The return to the village

Twelve years had passed since the last time I set foot in the village; now I was 34. Twelve years of city life, air-conditioned offices, impersonal gyms, and men who fucked in silence and with condoms. But the smell of dry earth, manure, and country male always pulled at my gut. I came back on a summer Friday, the car raising red dust along the county road. I parked in front of the same old bar and everything was still the same: faded plastic chairs, the same skinny dog in the shade, and that thick air that tasted of home and old sin.

I asked about him discreetly. He was still on the family farm, raising animals and working the land. I sent him a simple message that same night: “I’m here. Shall we meet?” The reply came dry and direct: “Tomorrow at eight at the old threshing floor. Bring beer.”

At a quarter to eight I was already there, sitting on the hood, with a case of cold cans and my pulse racing as if I were twenty-two again. The sun was sinking orange and dirty behind the hills. I heard the tractor before I saw it: old, noisy, spewing black smoke. When it stopped and he got down, my mouth went dry.

He was still enormous. Six-foot-three of heavy muscle and hard work fat. He wore a gray sleeveless shirt that had once been white, now full of oil, sweat, and dirt stains. His arms were pure thick black hair, from shoulders to fingers. His chest showed brutally through the neckline: a wild thicket rising up to his neck. And there it was, unmistakable: the heavy unibrow, one single thick black eyebrow crossing his forehead like a dark bar. He hadn’t changed at all. He had only become more animal, hairier, filthier.

He approached unhurriedly. He smelled of a whole day’s sweat, turned earth, pig, and an unwashed male. He hugged me hard, crushing me against that hairy chest. I felt his cock already half-hard pressing against my thigh.

“You’re thinner,” he growled in that deep, hoarse voice that still made me hard instantly. “But you still have the face of someone who wants his ass split like a dog.”

I didn’t have time to answer. He grabbed me by the nape and kissed me brutally. Thick tongue, lots of saliva, teeth clashing. He tasted of hand-rolled tobacco, red wine, and man. He lowered his big dirty hand down my back, scratching me under my shirt.

“Let’s go to the hayloft,” he ordered.

We walked to the old hayloft beside the threshing floor. Inside it smelled of dry straw, accumulated dust, and old fucks. There was a mattress thrown on the floor, stained with years. He turned on a camping lantern and shut the wooden door with a dry slam.

He ripped off his shirt. His torso was a beast: heavy pecs covered in dense black hair that ran down in a thick line to his navel and disappeared under his work pants. Shoulders, back, everything was invaded by hair. He looked like a wild bear. His unibrow gleamed with sweat.

“Get undressed,” ...