by Neil Plakcy
However, I have a natural gift of balance, so it didn’t take long before I got the feel of my surfboard’s little tricks. We went back to paddling, and Wade taught me how to swim through a wave rather than attempting to ride over the crest of it. Duck diving came easy for me, so we called it a day.
I was hoping that we would head for Wade’s Woody, but Wade led me to the Pit, where the surfer boys hailed him. “Waterwalker, who’s your friend?”
“I’m Tony,” I said.
“I’m Pop Hardy. I’ve been watching your goofy foot stance,” one boy said, referring to my tendency to balance with my right foot forward. “You’re gonna be a great surfer, Tony Goofyfoot.”
With that declaration, the surfers in the Pit claimed me as one of their own and I possessed a surfer’s name. Since the Pit was strategically located out of lifeguards’ line of sight, Pop Hardy handed me a can of Coors, and I lit a Camel. Eventually the church key made its way around, and I popped two holes in my can and took a sip. Sitting beside Wade, I let the boys’ tales of bitchin’ surf roll over me like giant combers, as they described their passion for wave riding, not to mention their escapes from the boneyard.
The sun was setting over the Pacific when Wade and I stumbled back to his Woody. Our need unspoken, we climbed into the back and hastily pulled off our trunks. My mouth found Wade’s, and I sucked his tongue. His cock rubbed against my thigh as I flicked my tongue against his. Then his hand found my dick. He gripped my shaft and rubbed the head of my dick with his fingers. Moving his thumb over the tip, he attempted to unscrew my dickhead as though opening a jar. A delirious rapture shot through me, so I grabbed his cock and squeezed it hard.
We jacked each other as we had the previous day, but before we could climax, I suggested, “I want to suck you.”
“You want to?” Wade moaned. “I’ve wanted to try that.” With obvious eagerness, we shifted so that we were facing each other’s cock. I felt Wade’s hot mouth on my cock. So eager was he to suck me, he had my dick halfway to his throat before I had a chance to kiss his soaring erection. “You’re so hard, Wade,” I murmured just as I touched my lips to his cockhead. A shock went through me, and I took his cock deep into my mouth. I was enthralled.
As I took Wade’s cock even farther, letting it slide along my tongue as it leaked a delicious fluid, and opened my throat, swallowing so that it would pass my uvula and fuck my whole mouth, I knew that we were free. We were surfers. We rode waves. We had sat in the Pit, drinking Coors and smoking Camels with the greatest of the greats. In fact, Wade Waterwalker, the boy whose thick cock was growing heavier in my mouth, was already one of the big names along the coast, and I was soon due to add my own name to the list of legendary surfers.
Sucking Wade’s cock was everything I had imagined it would be. His cock was so thick I couldn’t wrap my tongue around the whole underside. I tightened my lips upon it, and agitated the head with my lips and tongue. It felt so smooth in my mouth that I wanted to keep it always. However, even as I thrilled from the cock in my mouth, my body was passing through states of arousal toward orgasm. Wade stimulated my cock with his lips and fingertips. He titillated my cockhead with his tongue, and even nibbled lightly.
I groaned around Wade’s dick when I fluttered past the point of no return. I was going on that red-hot tube ride, and Wade was the fervent wave. I tasted Wade’s hot cum in my mouth, and I felt his dick clamoring with his ejaculation. Twitches of pleasure swept through me. The jolts were bitchin’. Wade’s hand was stroking my ass as the rollers of ecstasy claimed me. The waves of delirium washed out my conscious thoughts until I was merely a sucking organism and a spurting orgasm.
Drained at last, we rolled apart panting and chortling. “That was a fantastic orgasm,” I howled.
“Like surfing a fifteen-foot wave,” Wade agreed. “I love the taste of your cock.”
“I love your cum,” I contributed.
When Wade dropped me off, we stole a quick kiss with our dick-puffed lips. I floated inside and ascended to my bedroom. I checked myself in the mirror, half expecting that I would look different. But it was the same freckled visage grinning back at me, though my eyes sparkled with happy mischief.
