Surfer Boys

by Neil Plakcy

  “Does she have to be there,” I asked, “when you try?”

  “Nah, mate, she don’t.”

  He stepped close. His nipples were hard.

  “Take another hit,” I said, and pushed the joint at him.

  Blake took it. Grinned—like a shark. He sucked on it, held it; grabbed my hand, put it on his belly.

  Hot; warm; taut; smooth; hard; alive; flat: surfer.

  He breathed smoke into my face. “Pull the string.”

  I did, with dry mouth and pounding heart. And throbbing cock.

  Smiling coolly, he toked, filling his lungs with the hallucinogenic smoke. His eyes were luminous and hard.

  The knot came undone. His shorts shifted on his hips, loosened, lowered. There was a treasure trail, sparse but present. I reached—

  He grabbed my wrist. He shook his head briefly, toking furiously.

  What did he mean? His expression was calculating.

  He let me go. I reached for him. My palm brushed something in his boardies: hard, throbbing, big, wet. His shorts tented with big surf-boy breeder dick, drooling into the cotton. His boardies lifted away from his taut belly, leaving a dark, swampy crescent open between shorts and flesh. He was a musky boy, and his scent drove away the clean smell of the vegetation. He smelled of the sea, of smoldering hemp, of sweat, hair, and sun.

  His hand rested on the top of my skull. Malice coruscated in his eyes. “Get to work. Kneel.”

  I knelt. If this was the way he swung, I would grab the vine and swing.

  His shorts fell in a tangle around his feet. His gigantic fuckstick slapped my cheek. It loomed over me like a whale’s shadow on the sea bottom. Something wet, a slimy tear, oozed down my cheek. My eyes devoured his moist red cock-apple, presented in cheesy folds of foreskin for my private delectation. His pubic hair was thin, pale brown, long, and fine.

  His was a true cunt-stretcher. I pictured his girl, on her back, Blake on top, her fingernails raking his muscled back as he drove into her. This was a cock that made you squeal when it pierced you.

  His nuts were the size of eggs, dusted with a soul patch of fine hair. Low-hangers, they swayed hypnotically before me. Did they taste of cherry? Did they taste of watermelon? Did they taste of peach? The colors suggested it.

  But he didn’t smell of fruit. No, not Blake—Poseidon juice; baby-maker cocktail; testosterone beer; surfer weed. I drooled for him.

  I nuzzled the junction between his testicles, leaking juice into my shorts when I heard Blake moan. I sucked his nuts between my lips. I thought of his sons, nascent studs slowly growing slowly, and I slurped on the studly spring of life itself. His balls brimmed with power, quivering, an earthquake always threatening to erupt into something more.

  His nuts were sour and dominating. Saliva flooded my mouth and poured from my lips in a slimy tide of lust. I worshipped them like Sir Galahad laving the Grail.

  His hands tightened on my skull. He ground his crotch into my face. His pubic bush tickled my nose. An ammoniac scent burned my nostrils: his piss, casually splashed back against his flesh from the yellow-stained walls of some anonymous urinal.

  “You like. Don’t you?”

  Fuck, he smelled good. Fuck, he tasted awesome.

  “Lick ’em.”

  I saw Poseidon riding a surfboard nude, his pride and joy on display to the sun and the sea and the sky and the entire fucking universe, his body a golden statue, dolphins frolicking in his wake, the temple at Cape Sounion silhouetted against an infinite timescape behind him, the island of Patroklou reaching forever lustfully toward him.

  Blake pulled his nuts from his mouth. His fingers tangled in my hair, and he ruthlessly bent my head back, so I had to look into his eyes, black opals floating on pools of cherry red lava.

  “Suck me, Yank!”

  I dove onto it. I speared my throat onto his prong, mashing my lips against his pubic bone, burying his studflesh in my throat. Blake let out a long shuddering sigh.

  My lips rode Blake’s glistening fat shaft, and my tongue slithered like a fat tentacle along his urethra and scooped out the tasty, greasy dollops under his foreskin. Like a clear mountain spring his pissslit drizzled a thin, gelatinous fluid, smoky and hot, into my mouth, an elixir electric with power and potential.

  He did not taste of soap, or even of cleanliness. It was raw male flesh, oily and natural. If you ate cum-soaked jockstraps for ninety days straight, if you lapped at dried ejaculate on the floors of all the porn shops in the Northern hemisphere, if you drank the beads of sweat glistening in the armpits of every rugby stud in the world—you’d still have no idea of the taste of Blake’s cock: surfie prick.

