Surfer Boys

by Neil Plakcy

  And so three fingers went in, reaching deep inside, pumping away at his ever-hardening prostate as I quickened the pace on his massive cock. Stretched to its limit, my own asshole was now being pummeled as well, sending wave after wave of pleasure through my entire body, just as the ocean was sending its waves mere inches away from us.

  “Fucking close, dude,” he moaned, loudly, his voice rising above the crashing Pacific.

  “Right with you,” I moaned back at him, feeling my balls rise as he assailed my ass with his rapid-fire pistoning.

  When my fingers were battering up against granite, I knew that was it. I stared down as his cock quivered and spurt, erupting forth in load after load of creamy, white-hot cum that drenched his stomach. He moaned loudly, deeply, and steadily, the reverberations quaking through my body as I too came, my own cock spewing one massive load that turned his tan chest into a white, shimmering pool.

  I collapsed on top of him, panting, our bodies sweat-soaked, just as the cool ocean reached us, taking our dripping cum out to sea. He laughed. “Dude,” he said, spanking my ass, “what would the cows back home say about that?”

  My laugh echoed his. “Moo, I’d imagine. But it would be one hell of a jealous moo.”

  I flipped my body around and got face to glorious face with him, staring into his eyes, which were bluer than the sky above. I kissed him, soft and tender, perfect. “Primo,” he sighed.

  “Off the Richter,” I amended.

  Again he laughed. “You’re learning fast. Now all we have to do is get you on a board.”

  I looked around, realizing we were soon to run out of beach. “So that, um, means you want to do this again?” I stared eagerly into his eyes and gripped his narrow waist.

  “And again, and again,” he replied, kissing me hard as the water rushed in around us. And then it was my turn to laugh. “What’s so funny, dude?” he asked.

  “Do you know what the Minnesota state motto is?”

  He crinkled his eyes and scratched his chin. “Got cheese?”

  I shook my head and playfully bit his lip. “Nope. Roughly translated from the Latin, it’s: ‘I long to see what is beyond.’ ”

  “And the California motto?” he asked, reaching his arms around to hold me tight.

  “ ‘Eureka,’ dude!” I replied. “I found it!”

  He smiled and kissed me over and over and over again. “That you did, dude. That you most surely did.”

  SEBASTIAN INLET

  Martin Delacroix

  Can a guy be spiritually linked to a specific place, one where important moments in his life are predestined to occur? If so, can a spot common as dirt serve the purpose?

  Tate Burrows pondered these questions. He lay upon a concrete floor, listening to another boy breathe. The air smelled briny and waves smacked a nearby beach.

  This is my place, he thought, it’s my sanctum. No one can tell me different.

  When Tate was twelve, his cousin, Douglas, then sixteen, took Tate to Sebastian Inlet for a surfing session, Tate’s first visit there. Two other boys, also sixteen, friends of Douglas, joined them. They rode south on A-1-A in a battered Toyota, boards strapped to the roof rack, radio blaring. The older boys spoke of recreational drug use, pussy, and binge-drinking. (“Don’t repeat anything that’s said,” Douglas had warned Tate, “or I’ll kick your ass.”) Tate felt honored to be in these boys’ presence, but their salacious remarks about females bewildered him. How come he felt no yearning for girls’ bodies? In time, would he acquire the taste?

  Sebastian is Florida’s premier surfing spot, home break of the Hobgood brothers and other high-caliber stars. When conditions there get big, only talented locals venture out; mediocre surfers and out-of-towners are not welcome. But this day, when Tate and the others arrived, the swells were chest-high, meager by Inlet standards, and not many guys bobbed in the water. The boys had a fine session, and after three hours Tate was tired and happy. He loved the shape of the waves, the water’s clarity and its turquoise color, the rust-hued sand. And the north jetty awed him, a concrete behemoth thrusting two hundred yards into the Atlantic.

  The park at Sebastian offers freshwater, outdoor showers. After rinsing off, the boys used a change room to put on dry clothes. Tate had never seen postpubescent boys naked and the experience stirred his emotions. Douglas and his pals were handsome, with lean physiques and sun-bleached hair. When they peeled off their rash guards and board shorts, Tate viewed their genitals and his mouth got sticky as glue. His knees trembled.

