Skater Boys

by Neil Plakcy

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  KICK, PUSH

  TOTALLY CHOICE

  DADDY JENS

  SKATER BOYZ CUM HARD

  FUCK OFF

  A PLACE TO SKATE

  BOARD AND BLADE FUCK BATTLE

  DEEP END

  BOARDER BOYZ

  IN THIS OUR DAY

  SEX IN THE STREETS

  CARTER DUBOSE

  SHUV-IT

  SOMETHING TO REMEMBER YOU BY

  BOYZ IN THE ’HOOD

  GLOSSARY OF SKATING TERMS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION

  There’s a sign on the wall at my local Starbucks that reads Skateboarding is cool. Just not on this property. That says a lot about our attitude toward skaters and boarders—we think they’re hot and sexy and a little scary, just outside our mainstream lives. They have ropy muscles, tattoos and a fuck-you attitude toward private property and bourgeois society.

  The boarders in this book all have one additional thing in common—a love of man-on-man sex. Teen skaters get it on together in “Carter DuBose” and “Totally Choice,” among other stories. Older men get their share of boarder bootie in great stories including “In This Our Day,” “Sex in the Streets” and “Shuv-It.”

  Some stories, like “Something to Remember You By” and “Boyz in the ’Hood” pack an emotional punch, while others are just great fun. But no matter the story, the skater guys portrayed are tough, hot and very sexy.

  If you’re not familiar with the skater world, there is a brief glossary of skateboard terms at the back of the book. But to get you started, here are a couple of terms. First, the parts of the skateboard itself.• Deck: The main portion of the skateboard.

  • Nose: The front of the board.

  • Rail: The side of the board.

  • Truck: Front or rear T-shaped axle assembly.

  • Tail: Rear of the skateboard.

  Then there are some common maneuvers you’ll read about, in many different variations from story to story.• Grind: Scraping one or both axles on a curb, railing, or other surface.

  • Slide: Sliding one part of the board along a surface.

  • Flip: Causing the board to leave the ground

  Now that you’ve got the lingo, get ready to enter the sweaty, fast-moving world of Skater Boys. Enjoy!

  Neil Plakcy

  Hollywood, Florida

  KICK, PUSH

  Johnny Murdoc

  It starts on a Wednesday morning. I’m walking to work, and I am not thinking about anything. By Wednesday mornings, the routine has set in again. The alarm goes off. I take my morning piss. I shower, and sometimes I masturbate. I shave. I have a bagel and hummus and read the morning paper standing in my underwear. I wouldn’t want to get anything on my suit. After breakfast, I get dressed. I wear the same thing every day. Sometimes, I think that businesses make workers wear suits because the process of putting one on is a forced habit. In high school, I couldn’t think of anything worse than wearing a suit. Now I just need to pay my rent.

  I walk through the Loop, just west of downtown St. Louis, and a small part of me is satisfied because I work on the Loop and therefore I can’t have sold out too much, right? Never mind that I’m walking to a job at a bank. I have my coffee in one hand, my briefcase in the other, and the sky is clear, the low breeze warm. The Loop is dead around me. It’s not an early morning kind of place. Here and there people walk to work, the kind of people who wear business suits and pantsuits and work in the office spaces above the coffee shops, the tattoo parlors and the comic-book store; above the movie theater, and the record store. The street is busy with cars, but they’re only passing through.

  My phone rings, and I stop to set my briefcase down. I hear someone say “Shit, look out!” and then my coffee is flying out of my hand and the ground is rushing up at me and I’m not sure what feels worse, the concrete when I hit it or the weight that crashes down onto me after I do. A skateboard flips over my head and smacks the sidewalk right next to my face.

  “Motherfuck.”

  The weight shifts off of me and I roll onto my back. I sit and push myself up, and I realize my phone is still ringing in my pocket.

  “Why would you stop in the middle of the—”

  “Why don’ you look where you’re—”

  I see his face and it all comes back to me.

