Another beautiful surfer; last installment of “Sebastian Inlet” …

Hi, friends and readers:

What you see at left is surfing perfection, on many different levels.

First, look at the size of that wave. He’s riding the face, just ahead of the breaking lip. The wave’s roaring; he’s moving fast, really fast. Why don’t we have waves like that in Florida?

Next, look at his form: arms extended, feet in proper position, his weight is balanced perfectly. He knows exactly what he’s doing. (And I’m jealous as hell.)

Lastly, take a gander at his butt; it’s amazing. His wet suit shows it off perfectly. I wonder who took this picture? I wonder where it was taken? Australia? And I wish I knew who the surfer is, so I could find more photos of him. Needless to say, I find him mucho sexy. How about you? I rate this young man a total babe.

It’s been a quiet day for me. I worked on Dodging a Pearl most of the morning. A relative joined me for lunch at my place. Then I visited the supermarket for food, wine, tonic water and other supplies needed for tonight’s dinner party. Our skies have finally cleared and the sun’s shining. All the rain has cleared the air of dust; we should have a nice sunset tonight. The moon rises tonight at around seven — just a bit before sunset — and it’s almost full. The sights should be sweet, and a nice breeze is blowing.

When I drove to the supermarket, I noticed a lot of flags flying at half-mast, in memory of the 9/11 victims. It’s hard to believe it’s been ten years; I recall watching the towers fall, live on TV. It was horrible. Let’s hope it never happens again.

Because “Beautiful Surfer Weekend” is drawing to a close this evening, I wanted to share the photo at left with you before the weekend’s over. If you click on it, you can see it full-size. Believe me: it’s worth the effort.

When I visit Florida’s East Coast to surf, I’m always dazzled by many of the beautiful surfers I see over there, most of them between sixteen and twenty-five years old. Surfing’s a physically-demanding sport. It requires strong shoulder and back muscles and plenty of cardiovascular endurance. It’s not a sport for the lazy, and it sure sculpts a young man’s body in all the right ways.

Several readers have written me today, asking if I might extend “Beautiful Surfers Weekend” a few more days. Sadly, I’m running out of photos, and my story, Sebastian Inlet, is drawing to a close. But never fear, readers, I’ll do another “Beautiful Surfers Weekend” before the year’s end. How’s that?

So, I hope you’ve enjoyed the photos I’ve posted here this weekend. And I hope you’ve enjoyed my story, Sebastian Inlet. Is everyone ready to see how the relationship between Tate and Grover ends up? Just remember, 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.

* * * *

Copyright Martin Delacroix 2009

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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 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 smelled the ocean and heard  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 street lamps cast a silver aurora.

He found Grover at the concession stand, seated upon an outdoor bench where a single fixture with a gooseneck shade cast a cone of light. Beside Grover were a backpack, two quart-sized bottles of beer, and a rolled-up blanket.

When Grover saw Tate he rose and shaded 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 hipbones met. Tate’s knees turned to jelly.

Grover gestured toward the bench. “I brought things:  lube and a condom – they’re  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 said, grabbing 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 upon the concrete floor. They sat on it with their backs to a wall, sipping from the beer bottles, legs touching, keeping quiet. They listened 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 cock and held it with two fingers while they pissed and their streams collided. Grover grinned; he kissed Tate’s cheek and nuzzled 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 cocks, heads bobbing, tongues working. Grover’s sac was shaved and Tate licked the smooth skin before taking both testicles into his mouth and rolling them about. Grover shivered at these attentions; he 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, when it stretched 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 skins stuck together, their breaths huffed in the silent room. Grover began thrusting, found a rhythm. A smack sounded 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 cock. 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; Tate knew his spine would ache the next day but didn’t care. He felt drugged, in the best of ways.

Grover’s chest heaved and he mashed his mouth against Tate’s; his breath huffed. Grover quickened his thrusts, forcing little moans from Tate. Tate reached for his own cock and wrapped his fingers around it. Then he commenced pumping. His penis was rigid, alive and tingling.

A groan issued from Grover’s throat. His cock throbbed inside Tate, flexing against the edges of Tate’s hole. Semen jetted inside the condom; it flooded the tip and Tate sensed it. His own cock pulsed; he cried out while his cum splattered his chest and neck, warm and viscous.

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

Tate closed his eyes, he 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, while thunder rumbled in the distance. He thought 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.

Tate recalled how Grover, just an hour before, had sat on a bench under a cone of light, waiting for Tate — not anyone else. Tate 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 skins touching, sweats blending. Grover’s breath swept Tate’s 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.

* * * *

Well, folks, that’s the entire story. I hope you enjoyed it. And if you come to Brevard County, FL, be sure to visit the state park at Sebastian Inlet. You’ll see amazing surfers carving waves by the jetty. And be sure to visit the men’s restroom/change area, so you can see where Tate and Grover made love.

Have a nice Sunday evening, all.

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