  In the change room, while toweling himself, Douglas pointed to a tangle of graffiti on a toilet stall door. “Look at this shit.”

  Everyone approached, cocks wagging. They studied the scribbles.

  With a felt-tipped pen, a guy had written, I suck surfer dick. For a good blow job, call Kurt at 460-3111, evenings.

  Underneath that, in pencil, another guy had written, Forget it, fag. There are NO gay surfers.

  Underneath that, in red ink, yet another guy had written, Don’t kid yourself, pal. Some shredders are queer. I know ’cause I’m one.

  Douglas made a face and stuck out his tongue. “Imagine licking a guy’s wiener? Yuck!”

  Later, in the car, after they’d dropped off Douglas’s friends, Tate asked Douglas, “Do you think it’s true? What the one guy wrote?”

  “Which part?”

  “Are some surfers queer?”

  Douglas looked at Tate like Tate was nuts. “There’s no way; you’ve got to be tough to shred waves.” Douglas flapped a wrist and spoke with an exaggerated lisp. “Fags are pussies—all of them.”

  Tate said nothing further. While Douglas drove him home, Tate thought, l learned a few things this afternoon:

  First, Sebastian Inlet is sweet; someday I’ll go back.

  Also, I like naked boys. Does that mean I’m gay? If so, I better not tell anyone, not if I value my teeth.

  Another thing: I surfed as good as anyone today. Douglas doesn’t know crap.

  After his freshman year in college, Tate got a summer job at Ron Jon Surf Shop in Cocoa Beach. Though other surfers derided the place, Tate felt lucky he’d been hired. Management seemed friendly and most staff members were students like Tate. He’d work four eight-hour shifts per week.

  On a Thursday morning, his first day off, Tate slid his short board into his car and drove south on A-1-A. He kept the windows lowered and wind rushed in, fluttering his hair. The sky was overcast. To the west, a bank of thunderheads, dark and ominous, towered above the Indian River. An offshore breeze stirred fronds of Sabal palms. He’d already checked the breaks at Patrick Air Force Base, RC’s in Satellite Beach, and the boardwalk at Indialantic. Wave quality had been poor at each location, and he’d decided to go farther south, to Sebastian Inlet, a twelve-mile drive. Go on, he told himself, make the trip. You loved that place.

  Once there, he parked beneath a bridge connecting Brevard and Indian River counties. He carried his board to the shore, where he sat on the sand, reading waves and watching a handful of surfers catch rides. One guy, slender and dark-haired, charged the swells like a demon, carving up and down their faces, even catching air. He did this for twenty minutes or so, before paddling toward shore.

  Tate commenced waxing his board, and he didn’t sense the dark-haired surfer’s presence till he spoke. “If you’re heading out, try Second Peak. It’s firing.”

  Tate looked up, nodding his thanks. “How come you quit?”

  The surfer jerked a thumb toward the park’s concession building. “It’s almost noon; I work the lunch counter.”

  Tate rose. The other young man was a bit taller than Tate, broad-shouldered, and close to Tate’s age. His nose and cheeks were sunburned. Drops of sea water glistened in his hair. His eyes were deep set, ice blue, his eyebrows thick and dark. He wore a black rash guard and carried a shortboard under an arm, a quad-fin, probably custom made. A foot-long dragon tattoo adorned one leg below the knee. After wishing Tate luck, he shuffled off, board
shorts clinging to his melon-shaped buttocks.

  Tate’s penis twitched as he studied the surfer’s behind. He thought, Nice.

  Tate was out of practice, his balance was off, and waves collapsed upon him several times. They plunged him deep, working him like a washing machine, then left him gasping and coughing up water when he surfaced. He argued with another surfer who claimed Tate had “dropped in” on him, i.e., stolen his swell (“Butt-lick, didn’t you hear me claim that peak?”), and the two nearly traded punches. Then, as a final insult, Tate’s board smacked him on the chin while he duck-dove through an oncoming wave, opening a cut which ended his session prematurely. (Sharks have an exquisite sense of smell, especially for blood.)

