Surfer Boys

by Neil Plakcy

  A waitress came with water, and when she took their orders Tate asked for a soda. He would have preferred beer, nervous as he was, but he wasn’t old enough to buy it. When the girl was out of earshot, Grover reached beneath the table. He placed a hand on Tate’s thigh and Tate flinched in response, nearly tipping over his glass.

  Grover retracted his hand and made a face. “You’re touchy, aren’t you?”

  Tate’s cheeks burned. He looked here and there. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Are you a virgin?”

  Tate shook his head, staring at the table top. “Back at school, I’ve done it a few times with different guys, but they were all the same—a single fuck and that was it. One dude told me, ‘I was looking for ass, not a boyfriend.’”

  Grover’s eyebrows arched. “Is that what you want? A boyfriend?”

  Tate nodded. He looked at Grover. “Don’t you?”

  Grover glanced at something over Tate’s shoulder while he rearranged himself on his seat. He asked, “If I share something private, will you keep it that way?”

  Tate said of course.

  Grover swung his gaze to Tate. “Scripture’s not the reason I quit Bible college. An older guy, a faculty member, introduced me to sex. I fell in love, but he didn’t and things got nasty when he refused to see me anymore. I made a scene at school, shouting and crying, and they kicked me out.”

  “Jesus….”

  Grover’s voice got husky. “I went through an awful time. I tried prayer and counseling with my pastor, but nothing helped. I even thought about killing myself.”

  “Was it that bad?”

  Grover nodded, twirling ice cubes in his mug. “Surfing saved me, really. Every time I paddled out and sat on my board in the sunshine, each time I caught a ride, it took my mind off my troubles.”

  The waitress brought Tate’s drink and he took a gulp. The cola was sweet and fizzy, and he swished it around his mouth. He told Grover, “I’ve got to ask you something.”

  Grover bobbed his chin.

  “Is toilet sex something you do often?”

  Grover raised a shoulder, glancing at the tabletop, then back at Tate. “Does it make a difference if I say, ‘yes’? Will it cross me off your list of possibilities?”

  Tate shook his head. He glanced here and there, making sure no one eavesdropped. “There’s a park in Gainesville, not far from the university. I’ve been there a few times when I was desperate. But I always felt cheap afterward.”

  Grover didn’t say anything. He kept his gaze on the table.

  Tate said, “The location’s not my problem. Sex in public can be fun—exciting, even.”

  Grover glanced up and nodded. Then Tate continued, “I guess I’m sentimental, I don’t know. But making love to a stranger, someone you’ll never see again, seems like a waste.”

  Grover didn’t respond to Tate’s observation. He stared out a window instead, watching traffic pass on A-1-A, a stream of headlights and taillights and shiny metal reflecting the glow from Taco City’s illuminated sign. He said, “I learned something from my Bible college disaster: I get hurt deeply when I love someone and they don’t love me back.”

  Grover looked back at Tate. “Understand?”

  Tate nodded. “So don’t ever play games with me, don’t say things you don’t mean. I couldn’t stand it if you did.”

  The waitress brought their food—crunchy tacos for Tate, enchiladas for Grover. They fell to their food and they did not speak for several minutes, forks squeaking against plates. When Tate crushed taco shells between his teeth, the inside of his head rumbled. He told himself, This guy’s got a wild streak, a temper too. But he’s sensitive and I like that.

  Tate nudged Grover’s knee with his own and Grover looked up from his plate. “What?”

  “If we do this—have sex—it’ll be more than once, right?”

  Grover fixed his gaze on Tate. “I sure hope so.” He let out his breath and his shoulders sagged like he’d freed himself of a heavy load. Tate’s hand slipped underneath the table, seizing Grover’s knee. Grover’s hand went south till it covered Tate’s hand. Grover’s gaze bore into Tate’s. His cheeks colored and his eyes glittered like he was high on amphetamines.

  Above the table, Grover pawed Tate’s forearm. “Just tell me when and where.”

  Tate worked his jaw from side to side. “I live with my folks…”

  Grover nodded. He said, “I’ve got a key to the Inlet concession stand. Maybe—”

  “What about the gate? How would we get inside the park?”

