He had the body of a man who’d spent decades lifting crocodiles that got in the way, then drinking beer that night while telling his buddies about it like it was nothing.
Jon Adams, apparently.
As he led us up a treacherous path through Cape Tribulation, and I watched those grey shorts threaten to split open and finally let that ass out to breathe, I started wondering if Jon Adams was even his real name.
From the minute we gathered at the meeting point somewhere far too early that morning, I realized two things.
The first was that while the top button of his ranger shirt had clearly been left open intentionally, the second button had been ripped off some time ago, probably by a crocodile who later regretted it.
The second was that for reasons my therapist back home will eventually interpret very differently, I would not be particularly remembering the local fauna, wildlife, or Australian rainforest in this part of Northern Queensland.
Back in the States, my ex-wife might ask me for photos, and unfortunately I won’t have many unless she wants to see the various stages of Jon Adams disappearing up walking trails while I quietly suffered somewhere behind him.
Eleven other tourists were on the trail with me, all trying to make friends and ask intelligent questions while I quietly experienced some sort of psychological event.
It was clear Jon wasn’t trying to look like Steve Irwin. In fact, I think Steve Irwin might have modeled himself off this man and somehow still come out a less masculine, more emotionally available version.
At one point, Jon stepped on a branch hidden beneath the sand, and the entire log suddenly lifted beneath his boot, dragging a scream out of all twelve of us.
Jon didn’t scream.
He dropped instantly into a crouch and fight posture so fast it felt pre-programmed, eyes scanning the forest around us before my nervous system had even caught up.
That was the exact moment I realized this was no ordinary human.
Under that wide-brimmed hat was sweaty blond hair, blue eyes that warned you not to get too close, and lips that looked capable of commanding battalions.
Or crocodiles.
Ten sweaty hours later, we arrived at our ecolodge, an overpolished, comfortable set of cabins that felt first class compared to the terrain.
Jon left us, a perfunctory tip of his hat, a grin, and good night, and instructions on where to meet him in the morning.
After a well-needed shower that barely soothed my aching muscles, we dined together, a motley crew of internationals that made me yawn before I’d even finished the starter.
Needless to say, the moment I put down my dessert spoon, I yawned, stretched, stood and apologized, spouted some lies, and fled.
But back in my cabin, wide windows overlooking the rainforest, I kept seeing Jon. As tired as my body was, my mind was too curious.
I decided to go for a walk, opting to only continue along the elevated wooden slats, above the trees and bush, where no doubt every single insect or animal would be deadly.
The solar-powered lights gave me just enough light to see where I was going, while still letting the rainforest around me feel wild.
The path ended at a lookout, probably one that would be filled with our group, and probably other groups nearby in the morning. But at this hour, most of them would be finishing dinner, and probably hiding in their cabins.
I felt brave.
Crickets, geckos clicking, wings moving through leaves overhead and around me, and somewhere something crashing through bushes that I didn’t want to think about.
Just to the right however, I saw a small cabin, a rustic one, barely lit, exposed to the surrounding environment, and a lone man sitting on his porch drinking something I couldn’t make out.
Jon.
He sat back, looking up, watching me from his wooden recliner that looked about as comfortable as sitting on a porcupine.
I waved, then felt stupid for doing so. He was being polite to just another American tourist.
Until he nodded, grinned, then held up his glass. A golden liquid with ice.
“That was fun today,” I lied, “must be an incredible experience living out here year-round.”
Jon put his drink down and crossed a leg over his thigh. Even from that short distance, I could see his shorts screaming and the outline underneath them threatening to improve my evening.
He cocked his head, as though I was part of the wildlife and he was working out if I was a threat.
“Well, you kept up, which is better than the rest of the group. Fit, that’s what you need around here,” he said, picking up his drink again.
“I didn’t realize how important cassowaries were up here, shame we didn’t see one today,” I told him, then added, “but walking through the Daintree, older than almost all civilizations.” Then I wished I hadn’t.
But somehow, that worked.
Jon pointed to a seat near him, that was vacant. “Join me,” that gruff voice said.
It didn’t feel like a question, and I was already navigating the logistics on how I’d get there before he finished, without getting myself killed.
His cabin sat just off the lookout platform, close enough to talk, far enough that getting there without dropping into the dark below would require either wings or something more than an invitation.
