Surfer Boys

by Neil S. Plakcy

  I was bummed, but what can you do? I’m a homicide detective, and people keep on killing each other without regard to my schedule, so we’ve been trying to work these things out. I texted him the directions to the house and then took off up the Kam Highway for Haleiwa.

  I had the best intentions—I was going to head over to the house, unload the boards, maybe even cook up a healthy dinner. But as I neared Haleiwa, I passed a gay bar I knew called Sugar’s. I’d spent some time on the North Shore, undercover, and it was a place I used to hang out at with some friends.

  It was my lucky night, after all. Four of them were sitting on the outdoor patio, overlooking a field of pineapple plants, and they’d just ordered their first pitcher of Sex on the Beach. Ari, the guy I’d leased the house through, was in his early forties, dressed like the real estate mogul he was, in head-to-toe Ralph Lauren. George and Larry were an on-again off-again couple; George was the butch one, while Larry was handsome and sweet. Jeremy was a chunky, sarcastic elementary school teacher with a taste for bad boys; his latest squeeze was with them at the table.

  They welcomed me with hugs and kisses and quickly poured me a big glass of the vodka, peach schnapps, and cranberry juice concoction. “You’re just in time for the Mr. Surfer competition,” Jeremy said. “George and Larry have both promised to enter. Now you’ll have to do it, too.”

  “I think I’ll need a couple of these before I agree to that.”

  The guys just kept filling my glass, and around eleven o’clock, when the drag queen MC, Alicia Aloha, announced the start of the competition, I let Larry and George drag me up there. Luckily, I’d already dressed for the North Shore; I was wearing a T-shirt with a screen print of one of those old airline posters for Hawaii, with a surfer cresting a wave and Diamond Head in the background. A pair of board shorts and flip-flops completed my look.

  Eight of us paraded up on a platform at the far end of the patio, and Larry was by far the best looking, though George had the best body. The other guys were pretty drunk, and none of them looked like they’d ever even seen a surfboard, much less ridden one.

  We were having a pretty good time, laughing and joking through a series of questions from Alicia Aloha, who wore a giant muumuu and had a big red plastic hibiscus blossom in her teased black hair. “And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” she boomed. “The answer to the perennial question: boxers or briefs?”

  She turned to us. “Come one boys, show us your stuff.”

  I blame it on all that Sex on the Beach. We shucked our shirts and dropped our shorts and started vamping. George’s bikini briefs did nothing to disguise his endowment, which I’d had firsthand knowledge of, and seeing that big dick made my own swell up. Larry was no slouch either, though his boxer-style briefs at least gave him more coverage.

  I was wearing cotton boxers decorated with tropical fish, and it was a struggle to keep my stiff dick from peeking out the slit. I was just forcing my eyes away from George and Larry when I looked up and saw someone had handed Alicia Aloha the end of a hose. I watched as she turned the spray on us, soaking us all.

  We were laughing as we got drenched, and everyone’s shorts were soon plastered to their bodies, mine included. The DJ played “It’s Raining Men” by the Weather Girls, and we all started to dance. I was doing the bump with George when I looked up and saw Mike standing at the entrance to the patio.

  Mike’s had his own problems with alcohol, so I’ve tried not to overindulge when he’s around. And I know how jealous he gets; if I’d known he was there I’d never have stripped down to my boxers in front of a crowd. Really.

  I was so surprised to see Mike there, and the look of intense disapproval on his face, that I didn’t even resist when George grabbed me and kissed me.

  The next thing I knew, Mike was striding through the crowd. He had a big beach towel in his hands, and when he reached the stage I thought he was going to hand it to me to dry off.

  Instead, he jumped up onto the platform, grabbed my soaking boxers by the waistband, and tugged them down to my ankles. The crowd roared as my stiff dick sprang free. He wrapped me in the towel, then picked me up and threw me over his shoulder in the fireman’s carry.

  My boxers slipped off my feet. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t protest, though the crowd started to boo as Mike carried me off the stage and out through the bar. Even though I’m a little over six feet and carry about a hundred eighty pounds, Mike’s nearly six-four, and he works out. I must have seemed like just another arson victim to him.

