“Stalking” Short Story

“Stalking”
By Daniel Boddicker

Dating apps don’t work in Maynard, Iowa. If you extend the radius to the maximum, you can just skirt Cedar Rapids, but that only works if all the gay men in Eastern Iowa decide to shop at the north side Target. Chet had limited success setting his location to Chicago, a young farmer is a draw for city types, but when the kink wore away, he was left alone among the corn.

Chet came to possession of the farm at 23 when his father died. Mother didn’t care much for the farm life and left for Tampa as soon as the papers were signed over to her eldest. Chet never saw himself as running the corn fields, but the money was too good to walk away. Plus, the farming life was second nature and he could figure out the next step after a few seasons. Yet, coming on his eighth year, he was resigning to the fact that this might be his life.

He didn’t want this to be his life. He couldn’t bring himself to say that he was a first and foremost a farmer. But, he couldn’t deny it. He had given his heart and soul to the farm but it hadn’t given him anything in return. The harvest was coming and there was nothing holding him here. He could take the money and run, finally starting his life. It’s now or never and Chet chooses now.

And now is the night he arrived.

Chet was shutting down the field lights when he appeared, stepping out of the cornfield. His golden hair shone in the moonlight, tucked gentle behind his ears. Piercing emerald eyes matched his suit, which couldn’t hide the rippling shape underneath. Chet was certain that he locked the gate, but when an intruder looks like this, how he broke in is not the first thing to come to mind.

The Man locked eyes on Chet and didn’t waver as he stomped across the driveway. Fear built in Chet, who was ready to confront this lost Nordic god, but the Man had his tongue down Chet’s throat before he could get a word out. The Man threw Chet down to the porch and shucked his pants off.

The feeling started in the back of Chet’s throat, his tonsils expanding until they burst. He didn’t choke on the popped kernels, launching them out with each gasp. The heat moved up his mouth, targeting each tooth until they exploded as well. Like a Presto Air Popper, a stream of fluffy clouds flew out of Chet’s mouth, filling the room as Chet came closer and closer to climax. He could feel his body wasting, as if a vacuum was packing his skin into its most compact, shrink- wrapping his bones and whatever flesh wasn’t given over.

Chet’s skull was fighting against the pressure, keeping his brain and eyes functional. The Man had a cocky smile as he prepared for one more thrust. He was swift and Chet’s skull collapsed, sending a final mushroom cloud of popped corn into the night sky.

Then Chet woke up. His mind was clear and he was pleasantly sore when he sat up. The only annoyance was something jammed into his molar. He spent a good five minutes at the bathroom mirror picking until a blood-dipped kernel clanked in the porcelain basin. He placed it beside the sink and looked out the window. The field stretched to the horizon.

Chet felt something missing inside. He had given his heart and soul to the farm and finally, it collected. What could he give for him to come again?