But then Jon stood, came to the edge of his small porch, and moved a small ladder that was hidden beneath the lookout. I climbed through, stepped back, and I nearly fell when his hands grabbed my waist to help me down.
“Thanks,” I said, turning to face him, suddenly feeling intimidated by this burly man, but also surprised by how much I liked his hands touching me.
Jon simply nodded, then walked over to the porch, stepped up, and hit a light next to the other chair.
The porch grew slightly brighter.
He disappeared inside as I quickly scanned the area for safety, then sat back.
Jon came out, handing me a drink similar to the one he’d had. He picked his up, clinked my glass, then took a sip. I sipped mine.
Whiskey.
“This is good, very good,” I said, losing the ability to articulate how good it tasted.
He smiled, and that’s when my fascination with him stepped up a notch. Even in the low light, partial shadows accentuated his sharp nose, but his eyes, still blue, but much darker, and impossible to read.
“Nice to have company now and then,” he said, studying me.
“I bet the transient crowd makes it difficult for connections,” I said, wanting to ask about his life, his friends, and if there was a Mrs. Jon inside eavesdropping.
Jon put his glass down, then adjusted that bulge I’d tried hard not to stare at, while still watching me. “Most people come up here too scared to touch anything.”
His eyes flicked down briefly.
“Then they leave disappointed.”
Something woke up that I’d apparently been ignoring for longer than I’d realized. My shorts confirmed it before I did.
“Oh yeah?” I said, smiling, sipping the drink, wishing he’d look away so I could readjust, because my cock was threatening to tell all.
Maybe it was the shadows, or the stubble on his face, but when he took a sip again, and looked back at me, it almost looked like he’d scanned me. For a fraction of a second, he’d noticed my impossible to hide bulge in my shorts.
Jon leaned back, adjusting himself again, but this time, his hand lingered, tracing the outline, which made my breath catch.
He was hard, and I could see it.
I know I had to be imagining it, confusing his friendliness with seduction.
But the pressure in my shorts was getting too hard to ignore, and I had to shift. I moved slightly, tried to cross my legs while quickly adjusting myself.
Jon looked down, and then grinned. “Hard to hide things around here.”
I swallowed, my pulse throbbing in my ears while my cock threatened to pop my button, just like Jon’s shirt.
“Yeah?” I said carefully. “The rainforest does seem… revealing.”
Jon leaned forward, fingers touching fingers, like he was holding a small, imaginary bowl.
“Just needs some encouragement sometimes, before it disappears.”
Then his eyes dropped to my bulge and stayed there, the corners of his mouth going up, before his eyes scanned up and our eyes locked.
I swallowed again, feeling rooted to the chair, but wanting to go with whatever was happening.
“Feels like a tough environment,” I said, not entirely sure what I meant, but knowing it was all that my brain was capable of in his presence.
He shook his head slowly, never taking his eyes off me. “Nah, that’s just the fear. It can be incredibly gentle when you know what you’re doing.”
I sipped my drink, my throat was too dry. “Are you gentle?” I said, before I could second-guess myself.
He grinned, then slowly nodded. “Not my first rodeo. Like you said, it is transient, so you gotta seize the opportunity.”
He leaned in further, his face much closer to mine.
Fuck it. I put my drink down, and I leaned in too, my face inches from his. “I’m from Georgia,” I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt. “I like knowing when something’s about to kill me.”
Jon’s hand reached out, weathered, tanned, but incredibly soft when it landed on my knee. He squeezed it, studying my body again, then his eyes were back on mine. “You’re fit, look like you’re running from something.”
I had no idea what he meant by that, but I put my hand on his and squeezed it anyway.
His hand turned beneath mine immediately, rough palm sliding against my skin before his fingers closed around my hand properly.
Then he pulled me closer. Just firmly enough that my entire body reacted before my brain could catch up.
And his eyes never left mine.
Our faces were inches apart now, the humid air thick between us, and when his lips finally touched mine they were rough, dry from whiskey and heat, but impossibly gentle at the same time.
I sucked in breath against his mouth. The whiskey. The rainforest. Him.
But underneath all of it was something else entirely.
Loneliness.
Deep in the heart of the Daintree forest, the subscribe button beckons you.