  He left the ocean cursing, exhausted, and sore. Rain drizzled, tickling his cheeks and forehead. To the west, thunder rumbled and lightning skittered across the horizon. Fishermen had abandoned the jetty and few surfers remained in the water. Tate wrapped his leash around his board, secured it with its Velcro fastener, then pulled off his rash guard and slung it over his shoulder. When he touched his chin, his fingertips came away crimson and sticky. Blood eddied down his neck, dripping from his Adam’s apple.

  Reaching the concession stand, he propped his board against a wall. Inside, the only person present was the surfer he’d spoken with earlier, who was sweeping the floor with a corn broom. The place was furnished with picnic tables and Tate took a seat, seized a wad of paper napkins from a dispenser, and pressed them to his chin. Overhead, a ceiling fan clacked. A refrigerated display cabinet, illuminated by a fluorescent tube, offered meats and cheeses, coleslaw, potato salad, and pickles, all resting in stainless steel trays separated by rows of plastic parsley. Jimmy Cliff wailed from a radio. A cooler with sliding glass doors held rows of soft drinks.

  Looking up from his work, the surfer nodded. He wore a T-shirt and blue jeans now, and rubber sandals. “Have fun out there?”

  Tate lifted the bloody napkin from his chin, displaying his injury.

  The surfer winced. He fetched a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a bandage, then sat beside Tate, close enough so their knees touched. “Look at the ceiling,” he said. Holding Tate’s jaw in his fingers, he soaked the wound with fizzy liquid. Then, pursing his lips, he dried the cut by blowing on it, his mouth only inches from Tate’s. The surfer’s breath smelled like peppermint, his lips were full and crimson, and he had a habit of licking the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. Tate felt an urge to kiss him, thinking, I wonder how he’d react?

  The surfer applied the bandage to Tate’s chin, smoothing it with his fingers. He spoke in a scratchy baritone. “I’m no doctor, but you might need stitches.”

  Tate traced the edges of the bandage with a fingertip. “Did the bleeding stop?”

  The surfer nodded, tossing the wrapper into a trash can. “Other than getting cut, how was your session?”

  Tate explained and the surfer shook his head. “I know the guy you quarreled with. He’s a jerk, nobody likes him.”

  They chatted. The surfer’s name was Grover. A graduate of Eau Gallie High School, he’d attended Bible college a year, then quit. “The more I studied scripture,” he said, “the less sense it made.”

  Tate went to his car, fetching a towel and a change of clothes. He sprinted when returning to the concession area, feet splashing through puddles. The rain’s intensity had increased and he clutched his belongings to his chest, attempting to keep them dry. After showering, he entered the park’s change room, the same he’d visited years before with Douglas and the others. The place looked the same: a bank of urinals, several toilet stalls, a Formica counter with sinks, a wall mirror, and a few wooden benches. Thunder rumbled; it shook the building while rain drummed the roof. A skylight offered weak illumination.

  Closing his eyes, Tate conjured a vision of Douglas and the other boys, all naked, studying graffiti, cocks wagging. He thought, Six years ago, in this very spot, I discovered I was queer. But what good has it done me? I feel now just like I did at twelve—lonely and afraid and out of place. Unfit to be gay, even.

  “Meditating?” said Grover.

  Tate flinched in surprise. He felt blood rush to his cheeks.

  Grover walked to a urinal and unzipped his jeans, his back to Tate.

  Tate loosened the drawstring on his board shorts and parted the Velcro fly. Dropping the trunks to his ankles, he kicked them aside and toweled himself. It felt odd but stimulating, being naked in Grover’s presence while Grover peed in the dim room and the storm raged outside.

  Tate sat on a bench, next to his fresh clothing. Raising a foot, he dried between his toes while he ogled Grover’s compact buttocks. The waistband of Grover’s undershorts was visible in a gap between his T-shirt and jeans. Tate could barely hear Grover’s stream, so loud was the rain pounding overhead.

  When Grover finished his business, he turned toward Tate, shaking his creamy penis, flicking drops off the rose-colored glans while Tate stared in fascination, none too discreetly. A fresh thunderclap shook the building, startling Tate. It prompted him to glance into Grover’s eyes and Grover winked.

  Tate looked away, blushing. Holy shit.

  Grover zipped up his pants. “This weather’s bad for business; the park’s deserted.”