  “There’s a footpath east of A-1-A, close by the mileage sign. It runs through a wooded area between the highway and the beach.”

  “Okay.”

  “There’s a parking lot near the boat ramps. Leave your car there.”

  Tate’s breath whistled in his nose. Beneath the table, his hand turned upward, fingers intertwining with Grover’s. This is crazy, he thought. Is it really happening? In Taco City?

  Minutes later, when the boys rose to pay their checks, Tate felt so weak he feared he might faint. He steadied himself by seizing Grover’s shoulder.

  “Shall we go there now?” Grover whispered.

  Tate was too short of breath to answer. He looked at Grover and nodded.

  Using his forearms to part sea grape limbs, Tate maneuvered the footpath which was hardly a path at all. He squinted in paltry light offered by a one-quarter moon as he passed through shadows cast by Sabal palms, crushing their fallen boots—leafbases—under his sneakers. Saw palmettos scratched the legs of his blue jeans while scrub oaks tickled his shoulders. Lizards skittered through the undergrowth, rustling dead leaves. Tate spooked an osprey perched in a Texas palmetto, and the large bird took flight, beating its wings and squawking.

  The June air was sticky, and Tate felt dampness in his armpits. He could smell the ocean and hear waves slap the shore, and soon the vegetation thinned. When he left the tree line the full sky came into view, an inky bowl with thousands of stars gleaming like loose diamonds on a jeweler’s cloth. Tate shuffled to the apex of a dune, his shoes squeaking. He swung his gaze here and there while an onshore breeze cooled his brow. Lights on the north jetty glowed, sea mist fuzzing their appearance. To the south, Melbourne Beach streetlamps cast a silver aurora.

  He found Grover at the concession stand, seated on an outdoor bench where a single fixture with a metal shade cast a cone of light. Beside him were a backpack, two quart-sized bottles of beer, and a rolled-up blanket. When Grover saw Tate he rose, shading his brow with one hand, a smile crossing his face. “Hey,” he said, “you found the way in.”

  They stepped into shadow and embraced, mouths and chests and hip bones meeting, and Tate’s knees turned to jelly.

  Grover gestured toward the bench. “I brought some things: there’s lube and a condom and stuff in the backpack.”

  Tate nodded, feeling overwhelmed. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  Grover pointed his chin at the concession stand door. “Want to go inside?”

  Tate dropped his gaze and moistened his lips.

  “What is it?” Grover said.

  Tate shifted his weight from one leg to the other. He looked at Grover and jerked a thumb toward the change room. “In there.” He grabbed Grover’s hand.

  The room was not equipped with lighting and they had to squint to see. A faucet drip-dripped while Grover spread his blanket on the concrete floor. They sat on it with their backs to a wall, sipping from the beer bottles, legs touching, keeping quiet, listening to waves hit the sand, to the rustle of Sabal palms stirred by the breeze.

  When their beers were empty they stood side by side at a urinal and Tate was reminded of the day before, when they’d first shared this room. He reached for Grover’s penis, holding it with two fingers while they pissed and their streams collided. Grover grinned, kissing Tate’s cheek and nuzzling his ear.

  They undressed each other, taking their time, kissing in between garments.
Tate liked the fact Grover didn’t wear underpants. When he lowered Grover’s board shorts Grover’s cock sprang forth, long and thick as a cucumber. Kneeling before Grover, Tate took it into his mouth, tasting a salty pearl of semen that clung to its strawberry-shaped head. He smelled Grover’s groin sweat when he buried his nose in Grover’s pubic hair.

  Moments later, they fell to the blanket. Grover yanked off Tate’s boxer shorts and they tongue-kissed while Tate held their cocks together in his hand, squeezing. Grover worked Tate’s dime-sized nipples, pinching, making Tate groan. They changed position and sucked each other’s dicks, heads bobbing, tongues working. Grover’s sac was shaved and Tate licked the smooth skin, taking both testicles into his mouth and rolling them about. Grover shivered at these attentions, and returned the favor, first bathing Tate’s balls in spit, then moving back to Tate’s hole, licking and probing, making Tate’s anus twitch.