  It started ten years ago, the first time I heard a song by the Descendents. “Suburban Home” hit all the right notes and put me through a change that rivaled puberty. That was the year that I started wearing ripped jeans and a leather jacket. I shaved my hair and got all of the weird looks that a skinny black kid with a mohawk was bound to get. That was the year I bought my first skateboard and stopped depending on anyone to take me anywhere. That was the year that I first smoked pot and got my first blow job in the backseat of my best friend’s car. The girl was nice, and she was a good kisser, and when she pulled down my pants I thought about doing the same to my best friend.

  I figured out punk the same time that everyone else was discovering girls and cars. I figured out punk the same time I figured out that I was gay. I figured out punk when I needed it most, when I needed to know how to be a skinny black homo kid in a small white hick town; when I needed to know that it was okay to imagine the dirty things I wanted to do with other guys. Punk helped me not care what other people thought.

  I wore punk proudly until graduation and carried part of it with me through college. Day by day, though, I packed a little more punk away as I got deeper into classes and responsibilities. I tucked punk far away when I got my job at the bank. My leather jacket is folded away in a box in the bottom of my closet. I replaced it with repetition and a three-piece suit.

  “Shit, man, I’m sorry,” the skater says, and he reminds me of my old school friends. He reminds me of every guy that I ever got a hard-on for in high school, and later in college. He’s my age or only slightly younger, and he has a tattoo creeping up from beneath the collar of his T-shirt. The thin black cotton looks like it used to have a band logo on it, but it’s so faint as to not exist at all. He lifts his arm up to scratch the back of his head and I can see his armpit hair through a hole in the shirt. He smiles awkwardly. “I mean, that was all my fault.”

  I should be mad at him, but I’m not. I want to take his hand, pull him into the alleyway and press him against the cool bricks and my mouth to his. Time was, I might have.

  Instead, I say: “Oh, it’s no problem, really.”

  I say: “I really should be getting to work.

  He says: “Oh. Okay.”

  I pick up my briefcase and start walking away. I walk quickly. Behind me, I hear his board hit the ground and he skates past me. He gives me a light punch on the arm and says, “Take it easy, man.” I watch him as he skates ahead of me, his foot dropping off the board every once in a while to give himself a little push. His sneakers are a bright red. Kick, push. Kick, push. Away he goes.

  My workday is long and boring, and I can’t help but think about the skater. In another world, he could have been me, and I could have been him. I could have kept the skateboard. Instead, I use words like tiered maturity and compound interest. I could have kept the mohawk. Instead I’m here, thinking about ducking into the bathroom for a quick workday wank.

  A girl named Allyson is asking me if I want to go to lunch with her and a couple of the other guys. I tell her no and slide out from behind my desk. I leave my jacket hanging on the back of my chair and dart out of the office before anyone else can offer me a lunchtime field trip.

  The sun is out and high and warm, and the Loop has started to pick up with l
ife. I look around at all of the young guys, keeping an eye out for my morning skater. In the wide street next to Vintage Vinyl a small group of skaters show off, doing tricks off of the curb and the brick half-wall that separates them from the parking lot next door. None of them are my skater.

  I think about ducking into Vintage, but instead I head down to Star Clipper Comics; it’s Wednesday, and new comics are out. After I pick up the handful of new books that I follow, I decide to waste time and browse through the graphic novels. I pick up a book called Black Hole and start to flip through it, drawn in by the stark black-and-white artwork and a flash of the occasional cock shot.

  “That’s a great fucking book,” I hear someone say. I look over to see my skater, the guy who bowled me over in more ways than one this morning. “Hey,” he says. “You remember me from this morning. I’m Joe.”

  “How could I forget?” I ask. He’s holding a small stack of comics, and his board is tucked in between the straps of his backpack.

  “I really am sorry about that. You should let me make it up to you. At least let me buy you a new coffee.”

