later.....he says to me, I'm passing through, and was wondering if i could stay at your place for a couple of days.....to me that took some beachball sized balls.....but apparently he felt he was entitled given the passage of time......I said sure, make sure to hit the bank on your way over.....you can sleep on the porch

[sasha]

Guess we've all known people like that. I've done my share of stuff I'm not proud of, but I don't think I've been a chronic user or exploiter... at least I hope not.