  Tate brought his hand to the back of Grover’s head and pushed Grover’s face deeper into his crack. “Keep it up,” he said, “it’s my second favorite thing.”

  Grover lifted his chin. “What’s the first?”

  “A cock—your cock—inside me.”

  Grover took Tate on his back, legs hiked. He greased Tate’s hole with a finger. The condom was lubricated also, but Grover’s cock was a whopper and Tate cried out when it entered him, stretching his hole wider than ever before. Pain coursed through Tate and he clutched Grover’s shoulder.

  “Want me to pull out?”

  Tate shook his head. He sucked air through his teeth, enduring his discomfort, knowing pleasure would soon follow.

  The boys sweated in the humid air and their skin stuck together, their breaths huffed in the silent room. Grover began thrusting, finding a rhythm, a smack sounding each time his pelvis met Tate’s buttocks. Tate’s body soon adjusted to the presence of Grover’s erection, and his anus gripped the shaft of Grover’s dick. When Grover’s cock poked Tate’s prostate, waves of pleasure slithered through Tate’s body.

  The blanket was thin, offering scant protection from the concrete. Tate’s body rocked beneath Grover’s weight and he knew his spine would ache the next day, but he didn’t care. He felt like he’d been drugged.

  Grover’s chest heaved, and he mashed his mouth against Tate’s, panting. He quickened his thrusts, forcing little moans from Tate. Tate reached for his own cock and wrapped his fingers around it, then commenced pumping. His penis was rigid, alive and tingling. A groan issued from Grover’s throat. His dick throbbed inside Tate, flexing against Tate’s sphincter. Semen jetted inside the condom, flooding the tip, and Tate sensed it. His own cock pulsed and he cried out as his cum splattered his chest and neck, warm and viscous.

  Grover remained inside Tate a few minutes, Tate’s feet aloft, the two of them quiet and breathing, listening to waves strike the beach. Grover’s forehead rested upon Tate’s shoulder and Tate enjoyed the scent of Grover’s hair; it smelled like freshly mown grass.

  Tate closed his eyes, and thought of a distant afternoon, of Douglas and his friends and their beauty, of their crude and casual demeanor. He remembered his moment of awakening, here in this room.

  He thought of Grover and the first time they’d spoken at the beach, thunder rumbling in the distance. Of Grover seated across from him in a booth at Taco City, speaking of the price he’d paid for falling in love. He shared his deepest secret with me, Tate thought.

  He recalled how Grover, just an hour before, had sat on a bench under a cone of light, waiting for Tate, not anyone else. He thought, Each of those moments is connected to this place. They all happened because something else happened here before.

  Now this: Grover inside him, Grover’s arms wrapped about him, their skin touching, sweat blending; Grover’s breath sweeping his neck.

  Tate opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

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

  THE WATER- BOY

  Donald Ammer

  Dorian Cantrell wore huge black Hooper flip-flop sandals on clean bare feet that had to be at least a size 12. The only other clothing he wore—other than a pair of Conspiracy shades that rested on the top of his thick, shaggy, almost shoulder-length mass of dark-brown hair—was a pair of tan and olive green board shorts that loosely hugged his narrow waist and ended just above the knee.

  His skin was a golden brown and covered in a light sheen of sweat under the summer sun—and all I could do was simply stare at his slim, well-toned body. He had small patches of dark-brown hair under each of his arms, and fine dark hairs traveled haphazardly down each of his toned, young legs like rain.

  As I stood there watching, hypnotized by his face and physique, the young surfer dude laughed at something his female companion said, lifting one arm to move the expensive black sunglasses that rested on his head down to cover his big brown eyes. His longish hair, wet and dark and sporadically streaked with blond, fell so perfectly and naturally around his face when he’d adjusted the shades—ends barely touching his shoulders in a soft fringe—that you’d have sworn he’d just been done over by a professional stylist.

  He was pure twink. And I would have crawled through broken glass to get to him.

  Dorian was eating a blue sno-cone with some bitch I wanted to claw to death; his surfboard leaned up against the wall of the ice-cream stand, its nose pointing nearly as high in the air as his. The mind-blowing blue of the Pacific Ocean laid out behind him, Dorian laughed and lapped at the icy treat in his hand, saying something to his blonde bimbo companion that made her slap him playfully.

