by Neil Plakcy
I called to him. “I have a fresh pot of coffee and a spare cup. You interested?”
He crossed the beach and climbed the steps. By the time he reached the deck, I had ducked into the house, retrieved a cup, and was filling it with coffee from the thermal carafe. As he settled into the deck chair next to me, his pebbled skin, tight areolas, and firm nipples revealed that he was colder than he let on—he probably needed the coffee. I asked, “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black’s fine.”
I handed him the cup and he sipped from it. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the house. “This your place?”
The house had been in my family for several generations, owned and maintained by a family trust overseen by a board of directors elected by and made up of family members. I said, “It’s as much mine as anyone else’s.”
He brushed a long lock of blond hair away from his eyes. “Must be nice.”
“How’s that?”
“To have a place like this to spend your summers,” he said. “I’ve lived down the shore my entire life, but never in a place like this.”
Tony and I had probably crossed paths when we were younger, but we never would have played together. Children of the locals and the summer folk intermingled only by accident. Now that we were older, our differences seemed less significant and the vibe I felt from his proximity suggested we had more in common than expected. For a moment I imagined what it might be like to lick the sweat off his chest, drum my fingers on his abdominal six-pack, or rest my hand on his muscular thigh before intermingling with him. My thoughts made my robe tent beneath the table and I leaned forward.
Just as I convinced myself to place my hand on Tony’s forearm to see his reaction, he finished his coffee and placed the empty cup on the serving tray next to the carafe. As he stood, he said, “Thanks for this.”
“Any time,” I told him. “You’re welcome any time.”
His gaze wandered over me, taking in my tousled bed hair and tightly fastened robe. “If you’re ever in town some evening,” he said, “come by the Dew Drop Inn. I usually stop there after work.”
“I will,” I promised, though I wasn’t yet certain it was a promise I would keep.
He took the steps two at a time down to the beach and continued jogging south, away from town. I watched him until I ran out of coffee. By then he was barely a speck in the distance.
My relatives started arriving early that evening, beginning with my mother’s oldest brother and his second wife. By the time the sun set Saturday evening, the house was filled with family members, including my parents and grandmother, representing all generations and various degrees of separation. The house was ready for their arrival, but I wasn’t. I had forgotten how loud a houseful of my relatives could be, and I was glad to disappear into the garage apartment each evening.
Memorial Day meant hot dogs grilled on the beach, tubs of potato salad, and pots of baked beans. The children drank gallons of pop and the adults worked their way through several bottles of wine and a few cases of beer, some starting as early as breakfast with mimosas on the deck. By the time the sun went down the questions began.
Most of them hadn’t seen me in four years and wanted to know everything about my life. I answered the questions I could, deflected the questions I didn’t wish to answer, and did my best to avoid the nosiest among them.
By Wednesday I’d had enough of my relatives; even my private apartment over the garage was too close to them. I drove up the coast to town and found the Dew Drop Inn, a waterfront watering hole that catered to locals. I saw more plaid wool shirts than polo shirts and more work boots than penny loafers, so I knew as I crossed to the bar that I didn’t fit in. I knew enough to order a beer rather than a mixed drink, and I carried my bottle to an empty booth where I could sit and watch the door.
I’d been there about twenty minutes and was well into my second beer before Tony arrived. He wore his work clothes but had removed his name badge. He ordered a beer and came to my table.
“Slumming?” he asked as he slid into the booth opposite me.
“Avoiding my family,” I explained. “My grandmother wants to know when I’m planning to settle down with a nice girl and my mother wants to know when she’ll have grandchildren.”
He hesitated with his beer halfway to his lips. “You haven’t told them?”
“Not yet.”
“So summer folk have the same problems as the rest of us?”
I knew at that moment that we were speaking the same coded language. “You haven’t told your family, either?”
“Nope.” He lifted the beer the rest of the way to his lips and drained half the bottle.
I glanced around the bar and wondered what he did for companionship in a town small enough that everyone likely knew everyone else’s business. I had finished my second beer by then and he had almost finished his first. I asked, “You want another?”
“Let’s get out of here,” he suggested. “I have beer in the fridge at home.”
Home turned out to be a cottage on the inland side of town. We both parked in the driveway because a Jet Ski occupied the one-car garage; I had to step around a pair of body boards on the porch to reach the back door.
“Spend a lot of time in the water?” I asked as Tony pushed open the door and led me into the kitchen.
“On it, in it, or near it,” he said.
The kitchen had been completely renovated, and Tony pulled two bottles of beer from the stainless-steel refrigerator. He opened both and handed one to me.
I put my bottle on the granite counter. “This isn’t why we’re here, is it?”
He shook his head and placed his beer next to mine, sweat from the bottles dripping onto the countertop. Months had passed since my last sexual encounter, and I had never been with a man I knew so little about.
Nervous, I pushed blond hair away from his blue eyes and then covered his lips with mine. Our kiss was long and deep and we were tugging at each other’s clothes long before it ended.