The next morning I was eagerly awaiting Wade’s arrival when the phone rang. “My Woody blew a gasket when I started it up,” Wade grumbled inconsolably. “I’m gonna have to skip the beach today.”
Wade’s Woody wasn’t running! The awfulness of that calamity swept over me like a seventy-five-foot roller.
Fortunately, I suffered only one day of misery. Wade had his Woody in good repair by the next morning, and we headed for Malibu. Wade patiently taught me everything he knew about surfing, and my determination to learn, not only to please him, but to fulfill my own ambition, combined with a natural ability and a total disregard for life and limb, soon had me standing on my board.
On the morning of our fourth week together, Wade and I paddled side by side, duck-dove through the approaching surf, turned, and waited for a wave. We saw a nice roller, and since I was the closest, Wade waved me toward it. I caught the wave and popped up on my board.
“Shoot the curl,” the boys called. “Shoot it, Tony Goofyfoot.” And shoot it I did, right foot forward, my surfboard going faster than it had ever gone. After my ride, I paddled in the shallows while Wade caught his wave.
When we reached the beach, the crowd hailed me: “Tony Goofyfoot. Tony Goofyfoot.” I was a surfer, and later in the Pit, smoking my Camels and sucking down Coors, I told my own tale of riding on the mist. Later, Wade and I sneaked off to his Woody to hone our other skills.
Wade and I had a blast that summer, on the swells and in his Woody. One night we night surfed for the first time under the brilliant moonlight and sucked each other off in a secluded spot under the bluff. We did everything two boys can do together, and that summer set the pattern for our lives. Of course, there were those inevitable dark days when Wade’s 1938 Woody broke down, but we had bitchin’ fun when Wade’s Woody was running.
POOL THERAPY
Logan Zachary
Brandon, you’re his only hope,” Travis’s mom said into the phone.
“I don’t know what more I can do,” I said. Travis had been my partner for seven years, until he’d dumped me for a younger guy named James, who had then dumped him after his serious surfing accident. He’d been through months of therapy for a head injury. “He’s had everything that rehab could do,” I said. “What more can I do?”
Susan Sharp sniffled, and her voice cracked. “None of the other therapists could get through to him, but I think he’ll respond to you. Brandon, we have to try whatever we can. My son is inside there, and I need to help him get back to the way he was.”
Susan’s response was reasonable. I was an occupational therapist, and I knew Travis’s body as well as I knew my own. But I wasn’t sure. “I don’t think I could treat Travis,” I said. “I mean, there’s supposed to be a distance between patient and therapist….”
“We’d pay you,” she said quickly.
“It’s not an issue of money.” He was my ex, and I still cared for him and wanted to help him. “But what could I do that hasn’t been tried?” I asked.
“I know you do pool therapy. Maybe that will help bring him back. Get him back in the water, swim, and show him what he loves best, surfing.”
“I don’t…”
“It couldn’t hurt. Our pool is heated. I’ve purchased the floats that you’d need. We’d leave and let you work, uninterrupted.” Her voice was desperate, and I knew she had been planning this for a while.
I couldn’t hold back any longer. “How’s tomorrow after supper?”
“Thank you. We owe you so much,” Susan said.
“Before you thank me, let’s see if this works.”
“It will. I have faith in you.”
Travis’s parents lived in a huge Victorian mansion built in 1887, on a side street a couple of blocks from the beach in Cape May. His father opened th
e door when I knocked, just after seven the next night. “It’s good to see you, Brandon,” he said, clapping his large hand on my back. “Thanks for doing this for us. Come in, come in.”
Susan Sharp hustled into the living room, pushing Travis in a wheelchair. “Well, look who’s here. Brandon came to see you.”
Travis looked up for a second and his gaze drifted off. His once vibrant body appeared shrunken in the wheelchair, and his misshapen arms were rigid and brittle.
His mother didn’t miss a beat. “Brandon brought his swim trunks. Maybe he’ll take you into the pool, while we’re out for the evening.”