  Dorian lived in Beverly Hills, was richer than God, and made pro surfer Kelly Slater look ugly. And I was in love with him. There were days I went down to the Third Street Promenade to watch him surf, or Rollerblade, or ride his bike with his entourage. Dorian nearly always had an entourage—groupies who hung around him like a swarm of bees, hoping to feed on his looks or money or growing fame. At nineteen, he was the future star of any sport that involved water—competing in championship-caliber surfing tournaments in Sydney, Indo, and Hawaii (he’d even survived, I’d heard, a bitch of a pipeline there).

  Me, I could barely swim. Thanks to nearly drowning in a hotel pool when I was about eight, I’d grown up with a fear of water. So even though I’d heard rumors that Dorian was bisexual, there was nothing I could do about it but moon at him from afar—like some sick, love-struck tween. I was nowhere near his league, on any level, after all.

  Certainly not financially. I mean shit, I worked at Howie’s—the very hot dog/pizza stand Dorian Cantrell was standing directly across from—and therefore had a ringside seat, almost daily, whenever Dorian showed up at the Santa Monica beach. I had first spotted him two months ago, after starting at Howie’s, and would never forget how I’d had to spend my first day with my crotch glued to the underside of the counter—trying to hide the boner Dorian had given me, the minute I’d laid eyes on him.

  But what would a guy born to the water see in another guy who was afraid of it? A guy who made one dollar over minimum wage per hour…who bought most of his clothes in thrift shops on Melrose Avenue…who, for god’s sake, drove a 2004 Nissan Sentra?

  Answer? Nada. Dorian Cantrell drove a black Hummer—one that seemed purchased for the purpose of toting around his boards. Off the beach, he wore designer clothes tailored to his frame, and sunglasses that—alone—cost more than I spent on groceries in a month. He was absolutely untouchable…except by, maybe, the hot blonde chick with the double-D chest clinging to his arm and laughing with him.

  I’d dreamt, in the two years since coming out, of having a boyfriend—hell, even a playdate—like Dorian Cantrell. But he was so out of my league. As I watched him toss his unfinished sno-cone into a nearby garbage can, wagging his fat, wet tongue—now the same deep blue as the ocean in the distance behind him—between two fingers at his busty female friend (who smacked him in the arm again, giggling at the obscene gesture), all I could think w
as what I thought every time I laid eyes on Dorian Cantrell: it was going to be another long day.

  I was just getting off work that night, around six, and heading toward my beat-up silver Nissan in the parking lot behind the Third Street Promenade…when I had the feeling something was wrong. I fished my car keys from the front pocket of my jeans, hiked my book bag (I was taking a summer course at Santa Monica College, dumb-ass that I am) over my shoulder for better balance—and looked up, realizing what the trouble was.

  My car—my baby, my precious little silver Nissan that I had named Chloe, after my favorite niece—was gone. Stolen. Only a fairly new oil stain remained on the cracked blacktop that I had parked my Chloe on that very morning.

  It took the cops over forty minutes to show up, and by the time I had finished with the police report, I was tired and almost in tears and not looking forward to getting home by bus. I live in Koreatown, so at 7:30 at night it was going to take a while. I was sitting at a bus stop on Santa Monica Boulevard, waiting for any westbound bus that would take me away from the Promenade and this night from hell. Grouchy, upset, and aching to kill the motherfucker who’d ripped off my four-wheeled child, I tossed my book bag onto the bus bench next to me, sighed, and looked up at the darkening, star-filled sky.

  “What next, God?” I whispered. “Man…what next?”

  So, of course, it should have been no surprise when I heard a horn—and turned my head to see an all-too-familiar black Hummer, slowly coming up the street in my direction.

  Fuck. It was the only word I could think of; I was numb, otherwise.

  Dorian pulled up alongside me at the bus stop, the nose of his crystal-blue surfboard sticking out the back of the open Hummer. He was alone and leaned over the empty passenger seat to talk to me.

  “Hey—you’re the guy from the hot dog stand, right?”