After I peeled off his shirt, I kissed my way down his neck to his deeply tanned, hairless chest, pausing to suckle each of his nipples before dropping to my knees and unfastening his jeans. As I pulled his jeans and his boxers to his knees and let them drop to his ankles, Tony’s thick cock sprang free of the confining material.
His cock was as pale as the rest of his skin from his waist to his thighs, evidence that he spent a good deal of time in nothing but running shorts and swimming trunks, and it throbbed in front of my face. I wrapped my fist around the base of his shaft and licked away a glistening drop of precum before I took the spongy soft helmet head in my mouth. As I licked his cock head, I pistoned my fist up and down the stiff shaft.
Tony held the back of my head, applying pressure that let me know he wanted me to take in more of his cock. I had not had a cock in my mouth since the New Year’s Eve party at my frat house, so I took it in slowly, licking and sucking and licking more as it filled my oral cavity.
When I had taken in as much as I could, I pulled back and then did it again. I cupped Tony’s sac with my free hand, massaging his balls as I stroked the delicate area between his sac and his ass with the tip of one finger.
Apparently I was moving too slow for Tony. As he held my head, he drew back his hips and pushed forward, driving his cock in and out of my mouth until he could restrain himself no longer. With one last thrust, he came, firing a thick wad of hot spunk against the back of my throat.
I didn’t swallow because I never swallow. When his cock quit spasming, I stood and kissed Tony again, surprising him with a mouthful of his own cum. He pushed me away, spit into the sink, and quickly rinsed his mouth with a swallow of beer.
“That was a surprise,” Tony said. “Nobody around here does that.”
He pulled off his shoes and stepped out of his jeans and boxers. He helped me out of my clothes and then bent me over the island. I grabbed the granite countertop as he spread my legs and stepped between them. He dribble
d olive oil down my ass crack until it dripped from my ball sac and then slid his middle finger down my crack until it was slick with olive oil.
He pressed the tip of his slickened finger against my asshole until my sphincter opened to admit it. His erection had returned and a moment later he pulled his finger free and replaced it with his cockhead. Then he grabbed my hips and pushed his entire length deep inside me.
My own cock was hard and I wrapped my fist around it. As Tony pounded into me from behind, I stroked my cock. The faster he pumped, the faster I pumped.
I came first, firing my load against the underside of the granite countertop, but Tony continued pounding into me for another dozen strokes until he couldn’t restrain himself and he came with one final, powerful thrust.
He stood behind me, holding my hips as his cock throbbed inside my ass. He asked, “You have a name?”
“Chad.”
After he pulled away, we dressed and drank our beers.
Then I left, wondering all the way back to my family’s beach house if I had been too easy and if I would see Tony again.
But that wasn’t the end of things. On the mornings when I woke early enough and took my coffee on the deck I would see Tony jogging south along the beach. Most mornings he wore gray sweats, no longer seeking to seduce me with his toned body. We waved, but he never approached while my family was present.
On those evenings when I tired of the never-ending parade of noisy relatives who moved in and out of the beach house during the summer, I drove myself to the Dew Drop Inn, shared a beer with Tony, and then followed him to his cottage.
By mid-July we stopped all pretense of running into one another at the inn: I drove directly to his place on those evenings when I tired of my extended family and desired his physical attention. We spent hours in Tony’s bed. He taught me the value of a steady relationship, something I’d never really had in college. On his days off from the grocery store, Tony took me out on his Jet Ski or taught me how to body board at the beach north of town.
By the time our summer romance was half over, it was obvious neither of us wanted it to end—yet neither of us would broach the subject directly. We were trying to milk every moment of passion we could from our remaining time together.
“Summer folk always leave,” Tony said one night as I was dressing to return to my family’s beach house. He lay on his bed, still naked and sweaty from our earlier entanglement.
I pulled my shirt into place and tucked it into my chinos. “What if they didn’t?”
“I’ve lived here my entire life, Chad. Summer folk always leave. That’s just the way it is.” He turned away, unwilling to hear me deny the truth we both knew.
One afternoon near the end of August, our caretaker’s wife called to tell us that Charlie had suffered a heart attack and was in the hospital.
“It doesn’t look good,” she said. “Even if he survives this, he won’t be able to continue working.”
My grandmother led a troop of older family members—those who had known Charlie for several decades—to the hospital. When they returned, my grandmother chaired a meeting of the family members present at the beach house and updated us all on his status. Labor Day weekend was rapidly approaching and we had limited time to find a replacement.
After more than an hour of discussion, I said, “I’ll do it.”
Every adult in the room turned to look at me. No member of the family had ever served as caretaker for the beach house, just as no member of the family had ever lived year-round on the property.
“You’ll have to commit to the entire year,” my grandmother said.
I knew what Charlie had been paid. It wasn’t much, but combined with rent-free living in the garage apartment, I could scrape by. I could maybe find a part-time job in town for extra spending money or spend my time applying to graduate school. My only other option was to boomerang back to my bedroom in my parents’ house because I hadn’t done any online job hunting since the night I’d first met Tony at the Dew Drop Inn. I said, “That’s not a problem.”
The adults talked for another hour, came up with no better solution, and finally offered me the position.