“Sure, that would be fun,” I said.
“I’m twenty-nine. I don’t need a babysitter,” Travis said, flatly. His neck twisted to the left in a painful tilt.
“Oh, honey, we know that. We just ran into Brandon and invited him over to use the pool, that’s all.”
Travis didn’t look at his mother, he just sat there.
Silence descended on the room. The grandfather clock ticked. Finally, his father stood up. “Susan, if we don’t hurry, dear, we’ll be late.”
Susan paused, uncertain if she wanted to leave, but said, “Oh, yeah, right. We’ll leave you boys alone.”
After they left, I stood there looking at Travis for a few minutes. He had a towel over his shoulders and a pair of baggie shorts on. “Wanna hit the water?” I asked.
His long wavy blond hair was gone. A buzz cut revealed an angry scar used to relieve the pressure on his brain. Travis shrugged his shoulders.
I tried to remind myself he was just another patient, not the vibrant, sexy surfer I had loved for seven years. I guided the wheelchair through the patio doors and out to the pool. “Let me take that towel off. There’s enough humidity in the air, you shouldn’t be chilled.”
When Travis and I lived together, we’d often come over to his parents house to swim in the winter. The inground pool was about half Olympic size, long enough for us to swim laps, and the glass roof let in the winter light. His parents kept the room warm and humid, because it doubled as a greenhouse for Travis’s mother. Pink, purple, and white orchids hung in one corner, and potted plants lined the glass walls. The blue water glowed from the underwater lamps. Ripples sent spots of light racing across the surface like fireflies in the night.
Travis’s chest was pale, not tan as it usually was, but the golden fuzz still covered his chest and trailed down over his abs. Once washboard hard and defined, they still were flat but smooth. With a little bit of exercise, they could easily pop again.
I helped him out of the wheelchair and eased him into a seated position at the shallow end, his legs dangling in the warm water. It was the first time I had touched him since we broke up, and I noticed that his skin was pale and cool to the touch, softer than it had been. His rigid torso teetered over the water’s edge as I quickly kicked off my shoes, took off my shirt, and untied my sweats.
Travis’ eyes stared as my fingers worked the knot. I smiled to myself and slowly slid my pants down. I wore a blue pair of nylon swim trunks. I checked the drawstring and tightened it. I joined Travis at the side of the pool and dipped my feet into the water.
I jumped in at the shallow end and felt the water rise up to my chest. I stepped to the side of the pool and touched his leg. The coarse hair tickled my fingers, and I felt his leg jump under my touch. How many times had I touched this same leg sitting next to him in a movie? Gently, I pulled him over the edge and lowered him in.
His baggie shorts billowed in the water as he entered, and large bubbles escaped from them. “Let me get this float around your neck.” I quickly Velcroed the strap into place around the inflatable neck ring. “This will keep your head above water, and then I’ll put this life jacket under your butt. That way you’ll be able to float as I work on you.”
His glare spoke volumes.
“I know you can swim, but these are to help you relax and float in the water. Your muscles are all knotted up, and we need to stretch them out to full length.”
“Pool therapy?” he asked.
I ignored the tone of his voice.
“I know that after your accident, it’ll be hard to relax in the water, so let’s work on that first. Just float, and let your arms and legs go limp. I’ll come up to your head and grab you underneath the shoulder blades.” The same shoulders my head had rested on after making love. The ones I woke up next to for seven years.
I continued, “This is called snaking. I’m going to pull you along and hopefully relax your muscles and get you used to the water again.”
My hands found his shoulder blades as images flooded my brain. I remembered rubbing suntan lotion on his broad back as we fished at Stone Harbor: long strolls along the boardwalk, watching migratory birds at sunrise, and watching the sunset as the perfect waves rolled in.
I slowly pulled him through the water in large sweeping circles, back and forth. I could feel how much muscle mass he had lost. His once firm shoulders and deltoids were soft.
My fingers savored his body, and my body started to respond. I struggled to maintain a professional role, ignoring the stirring in my trunks. I swallowed hard as my heartbeat raced.