  “Um, maybe, but I should be getting back to the office.”

  “Playing hard to get, huh?”

  “What?”

  “Man, it’s written all over your face.” He leans in closer and whispers into my ear: “It’s okay. I think you’re pretty cute, too.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

  “You live nearby, don’t you? I mean, you walk to work in the morning, so you can’t be far.”

  “I—”

  “Come on, man. Live a little. You can show me your comic collection.”

  We step into my apartment and Joe says, “So, this is what a bank job gets you.”

  “You make it sound like I robbed the place.”

  He looks around and nods and I want him to shut up. I don’t want him to remind me of who I am. I step around him and walk through my living room. I drop my briefcase down on the couch and loosen my tie. He lets his backpack fall to the floor and props his board against it. He walks over to my bookshelf and starts to scan through the titles.

  “Nice collection,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He kisses me. I press back against him and push him toward the couch. I pull at his shirt, lifting it up to expose his tattooed flesh. As his shirt slides up and over his face I nudge him again and he falls back onto the couch. I fall on top of him. His arms are up and over his head, his T-shirt still spread over his face and through the thin material I can see that his mouth is open. I brush my lips against his through the shirt, teasing him, then slide down to his exposed neck. I pull back a little and look at his chest, his beautiful canvas of skin and his hairy armpits, the hair matted with sweat. I lean in and lick at his pit, tasting his sweat. He cringes beneath me and laughs one deep laugh.

  “You like that?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me what else you like.”

  “I like you,” he says. I pull his T-shirt past his face but keep it bound up in his arms, keeping him where I want him. I kiss him and his tongue slides out and into my mouth. I slide a hand between us and feel his erection through his jeans. I twist the button and yank the flap of his jeans open, the zipper sliding down. I let my legs fall off of the couch and take my weight off of him. I yank his hips up by his waistband and pull his pants down to his knees. He’s wearing red boxers and his half-hard cock flops from one side to the other within them, offering a glimpse of his flesh through the open fly. I glance at his eyes and he looks at me, wondering what I’m going to do next.

  I lean back and start unbuttoning my shirt. I pull the shirt-tails free from my waistband and pull the shirt off. I can tell from the look on Joe’s face that he isn’t expecting tattoos. At this point, I have almost forgotten that they’re there. The black lines are subtle against my skin. I shrug out of my undershirt and show off my one last mark of rebellion, a straight bar that goes through my left nipple.

  “I knew there was more to you than a cheap Brooks Brothers suit,” Joe says.

  I smile and reach forward and pull his boxers down and his cock is rock solid. It slaps hard against his stomach. I pull his boxers and jeans the rest of the way down to his ankles, where everything catches at his red sneakers. He lies on my couch completely exposed, his clothes wrapped around his wrists and ankles and his dick doing its best to reach his navel.

  I bury my face into his armpit again and slide a hand down his chest until it catches on his dick. He wriggles beneath me as I lap at his sweaty pit hair. I haven’t been this confident or aggressive with another guy in years but the skate punk stretched out on my couch brings back a lot of memories and a lot of attitude, and I don’t feel like taking it slow. I reach down between my legs and snap open my belt and fly. I reach into my briefs and free my dick and then I stand. I straddle his chest and my dick smacks against his face. He opens his mouth and tries to lick me, and I push my cockhead down until it slides into his mouth. The angle’s not perfect but the feel of his warm mouth more than makes up for it. Joe frees his hands from his T-shirt and smacks them against my ass. He pulls my hips forward and swallows more of my dick. He wraps a hand around the base and starts to stroke it.

  “Let’s go into the bedroom,” I say. His head bobs on my dick. It could be a nod as well. I pull away and my cock bounces out of his mouth.

  I help him up off of the couch. He kicks his sneakers off and slips off his pants and underwear. Standing naked with his bare feet on my hardwood floors, he’s a work of art. His chest and arms are covered in tattoos, as are his thighs. I recognize a couple of band logos. His erection hovers in front of him. He steps up to me. “Are you going to stare all day?”

