“Beautiful Surfers Weekend” continues; second installment of “Sebastian Inlet” …

Hi, friends and readers:

As you know, it’s “Beautiful Surfers Weekend” on Martin’s blog. At left is a photo I posted once before, about eighteen months ago. It’s always been popular with visitors to the blog, but newcomers may have never seen it. I think it’s an outstanding shot, so please: enjoy the surfer’s beauty.

It’s been a frustrating day for me. I can’t do anything too active physically. It rained most of the day — hard. My boyfriend’s in Minneapolis, while I’m in Florida. And while I like watching college football with my boyfriend on our love seat, I don’t like watching it alone.

So, I took care of household chores, ran errands, and paid a few bills. I put my new license tag sticker on the Element’s tag (I’m good ’til 10/12) and put the new registration in my glove box. I replaced a few burned-out light bulbs around the house. Doesn’t all this sound exciting?

I mean, I got some solid editing done on Dodging a Pearl this morning, but I can only do that for about three hours before my brain short-circuits. Then I had to keep myself busy. But I got through the day. Now, I’ve opened a beer. I’m having leftovers for dinner tonight, and I plan to consume a good quantity of wine before going to bed. How’s that for tackling convalescence?

Okay, as promised, here’s a second installment of my story Sebastian Inlet. If you read the first one, then you know this story contains sexually explicit passages. Don’t read it, if such things offend you. And if you’re under eighteen years of age, well . . . you shouldn’t read it, either.

* * * *

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 thunder heads, 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 upon 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 short board 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 cock 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, securing 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-style tables and Tate took a seat, seizing a wad of paper napkins from a dispenser and pressing them to his chin. Overhead, a ceiling fan clacked. A refrigerated display cabinet, illuminated by a fluorescent tube, offered meats and cheeses, cole slaw, 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, fetched 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, their 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, while 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. Grover shook his creamy cock, flicking drops off the rose-colored glans, while Tate stared in fascination, none too discreetly. A fresh thunderclap shook the building, startling Tate. The  thunder prompted him to glance into Grover’s eyes.

Grover winked.

Tate looked away and blushed. Holy shit.

Copyright 2009, Martin Delacroix

* * * *

Okay, that’s the second installment. What’s everyone up to tonight? Are you going to a party? Maybe hitting the clubs? Well, while you’re having fun, poor old Martin will be stuck at home, alone. (Sniffle …) It’s okay, don’t worry about me; I’ll find a way to enjoy myself. Have a great Saturday night, everybody.

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