– A Horny Short –

Most college aged kids don’t care too much about birds. Still closeted Brandon was no different. Yet due to taking a “Creative Writing in Nature” course to pad out his sophomore year, he found himself being herded into a coach bus and shuttled to a semi-local nature preserve as part of a poetry assignment.

It couldn’t have been a worse day for it. The misty October weather gnawed through jackets and wetly coated the ground such that a short jaunt from any path resulted in soaking shoes. The birds apparently agreed that it was a day to take cover, because the gaggle of uninterested students had scarcely seen any all morning. Only Professor Frieda Hepple seemed to think the day a raving success, furiously scribbling poetry whilst standing before a gnarled dead tree while her students texted friends who were comfortable ensconced indoors somewhere.

The day was not without some interest, however. Brandon had spotted Russ, one of many nature preserve workers dressed in a drab olive windbreaker. Brandon ensured that he was in Russ’s group so that he could appreciate his tight ass and gorgeous Timberland field boots, which looked like they had spent virtually no time in any field. Russ wore his obligatory tan Harden Ridge Preserve baseball cap, but turned backwards, which was always a turn on for Brandon. It would be a year later in a psych course that Freud would help him to understand that it was probably because guys looked more phallic this way. Somehow, a visor kept a guy from looking like a giant penis head. But turn that thing around…

Yes, Russ was enjoyable to look at. And his voice had an adorable timber—just a hint of a rasp—that made listening to even the most inane details about the migratory patterns of snow geese tolerable. But for all these intrigues, even Brandon was struggling to attend after two damp hours. They had stopped at a tree line that bordered a wetland of some kind, the yellow leaf strewn grass stopping abruptly in a stretch of coarse brown reedy grasses rising from brown sludge. By now, Brandon had joined the throngs of students t9 texting on flip phones, desperate to connect to life just about anywhere else.

“Just beyond these trees, you can see that nesting box,” Russ was saying in his enthusiastic husky voice, “where we have been very fortunate to have a black bellied whistling duck take up residence. Let’s see if we can spot it.” There was a pause as he looked out over the dead vegetation, the sounds of moisture dripping from the overhead branches mingling with the soft key taps of rapid texting. If it hadn’t been obvious before, Russ had possibly finally noticed that he had lost his audience. “Tell you what,” he said in a dramatic low voice. “Let’s see if we can’t coax it out. I’m not supposed to do this, but I’d love for you to have the chance to see it. It’s truly magnificent.”

Russ had removed his backpack and from it, had drawn two brownish rubber and neoprene boots. The soft shafts had been rolled down in thick cuffs against the feet, exposing soft orange lining and making them compact enough to fit in the bag. This was working for Brandon—he was completely interested now. Russ continued to rattle facts as he untied his Timberlands.

“If you get the chance to see a BBWD, you’ll notice it has unusually long legs for a duck. So it spends less time on the water and more time of land or even in trees than many other species.” Russ was sliding white socked feet into the cuffed boots, his gray cargo pants gathering at the turned down tops. Russ now had a captive audience of one. “They also don’t usually build nests. They’re just too happy to use a box or a pile of organic junk. They aren’t picky,” he recited as he rolled one neoprene shaft up over his pants, the orange disappearing from view.

“So what makes seeing one today so special?” came a rather blasé voice from the crowd. Russ looked up, having received his first confirmation of life from the group in the last 30 minutes.

“Because they’re incredibly rare in Pa,” he cried, standing suddenly. “You have to realize that these birds are not at all thought of as being native to these parts.” Brandon’s eyes rested on Russ’ right boot, which he had not yet unrolled, it’s orange cuff still holding his pant leg high, a flash of white sock showing as he moved to his animated speech. “The black bellied whistling duck is from Texas and Louisiana…even Mexico!” he was saying, convinced he now had everyone’s attention. Indeed, one or two pairs of eyes darted momentarily from a screen.

Russ moved toward the marsh’s edge by the tree line. It dawned on Brandon that Russ had forgotten about his cuffed boot in his excitement. “If we can get you a glimpse of this bird, I think you’ll agree that it’s quite beautiful,” he was saying, taking his first steps into the murky bed from which the grasses sprouted. Slime instantly began to bunch at his rubber coated feet. Brandon looked in astonishment at his classmates. None of them was watching, let alone noticing Russ’s collision course with a foul end. As much as his cock wanted the show, he couldn’t do that to his tour guide.

“You might want to stop and check on your boot,” he called.

“They’re omnivorous,” he said responded, apparently mishearing Brandon. “Grains, seeds, insects…that short of thing.” Brandon opened his mouth to try again, and stopped himself. Russ had entered a deeper area of marsh goo, rich black paste now clinging to the orange lining of the cuff. There were several more steps to go until he reached the nesting box, the loose pant leg and white sock were already perilously close to the mire. He stopped and made a clapping sound. A gray head and bright orange beak poked out of the nesting box.

Russ turned to flash a radiant smile at his would-be onlookers. As he did, his right foot found a deeper depression than the height of his boot cuff could withstand. There was a soft burbling sound as the orange lining completely disappeared from view, the gelatinous blend of algae, mud, and decay slurping against the sliver of white sock and sucking down the hem of his pants. Russ didn’t seem to notice at first. He gestured at the opening to the box. It was as he raised his foot to take a step that he realized something was amiss. The suddenly weighty boot and what must have been an accompanying rush of cold damp with his movement prompted him to look down.

“Fuck,” he murmured, raising his sudden boot above the murk. He dug his fingers into the slime as he set to rolling the boot up, the mud encased on the once orange lining now flipped in toward he pant leg and sock. Brandon adjusted his jacket around his crotch, and the BBWD took flight as Russ looked at his soggy leg in disgust. When he returned to where the students were standing, most of whom still had no idea what had transpired, Russ’s boot could be heard making soft squelching sounds as his once white sock now slid around in the swamp paste that filled it. Only a thin band of mud was visible on his pants above boot shaft.

When Brandon boarded the bus back to campus, he sat his backpack on his lap. Ever so discreetly, he ground the bag into into his hard cock until he came, thinking about Russ removing his boot when he returned to the nature center. His classmates knew noticed nothing, never having looked up from their phones.