  He pulled open the door of my Jeep and dumped me into the passenger seat. “Hey, baby,” I said, reaching for him. “Gimme a kiss.”

  “Wait here,” he said. “Try not to do anything stupid for the next sixty seconds.”

  “Oops, somebody’s mad,” I said, but he’d already stalked back into the bar.

  My boner had subsided, but thinking of Mike, smelling his lime aftershave on my skin, I got hard all over again, and started stroking myself.

  “Don’t play with yourself,” he said, jerking the driver’s door open. “Jesus, could you be any more of a slut?”

  He jumped in the Jeep, throwing my clothes and flip-flops in the back.

  “Lighten up, dickhead,” I said. “It’s not like I was fucking anybody up there on the stage.”

  “Yeah, that’s because I walked in when I did,” he said. “Let’s see, you already were stripped down to your shorts, you had a massive woody, and you were kissing some random stranger. What was next, Kimo? You planning to offer up your ass to him?”

  “He’s already had it,” I said.

  Well, that was the wrong thing to say. Mike peeled out onto the Kam Highway, nearly sideswiping a Mini Cooper, which blasted its horn.

  “Not tonight,” I said. “Before I met you. A long time ago.”

  Mike didn’t say a word, just gripped the steering wheel and peered ahead into the darkness. “Take the next right,” I said.

  Mike didn’t answer, but he did take the turn, and then pulled up to the gate for Cane Landing, the little community where we’d rented the house. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and punched a couple of numbers into the gate, which swung open. “It’s the third house on the right,” I said.

  He didn’t answer. He pulled into the driveway, then got out of the Jeep and stalked up to the front door. Ari had a Realtor’s lockbox on it; you dialed a combination and the box opened, revealing a key and an opener for the gate. I watched from the front seat as Mike twirled the combination, retrieved the key, and opened the door.

  I waited in the Jeep for another minute, but he didn’t come back out. I sighed and got out, keeping the beach towel wrapped around my waist. I grabbed my clothes, now all soaked because Mike had wrapped the wet boxers around them, and followed him inside.

  “I’m taking the master bedroom,” he said, when he’d finished swigging a bottle of water. “You can sleep on the couch for all I care.”

  “Mike.”

  He climbed the stairs to the bedroom level, and I heard a door slam. Well, so much for getting laid that night.

  I drank a bottle of water myself, then crashed in the guest bedroom. When I woke up the next morning, sunlight was streaming in the window and I had to pee something fierce. But I couldn’t move.

  The bastard had cuffed my hands together with the pair of handcuffs I keep in my glove compartment, and then tied my hands and feet to the bed. “Mike!” I called. “Come on, let me loose. I’ve got to pee.”

  He appeared in the bedroom door. “Morning, sunshine,” he said. “Obviously, you don’t know how to behave in public, so you’re going to have to get some lessons.”

  He was naked except for a pair of bikini bottoms that did little to confine his endowment, which was looking especially big and hard that morning. He came over to the bed, where he untied the towels he’d used to bind me to the frame, but left the handcuffs on.

  “All right, get up,” he said.

  It was tough, with
my hands confined, but my need to pee motivated me. I stood up, then stumbled to the bathroom. Mike followed, standing right behind me as I positioned myself in front of the toilet. He reached around and grabbed my dick, pointing it toward the toilet bowl, and I let loose a stream.

  If I hadn’t had to pee so badly, it would have been tough forcing the urine out of my stiff dick, but I managed. Mike shook it, hard, when I’d finished. “Ow,” I said. “That hurts.”

  “Good. That’s not the only part of you that’ll hurt by the time I’m through with you.”

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  “Nope, pal, it’s me that’s going to fuck you.” He reached over to the bathroom counter, where I saw he’d assembled lube and condoms. I’d been faithful to him since we got back together, and I thought he’d been faithful to me, too, but we’d both agreed we would play safe for a while, especially since he’d given me gonorrhea once already.