How many times had he held me, massaged me, and helped me unwind from a stressful day at the hospital? Could I do the same for him? He had taken care of me.
After five minutes, Travis’s body started to relax in my hands. His arms rag-dolled in the water, and his legs floated along, as his muscles relaxed. The hair on his legs and chest swayed back and forth in the water.
The accident had taken away so much of his vitality. The sparkle in his eyes was gone. They were flat and dead. Was this all from the head injury? Or was he slipping into depression over his loss of coordination; athletic body changes; James’s abandonment?
I knew he was still in there, somewhere, but how to reach him?
My hands let go of Travis, and I walked around him floating in the pool. I slipped between his legs and stood at his knees. My body shuddered as my fingers curled around the crest of his hips. What else had we done like this? “Let’s try a few sit-ups,” I croaked. I licked my lips, pulled down on his hips, and squatted in the water.
Travis’s lower body submerged, his hips bent, and he sat up. His hairy legs wrapped around my waist. His face came up to mine, and he looked into my eyes, not quite seeing me, but seeking.
I rose with his body, and he flattened out at the water’s surface. His pelvis moved closer to mine. I could feel heat radiate from between his legs into me. “Again,” I said. I pulled his pelvis down under the water, and he sat up again. His mouth came closer to mine.
His lips were full and pouty, just as I remembered. He pursed his lips and smacked them twice. He always did that when he wanted a kiss from me.
“You want a kiss?” I asked.
He smacked his lips two more times.
I held him. My pelvis rubbed against his. My arousal grew to full length, and I could feel a stirring in his shorts, too. I leaned my head forward and brushed my lips lightly against Travis’s.
He puckered up and kissed me. He paused and then his eyes tried to focus on me. “Brandon?”
I could feel his gentle breath on my face.
Travis’s body was fatigued, and he lost control of his sit-up.
Slowly, he lay back in the water, and his body rose up in front of me. My erection strained against the blue nylon fabric. A low moan escaped from me.
Travis’s shorts tented.
I remembered how sexy his body was, how well it fit to mine. How wonderful it felt against mine. The feelings were back and not a memory this time.
His legs squeezed my torso and held me in place.
Memories of wrestling in bed on a Sunday morning or at the YMCA flooded back. Despite Travis’s injury, his body was still able to make mine react.
Then he winked at me, or at least I thought he did.
How I longed to see his body naked. I looked around the pool. Though the
glass was lit up against the night, the plants along the sides would protect us from prying eyes. Could I do what my heart desired?
My fingers moved to Travis’s waistband and found the drawstring. Before I knew what I was doing, the knot was untied. I looked into his eyes, and he nodded.
His hand reached down and adjusted himself inside the baggie shorts.
My eyes followed his treasure trail into the wide waistband. I pulled his shorts down slightly, and Travis pulled the life jacket higher on his back, freeing his trunks for me.
The bush of his pubic hair crested at the waistband. His erection pulled the shorts away from his skin. Chlorine and manly musk filled my nostrils. I breathed in deeply, and whispered his name.
I paused. Was this a breach of patient/therapist relationship? He wasn’t really my patient; he was my ex, and I wasn’t taking anything that I hadn’t had before. I wanted him back, and his body was responding, willing me to continue. It was wrong, but what I needed…what he needed.
“Brandon,” he said, as his hand came down and rubbed my shoulder.
I waited and his other hand worked on the waistband of his shorts. His erection sprang free of them. It was bigger than I remembered: thicker, longer, and more beautiful.
His legs kicked off his shorts, and now he floated naked and fully aroused.
My body responded to his.
His hand brushed down my belly and searched for the drawstring to my shorts. His fingers found it and worked on the wet knot. It took a while, but the knot released and my waistband loosened. My erection jumped from the extra room and Travis’s fingers rolled over the tip of my penis. His hand grasped me and stroked my length, as I pushed my shorts down in the back. Soon I was free of the nylon trunks and they floated away.
