Yesterday was a big day for this website. Over 1200 people stopped by to view the posts and read free Delacroix fiction. It was the busiest day I’ve had here since my old blog was murdered by WordPress and I created this site. Thanks to everyone who came by. It’s nice seeing this sort of interest in my posts and stories.
I rose earlier than usual this morning — 7:30. I took my two-mile beach walk, followed by a dip in the Gulf. I saw a baby dolphin chasing a pod of baitfish, and several ibises digging in the sand for crabs. The Gulf was calm, and no wind blew. It was a peaceful way to start my day.
I still haven’t run out of photos depicting hot guys sleeping, so here is another to brighten your Monday morning. Are you at work right now? Wouldn’t you rather be walking in a park where the sun is shining and a handsome young man is fast asleep on a bench?
Aye-yi-yi, what lovely skin he has. I wonder what he’s dreaming about?
It’ll be typical Monday for me today. I’ll write this morning. Then I’ll visit the YMCA for a workout and lap-swimming. I know some people consider exercising to be drudgery, but not me. I look forward to my sessions at the YMCA, especially the time I spend in the pool. There’s something peaceful about swimming laps; it gives me time to think in silence.
Is everyone enjoying my story Me and Shea? Here’s the fourth installment:
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Copyright Martin Delacroix, 2009
He switched off lights. Then we took turns using the toilet.
In Shea’s bedroom a mattress lay upon the terrazzo floor, equipped with a sheet, two pillows and a thin blanket. A chest of drawers hugged one wall. Several clothing items hung in a closet with bi-fold doors. Shea extinguished the ceiling fixture, but moonlight entered through a window. After my eyes adjusted I saw things quite clearly.
He pointed to the bed. “I’ll take the side by the window.”
I nodded, keeping still, unsure what I should do.
Shea’s untied the drawstrings of his boardshorts. Dropping them to his ankles, he kicked them aside. After scratching his nuts, he sank to the mattress. He lay upon his back with his fingers laced behind his head, his elbows jutting. He shot me a quizzical look.
“Are you waiting for an invitation?”
I smiled and shook my head. What did he mean by that remark?
Ditching my t-shirt and jeans, I kept my boxer shorts on. I reclined beside Shea, my head resting on a pillow. The blanket lay bunched at our feet. Our hips and shoulders nearly touched. Again, I smelled Shea’s hair and skin. I glanced down at his cock, it lay draped across one thigh, the foreskin crinkly and dark.
Shea shifted his weight and his knee met mine.
“You can touch me if you’d like, Alex; it’s OK.”
His remark, so direct and clear, took me by surprise. I lay motionless, chest rising and falling, gaze fixed upon the ceiling. He wants you, stupid. Go ahead . . .
Shea placed a hand on my shoulder. “What is it?”
I said, “I don’t know if I can do this.” I explained about Griffin, describing my suicide attempt and all. It took ten minutes, and Shea remained silent the entire time. I told him, “I might seem like a tough guy, but I’m easily hurt.”
Shea drew closer, he draped an arm across my chest and pressed his temple to my shoulder. His braids tumbled here and there while his breath swept my skin. He said, “You’re all alone in this world, aren’t you?”
“I won’t hurt you, Alex. I promise.”
My heart hammered. I felt overwhelmed by the situation, afraid it might lead to trouble. Shea was five years younger than me, a college kid; we had little in common. And what was it he’d said? Love doesn’t last between people. If we became boyfriends it would end badly, as with Griffin, and I wouldn’t be able to stand it; I’d go crazy again.
I pulled away from Shea. Sitting up, I turned my back to him and reached for my shorts.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Alex, don’t. Stay here with me.”
I slipped into my shorts, then I rose and scooped up my shirt. When I glanced down at Shea, his forehead was furrowed and his eyes looked sad.
I told him, “You don’t understand; I can’t get involved, not with you or anybody else.”
I left, then, making my way through the dark apartment, telling myself, What a fool you are; what a chicken shit. You passed up sex and maybe something more. Other people recover from heartbreak. Why can’t you?
I emerged from Shea’s place and the muggy outdoor air hit my face like a wet sponge. Crickets chirped while air conditioners whirred at nearby homes. A car passed on the street, its muffler growling. I sat in a lawn chair on my little front porch, sweating and craving a cigarette, even though I hadn’t smoked in several years.
What was wrong with me? Griffin had left Florida seven years before. Why couldn’t I overcome my grief?
I slept fitfully, partly because of the humidity, but mostly because of Shea. I kept picturing him naked in the moonlight, his knee touching mine. He was sexy and intelligent and sensitive — everything I could want in a lover. He had reached out to me. Then, like an idiot, I had rejected him. And for what reason? A fear I might someday lose him?
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Okay, friends, that’s all for today. I’ll post another segment tomorrow. In the meantime, have a nice Monday.