If you live anywhere but Florida, the thought of going to the beach in a pair of boardshorts today probably sounds crazy, but here in central Florida it’s going to be a beach weekend, and our little island will be crowded with young men like the guys in today’s photo posts. You can be sure I’ll be down there myself 😉
I slept in a bit late this morning, but I still took a three-mile walk on the beach, and conditions down there were just beautiful. The temperature’s in the low 70’s, there’s no wind, and the sun is shining, a perfect winter day. I wore shoes, a t-shirt and track pants, but I could have worn shorts and gone barefoot. What a great day.
Have a look at the photo to the left. I know it’s not a professional image, but I like the way the photographer caught the wave in the background, just as it’s about to break. The color of the water is just what ours looks like at the beach down the street. Oh, and the young man is pretty cute.
Today will be a typical Friday for me. I’ll work on edits for the rest of the morning. My boyfriend’s done with school at noon, so we’ll share lunch together, and then we’ll visit the YMCA for a workout and lap-swimming. He’s not working tonight, so we’ll have a relaxing evening at home, maybe build a blaze in our patio fire pit.
All right, as promised, here is the fourth excerpt from my short story, Dream Boy. As always, it comes with a caveat: Dream Boy contains explicit content involving sexual activity between adult gay males. If this sort of thing offends you then you shouldn’t read excerpts from Dream Boy.
Dream Boy, copyright Martin Delacroix 2013
A half hour later, Riley lay naked upon his stomach, weeping into my cubicle’s scrawny pillow. I stroked his spine with a fingertip. “It’s okay,” I said; “you’re nervous, is all.”
“It’s more than that: something is wrong with me.”
“I don’t like being touched.”
When I asked why, he said, “It would take a while to explain.”
I placed a hand on his shoulder and his muscles tensed. “Tell me,” I said, “why you came to my cubicle tonight?”
Sniffling, he rested the side of his face against the pillow. I saw him in profile. “You looked like a nice person,” he said. “I figured you’d be . . . gentle.”
I ran my fingers through Riley’s hair.
Turning onto his side, he bent an elbow and looked at me while wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I’m sorry if I disappointed you. Who wants a guy who can’t get stiff?”
A short time before, I had knelt between his knees. I took him into my mouth—I sucked and slurped as best I knew how—but nothing happened. Riley’s cock remained as limp as a dishrag.
“Maybe you need to relax,” I said, “get used to the person you’re with.”
Rubbing the tip of his nose with a knuckle, he didn’t say anything.
“Have you tried before?” I asked Riley. “I mean, with other men?”
He nodded. “There’s a park near my house where guys meet.”
He described it, and I knew the one he spoke of; I’d visited there a few times myself, but I could not imagine Riley standing among clumps of saw palmettos with his pants around his ankles, while some fellow licked Riley’s nuts and tried to get him hard.
I rubbed my chin with a knuckle. What should I do now? Appearance-wise, Riley was definitely Dream Boy material. But in my fantasies, these guys had always been
passionate and sensual, with raging erections, eager mouths, and ready holes. They oozed sex, while Riley, on the other hand, seemed terrified by any sort of intimacy.
I patted Riley’s hip. “Forget sex for now; let’s not force it.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded. “Would you like to get better acquainted? We could see a film.”
For the first time since he’d removed his towel, a smile crossed Riley’s lips.
“Keith,” he said, “that would be nice.”
My home sat on a saltwater canal; the canal led to the Intracoastal Waterway. On a Friday evening, Riley and I sat on the edge of my dock with our legs dangling, both of us clutching rods and reels. A gooseneck fixture cast its glow. A fingernail moon had risen; it shared the sky with hundreds of stars. Two dozen shrimp swam in a plastic bucket, kept alive by an aerator that hummed like a chorus of crickets.
Riley wore blue jeans, a T-shirt with a Runner’s World logo on the chest, and rubber flip-flops. Light from the dock fixture reflected in his dark hair, in his green eyes and their long lashes. Earlier I’d fixed dinner for us and Riley’s lips still were tinted orange by the spaghetti I’d served. In the past half hour, he’d caught two catfish and I’d landed a sea robin—all inedible creatures we threw back.
This was our second “date”—Riley’s word choice—after our encounter at The Gatehouse. On our first, we saw a movie, and then dined at a fast food joint. Afterward, we walked on the city’s pier, passing beneath street lamps and inhaling the bay’s briny air. Riley strode with his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, keeping his gaze fixed on the sidewalk.
“I’d like to share something personal with you,” he said. “Will you keep it to yourself?”
I said of course.
“My folks divorced when I was eight. When I was thirteen, Mom remarried, to a guy named Neil. He was younger than she was—about thirty—and I liked him at first. He was nice-looking, told funny jokes, and bought me things. We went to ball games and so forth, but then he took me tent camping. When it came time for sleep, Neil . .. touched me.”
We kept on walking.
“It continued for months. Neil told me I was the reason he’d married my mom; he’d fallen in love the first time he saw me.”
Jesus . . . .
“He was after me constantly. Most times, I didn’t like it, but I didn’t tell anyone ’cause Neil said he’d hurt me if I did.
“One night, he came to my room. The time was late, and I guess he figured everyone else in the house was asleep. He crawled under the covers, started licking my face. His hand was inside my undershorts when Mom walked in and switched on the light.”
I couldn’t help but cringe.
“Mom flipped out, of course. She called the cops, and then they arrested Neil. I had to tell a jury everything; it was awful. I still see a shrink twice a month.”
“I’m sorry, Riley.”
What else could I say?
He swung his gaze to me. “Now you know why I’m skittish when someone touches me. I’m what psychologists call ‘damaged goods’: mentally screwed up when it comes to sex.”
That night, on our first date, I didn’t lay a hand on Riley; I didn’t even try to kiss him. How could I after what he’d told me? But now, tonight, we had agreed Riley would sleep at my place. Every time I thought of sharing my bed with him, my belly fluttered. Would he let me caress him?
In the short time we’d spent together, I’d learned much about Riley. He lived with his mother and his younger brother, age fourteen. Riley had graduated from high school the previous May and now attended community college.
When I asked about his friends, he said, “I don’t have many. There’s Dustin, of course; we met over the Internet. And there’s Danielle, who I know from high school. That’s about it.”
“I stay busy with school and my lifeguard job. In my spare time, I like to read and watch old movies. I compete in foot races, so I train every day. And then there’s the Internet.”
When I asked Riley about his father, he said, “We don’t stay in touch.”
“Ever had a boyfriend?”
He shook his head.
Now, on the dock, when I placed a hand on Riley’s shoulder, he flinched like I’d jabbed him with a needle. Staring into the water, he worked his jaw from side to side.
He looked at me.
“Can we make love tonight?”
Looking away, his voice trembled. “I like you, Keith, and I’m willing to try. But please . . . .”
“Take it slow.”
Okay, friends, that’s excerpt number four. I hope you’re enjoying the story so far. As you can see, Riley has deep-seated emotional issues, just like each of the main characters in all for stories appearing in my anthology titled Flawed Boys. You see, unlike most folks who write erotic romance stories, I like my characters less than perfect because that’s how people in the real world are. t’s hard for me to imagine loving a perfect guy; I don’t think he’d interest me that much. Understand?
Have a nice Friday, everyone.