  While I stood in front of the toilet, my stiff dick hanging free, Mike skinned down his briefs, then suited up with a condom. With just a perfunctory squirt of lube up my ass, he pushed me down so I was resting my cuffed hands on the counter and began slamming into my ass.

  “You’re killing me!” I said, as pain coursed up my chute and throughout my body.

  “You deserve to be punished,” he said, banging so far into me that his nuts slapped against my ass.

  But then he couldn’t help himself. He leaned down and started kissing my neck, and his hands found their way around to my nipples, pinching and teasing them, and soon the pain in my ass turned to pleasure. “Yeah, you like this, don’t you?” Mike said. “You need to be reminded who’s the man around here.”

  “Hey, pal,” I panted, bucking my ass back against his dick. “I’m more man than you can handle.”

  “You think you’re Mr. Sexy,” he said. “Up there on that platform, showing off what you’re supposed to keep private, just for me.”

  He wasn’t even touching my dick, and god knows with my hands cuffed, using them to balance myself against the counter, I couldn’t either, but I was so hard I thought I’d burst.

  He bucked one more time up my ass, and I felt the condom’s reservoir tip fill as he slumped behind me. Then I shot off, too, contracting my ass muscles around his limp dick, and we both moaned.

  “You wait until we get out on the surf,” I said, panting. “I’ll lambaste your ass out there.”

  “Hard to surf with your hands cuffed like that,” Mike said, and he walked out of the bathroom.

  I stumbled out after him. “Unlock me, asshole!”

  “I already unlocked your asshole this morning,” Mike said, smirking.

  The guy still had the power to make me laugh.

  “I ought to keep you locked up all weekend,” he said. “But I do need you to drive me back to that bar to pick up my truck.”

  He came over and unlocked the handcuffs. I was rubbing my wrists when he grabbed them and pulled me close to him. Our naked bodies were still running with sweat, and my cum had pooled in my pubic hair, but I was still so hot for him that I lifted my right leg up and wrapped it around his thigh as we kissed.

  “You stink,” he said. “Am I going to have to carry you into the shower?”

  “I think I can make that on my own,” I said.

  The shower in the master bath was big enough for two, with one of those rain heads. We soaped each other down, playing with ass, tits, and dick, but finally made it out of there. My clothes were in a bag out in my Jeep, but his were in his truck, parked back at Sugar’s. I lent him a pair of board shorts, and we drove down to Sugar’s. Then he followed me to Chun’s Reef, one of the easier breaks to surf.

  I was a little out of practice, and I wanted a place Mike could feel comfortable, too. There’s a little park there owned by the City and County of Honolulu, and a wide sandy beach, with access not only to Chun’s Reef but to Pidley’s and Jocko, two other breaks. I pulled a couple of boards off the rack on top of my jeep and we waded out into the water.

  The waves at Chun’s Reef broke to the right over a reef, and with a light offshore breeze there were six-foot swells and you could get long rides. During the winter, it was a killer break, and only the most experienced surfers could brave it—though it was still a step down from Sunset or Pipeline. But in the summer months it was calmer, just right for showing my big-shot boyfriend what I could do, but not so bad he’d end up frustrated.

  I grabbed the first one, hotdogging, just to show Mike who the real surfer was. Of course, I fell ass over teakettle. When I surfaced, Mike was straddling his board, laughing his ass off.

  “Okay, pal, let’s see what you’ve got,” I said, scrambling back onto my board. We paddled out together, duck-diving through the incoming water, until we got to the impact zone, where we could wait for a good wave. There weren’t many guys out, just a few grommets near the shore and a single carver far out beyond us.

  I let Mike take the first good wave, watching his form. Well, I tried to watch his form, but was distracted by the way my board shorts clung to his big, round ass, the way the water cascaded off his back as he rose into position. He wasn’t bad; he managed to stay on the board all the way to shore, which was more than I had done with my first wave.

  We surfed for a couple of hours, and I gave up showing off and concentrated on just getting some good waves, giving Mike the occasional pointer, and having fun.