  “Maybe.” I kiss him.

  “I thought you had to get back to the office.” He kisses me.

  “Fuck the office.” I kiss him.

  “That’s what I want to hear.” He slides his hand into my waistband and tugs on my pants. They slide down my thighs. “You want to fuck me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me.” He reaches up and squeezes my pierced nipple.

  “I want to fuck you.”

  In the bedroom, he crawls onto my bed. He lets his arms slide out in front of him, his ass thrust into the air. I climb onto the bed behind him. I take a cheek into each hand and spread his ass open. His crack is hairy, and I lean into it. He pushes back against me, and I slide my tongue out and over his hole. He groans and I can feel him relax against my licks. I think that I could lick his ass all day long. He has other ideas.

  “You have a condom, right?”

  “In the nightstand. Lube, too.”

  He crawls forward and pulls open the drawer. He reaches in and pulls out a condom and grabs the black bottle of lube. He rolls onto his back and I see a drop of clear liquid on the tip of his dick. I want to fuck him but first I want to taste him, and I slide my mouth over his cock. I look up at him and he smiles. His precum is sweet. He tears open the condom. I take my mouth off of his dick and crawl up between his legs. My erection hovers over his. He rolls the condom down onto my penis. He pours some lube onto his hand and strokes my dick with it, then reaches a hand between his legs and rubs some on his exposed hole. He looks me in the eyes and nods.

  I push the tip of my dick down and slide it along his crack until I feel it sink against his soft hole.

  “You ready?” I ask. He nods again, and I push into him a little. He bites his bottom lip.

  “Keep going,” he says.

  Inch by inch, I push inside of him. His cock flexes. I wait until my dick is all the way in, and then I wrap my hand around his cock. I lean forward and kiss him. I pull out slowly, just a little, and slide it back in. He grunts into my mouth. His hands slide up to my nipples. He flicks his thumb over them and plays with my piercing. I thrust, short quick strokes. Each repetition causes him to grunt a little. I try to lean back and he pinches my nipple then lets me go. I wra
p my hands around his thighs and he starts to stroke his dick. His ass is relaxed, and I start to make deeper strokes.

  “I want to ride you,” he says.

  I pull my dick slowly out of him and he swings a leg in front of me. I lie down where he was and he straddles me. He reaches behind him and grabs my dick and sits back on it, one long solid gesture, and I’m inside him completely again. He uses his legs to bounce up and down. His legs are hairy and strong from skateboarding. He lets a hand fall down hard on my chest, and he spreads his fingers wide. His other hand is working quickly on his dick; the clear precum flows out and he uses it to coat his cock.

  I push up with my hips to match his short bounces. “I’m going to cum soon,” I say.

  “Me, too,” he says, and the look on his face pushes me over the edge. I thrust hard into him and my toes curl up and I start to ejaculate into the condom. I thrust hard into him one last time. Joe grunts, loud this time, and the head of his cock flares. A shot of thick cum shoots up and arches onto my chest. Another flings backward and lands on his stomach and he quickens his strokes. His cum leaks out heavily, like the precum before it.

  As his last shot dribbles out of his cock, his breathing is deep and his chest swells. He cracks a huge smile, and I can’t remember the last time I had an orgasm that felt this good. He leans forward and lets my cock slide out of his ass, and then he sits back against my pubic bone, his weight coming down on my hips. He looks in my eyes and then looks at the ceiling. He looks over at my closet door, pulled half open.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he says.

  “What?” I ask, trying to look over the edge of the bed to see what it is that he sees. He climbs off of my chest, his softening dick flopping once against my chest, smacking the pool of cum there. He falls to his knees on the carpet and starts pulling at the clothes piled at the bottom of my closet. He reaches into the pile and pulls it out: my old skateboard.