The next night, while reclining on Tony’s bed watching him undress, I told him I would be remaining at the beach house after Labor Day.
He turned. “How long?”
“At least until next summer.” As he settled onto the bed next to me, I told him what had happened.
“This changes everything,” Tony said when I finished.
“I know,” I said. “Summer folk don’t always leave.”
He stared deep into my eyes, placed his hands on either side of my head, and kissed me—softly, tenderly, his lips lingering as if we had all the time in the world. Then he caressed me, letting his fingers explore every inch of my body before I turned my back to him. I handed him the nearly empty tube of lube from his nightstand and soon he entered me.
We made love—slow, sweet love, unlike all the times before, when our sex had been hard and fast and without commitment—and I fell asleep in Tony’s arms.
For the first time since we’d met, I spent the night, slipping back into the garage apartment at the beach house moments before dawn. I’d barely been home five minutes when I heard someone climbing the steps.
I opened the apartment door just as my grandmother reached the little deck that served as a porch.
“You think nobody knows,” she said, “but we do. Some of us. You be careful. Don’t let this local boy break your heart.”
I smiled. “I won’t, Grandma. I’ll be careful.”
“And if he does, you let me know. I’m sure we can find someone to watch the house if you need to leave.”
“I’ll be okay.”
She patted my arm. “So you clean up and then come over to the house. I’m fixing pancakes this morning and I need your help.”
My relatives started heading home on Saturday, just as noisy in their departures as they were in their arrivals. The last to leave—a second cousin and her family—drove away mid-afternoon on Labor Day. The next morning I had the entire place to myself. I woke early, made coffee, and sat on the deck awaiting Tony’s arrival.
Our summer romance was over. Now it was time to see what the future really held.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
SHANE ALLISON’s writings have graced the pages of dozens of journals and saucy anthologies; a poetry collection, Slut Machine; and a book-length poem/memoir, I Remember. He has edited more than a dozen gay erotica anthologies. He resides in Florida, where he is hard at work on his first novel.
MICHAEL BRACKEN’s short fiction has been published in Best Gay Romance 2010, Beautiful Boys, Biker Boys, Black Fire, Boy Fun, Boys Getting Ahead, Country Boys, Freshmen, The Handsome Prince, Homo Thugs, The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4, Men, Muscle Men, Teammates, and many other anthologies and periodicals.
H. L. CHAMPA has been published in numerous anthologies including College Boys, The Handsome Prince, Afternoon Delight, Skater Boys and Hard Working Men. Her short stories can be found at Dreamspinner Press, Ravenous Romance, and Torquere Press. Find more online at heidichampa.blogspot.com.
After years away from her writing, RAVEN DE HART again picked up her quill to craft saucy stories and tantalizing tales. When not writing, she can be found tending her gardens, drinking wine, or researching myth and history. More information can be found at dehartslist.blogspot.com.
Living in Portland, Oregon, DAVID HOLLY is fascinated by the human penchant for odd mythologies, bizarre rituals, diverse religions, forlorn hopes, and broken dreams. He is fond of strong coffee, red wine, English bitters, rich stout, nude beaches, and hot-looking guys. Find out more at facebook.com/david.holly2and gaywriter.org.
D.K. JERNIGAN ([email protected]) loves men who love men, hard cider, and long walks on the beach. He lives in California with the most amazing husband in the world and a devoted German Shepherd and has been published in Spellbinding: Tales from the Magi
c University from Ravenous Romance.
GREGORY L. NORRIS lives and writes at the outer limits of New Hampshire. A former feature writer and columnist for Sci Fi Magazine who also worked on Paramount’s Star Trek: Voyager series, his books include The Q Guide to Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The Fierce and Unforgiving Muse. Learn more at gregorylnorris.blogspot.com.
MISS PEACH is a former middle school, high school, and college writing teacher. An accomplished erotica writer published in such places as Hustler Fantasies, Readerotica volumes 2 and 3, Forthegirls.com, and vamperotic.com, she also creates custom erotic fiction for individuals. Ms. Peach lives in Massachusetts and plays a mean banjo.
ROB ROSEN, author of the critically acclaimed novels Sparkle: The Queerest Book You’ll Ever Love, Divas Las Vegas, Hot Lava, and Southern Fried, has had short stories featured in more than 150 anthologies. Please visit him at www.therobrosen.com.
DOMINIC SANTI ([email protected]) is a former technical editor turned rogue whose stories have appeared in many dozens of publications, including Hot Daddies, Caught Looking, Kink, and several volumes of Best Gay Erotica. Future plans include more dirty short stories and an even dirtier historical novel.
JAY STARRE pumps out erotic fiction for gay men’s magazines and more than four dozen anthologies, including Surfer Boys, Skater Boys, and Model Men, all from Cleis Press. He is the author of two novels, The Erotic Tales of the Knights Templars and The Lusty Adventures of the Knossos Prince.
TROY STORM crosses his genres in straight, bi, and gay romances, confessions, short stories, and novels published on the Internet and in print under various virtuoso pseudonyms. Two hundred or so, and still rolling.