  Tate nodded, lowering his foot, raising the other, using the towel to dry. “It must get boring, being alone out here.”

  Grover sat beside Tate on the bench, resting his hands on his thighs. His knuckles were big, his fingers long, and one thumb-nail was black, like he’d mashed it in a car door.

  Grover’s knee moved sideways, till it pressed against Tate’s. “I find ways to amuse myself.”

  Tate’s heart galloped and his mouth felt like it was full of sawdust.

  Grover’s hand moved to Tate’s thigh. He whispered, “Want to have some fun?”

  Tate shot Grover a glance, his brow furrowed. “Where?”

  Grover jerked his chin toward the toilet stalls. “Pick one.”

  Tate gulped, looking at the cubicles. Don’t do it, Burrows. Desperate as you are, delicious as he is, this guy doesn’t care about you, he’s just another queer looking to score. He seized Grover’s wrist, lifting it, separating their skins.

  Grover’s forehead crinkled in response. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t.”

  “How come?”

  Tate’s eyes watered. He rose from the bench, reaching for his briefs. After stepping into them, he donned a pair of cargo shorts.

  Grover remained on the bench, frowning. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  Tate nodded. He pulled on a T-shirt and wiggled into his sandals. “You’re handsome, but I’m not looking for a quick fuck. I’ve been down that road and it doesn’t work for me.”

  Grover reached for Tate, hooking a finger through a belt loop on his shorts. “Don’t go.”

  Tate drew a breath. He looked at the room’s open doorway, then back at Grover. Burrows, damn it, he wants you. Don’t be an idiot; give him a chance.

  Voice cracking, Tate said, “Do you like Mexican?”

  “Huh?”

  “The food, I mean.”

  Grover withdrew his finger while a vertical crease appeared between his eyebrows.

  You’re losing him Burrows, hurry up.

  Tate hurried on. “I thought we could meet at Taco City. Maybe talk a bit.”

  Grover still looked confused.

  “Listen,” Tate said, “I’m not a tease; I like sex, but I want something more. Understand?” Another thunderclap sounded. Outside, rain streamed from the building’s eaves and clattered upon a concrete sidewalk. Grover stared at the floor, not saying anything, hands hanging between his knees.

  “Hey,” said Tate, “all I’m asking for is a date.”

  Grover looked up, puckering one side of his face. “A date?”

  Tate nodded.

  Grover chuckled, raising a shoulder. “Why not?”

  Tate asked if the following evening
might work and Grover said yes, that would be fine. They agreed on eight o’clock.

  Tate tapped his chin with his finger. “Thanks for the bandage. You’re, uh, really nice.”

  Tate’s remark brought a smile to Grover’s face. Lightning flashed and Grover’s eyes twinkled while another thunderclap shook the room.

  Located in south Cocoa Beach, near Patrick Air Force Base, Taco City is a Brevard County institution, with tasty cuisine and cold beer at modest prices. The staff’s rowdy, the atmosphere informal. Pine-paneled walls bear surfing memorabilia. Music comes from a jukebox. When Tate arrived he found Grover seated at the bar, sipping root beer from a frosted mug. Grover wore board shorts, rubber sandals, and a T-shirt with the sleeves hacked off to display his shoulder muscles. Glow from an overhead fixture made Grover’s eyes sparkle. It reflected in his dark hair and in his teeth when he grinned at Tate.

  Tate approached and extended a hand, his heart thumping. When they shook Tate felt a rush, as if he’d been injected with adrenaline. His voice quivered when he spoke. “You’re here.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

  Grover followed Tate to a booth. They sat opposite each other, knees touching. The restaurant was close to capacity, a mix of surfers and couples with little kids in high chairs. Airmen from the base dined next to condo dwellers and retirees. A rumble of adult conversation, mixed with children’s high-pitched laughter and jukebox tunes, made it hard to hear. Grover leaned close when he spoke to Tate, affording Tate a close-up view of his blue eyes, and the full lips Tate thought of kissing.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Grover said. “Were you thinking I’d be a no-show?”

  Tate looked away, hand twitching as he plucked a menu from a rack on their table. “I’ve got very little experience with this sort of thing. I didn’t know what to expect.”