  It seemed like he’d gotten over his irritation, and he was really getting into the surfing, showing off all his strength and conditioning. A grommet we talked to late in the day was surprised to know that Mike hadn’t been on a board for a while, and that made Mike glow.

  We drove back to the house, where I ran the big Roman tub in the master bath, using some lavender-scented bubble bath to fill it with white foam. “Come on in, the water’s fine,” I called to Mike.

  He came into the bathroom naked, with a bath towel around his neck, and I could tell he was glad to see me. He has such an amazing body: broad shoulders, ropy muscles in his arms, a six-pack of abs that runs into a flat crotch with a thatch of black hair and a dick that’s quite in proportion to his body. His thighs are like tree trunks, his calves all muscle.

  He’s half Italian, and his chest and abdomen are covered in fine black hair. If not for the epicanthic fold of his eyes, inherited from his Korean mother, he’d look like the most amazing Italian stallion of porn. As it is, I think of him as my own private porn star.

  He dropped the towel and stepped into the tub with me, lowering himself into the warm, sudsy water. “Hot!” he said, as his balls dipped below the surface.

  “Come on, you’re a fireman,” I said. “Can’t you take the heat?”

  He slid down next to me, his legs pointing toward my chest. “Don’t fuck with me, cop,” he said. “Unless you want me to show you who’s boss again.”

  I began massaging one of his feet, bringing it up to my chest. “Hmm, I might like that,” I said.

  If there’s a guy out there with a better smile than Mike Riccardi, I haven’t met him. That wolfish grin goes right to my groin. I pulled his legs apart and scooted myself up close to him, resting my legs over his thighs, and we kissed, playing with each other’s nipples and enjoying the warm slippery sensation of skin on skin.

  “You were pretty good out there, riding the waves,” I said, licking my tongue along the side of his chin.

  He pushed the water toward me, creating tiny ripples. “I could make some waves here.” He reached under me and started fingering my ass. I arched my back and started to pant a little.

  “Somebody’s getting excited,” he said, nibbling my ear.

  I leveraged myself up a bit, trying to find his dick with my ass. He helped, positioning me above him. I lowered down slowly, feeling his skin against mine, feeling him inside me.

  “This is okay with you?” he asked. “Without a rubber?”

  I leaned forward and kissed him. “Can I trust you?”

  He put on
e hand behind my head and pulled me in for another kiss. “I promise I will never do anything to hurt you, ever again.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I said, starting to slide up and down on his shaft. “Just promise to be honest with me.”

  “You bet,” he said. “Oh, man, the way you do me.”

  The water lubricated us, though not quite as much as I would have liked, given what a big spear Mike had. But I went slow, only building a rhythm once my sphincter had gotten accustomed to the invasion.

  Sweat dripped down Mike’s forehead and chest in the steamy bathroom, and mine, too. We kissed again as my ass milked his dick, and as he got close to coming, he soaped up his hand, then grabbed my shaft and started jerking me.

  My breath was coming in short gasps. The air smelled like lavender and salt, and Mike’s body was hot next to mine. He threw back his head and howled like a wolf at the moon, and I laughed and then my body contorted in spasms as he shot up my ass and then I spurted into the bathwater.

  I slid backward, releasing Mike’s dick from the grasp of my ass, and slumped against the wall of the Roman tub. Mike looked like he was having trouble catching his breath. We sat there, grinning stupidly at each other, our legs touching, until the water got cold.

  “More surfing tomorrow,” Mike said, with a grin, as he stood up. “Maybe I’ll show you who’s really Mr. Surfer in this household.”

  I stood up next to him, the water cascading around us, and wrapped my arms around his back. “I don’t care which one of us is best at riding the waves,” I said. “As long as I can keep riding you.”

  I felt his dick stiffening against me, and mine stiffened in return. “Somebody’s ready for another ride,” Mike said. In one fluid motion, he grabbed me and threw me over his shoulder once again. I grabbed hold of his asscheeks as he stepped out of the tub and headed toward the bed.

  We’d see who had energy left for surfing the next day.