  I felt his sneering chuckle vibrate through his arrogant shaft.

  His hands turned my blind obeisance into something that pleased him. He controlled the pace, sometimes thrusting sharp and fast, sometimes slowing down from a long ride.

  “Yeah,” Blake drawled. “Good. Eat it. It’s good tucker. Yeah.” His nuts banged on my chin, and I swear I heard his jism sloshing in them like slowly boiling gravy. His bush scoured my lips as if by a hot wind. “Suck it, Yank.”

  I was his junky. Blake’s long, fat, pot-fueled dong throbbed between my lips, a hypodermic quivering on the edge of injection.

  He ripped it free in a shower of spittle. I gobbled after it, tongue flailing. A long ribbon of precum stretching from my mouth to his cockhead swung like a jump rope.

  “You get it now, don’t you, Yank?” He sneered.

  “Yeah,” I whispered. “Let me suck it.”

  He spit onto my forehead. “You want to suck hot surfie cock?”

  His saliva ran into my eyes. “Yeah, I do.” I lunged for it.

  He dodged. Blake’s lips curled in contemptuous sneer. He seized me, hooked his fingers into my armpits, hauled me upright, spun me around.

  “Bend over that bench. Yank.” His breath exploded on the back of my neck.

  Resistance flared up. “Dude, I don’t—”

  Blake seized my chin. There was immense strength in him, as if this ancient continent infused him with power. He turned my head and imprisoned me in his eyes.

  “Bend over,” he said. “Or you can go home. To your rotting bridges. To your amber waves of crack whores. To that sick monster you became staring into Soviet eyes. Land of the free, home of the waterboarders.” He brandished his cock at me. The cockhead glistened with my spit, his precum. “But you won’t be getting this.”

  “Man—”

  “You fucking dipshits couldn’t organize a fuck in a whore-house.”

  Jesus may have wept, but I bent.

  “Drop your kit,” Blake barked.

  “Huh?”

  “Your shorts. Lose ’em.”

  They were lost.

  He spit. His dripping fingertips pried roughly at my exposed butthole. They were gritty. They burned. Jabbing hard, he entered. Was I velvet there? He didn’t care. My prostate twitched. He twisted his fingers, felt me, opened me. I whimpered for him. I heard a mare do it once, when a stallion sniffed under her tail: instinct.

  The piping of the frogs hidden in Arakwal Park seemed to be the harbinger of madness. I welcomed it, like I welcomed his fingers.

  I felt a feathery touch between my buttocks. His breath? Yes. Then his lips nuzzled me there, where I never thought he’d go, and I stopped breathing.

  Oh, yeah, that was his soul patch rubbing on the underside of my balls. Yeah, that was his tongue, pushing at me like an overeager Doberman. Yeah, he was doing it. I felt it going in.

  “Ah, man,” I said. His tongue felt cool inside me. It plunged inward, relentlessly.

  “Bitch,” he groaned around it.

  I dissolved into bliss. Reaching back, I grabbed my cheeks, held myself open. He feasted on my pucker, long, wet, slow and teasing. He made me want it. I howled his name. I begged him to do it. Begged him to do what no man had done to me for years.

  I dripped for him. I moaned for him. I craved him.

 
; The moment changed. His face wasn’t in my ass, his tongue wasn’t inside my cunt. Yeah, my cunt. I still felt his presence, behind me, and I knew his dark eyes glittered like the moon on a sea of crude oil as they appraised my ass.

  My asshole felt like a cunt; like a receptacle; like the vacuum between the galaxies.

  One hand grabbed my hip. I heard the dreamlike sound of someone spitting. Then something pressed against my asshole. “Yeah,” he said, savoring it. “Like this.”

  He thrust brutally. My anus screeched, and I squealed like a pig.

  “Fuck!” It burned, the way sandpaper would on sunburnt skin.

  “Take it. You want it. Since you saw me.”

  He yanked me backward, driving four inches into my rectum. My guts split open. Pain exploded in red flowers across my consciousness. It felt as if he had rammed a lamppost up my ass. My pucker stretched, quivered like a violin string, ripped. Christ, I must’ve gushed blood.

  There were tears rolling down my face. It wasn’t that I was cherry, it was that he was making me do something unnatural for me. This wasn’t who I was, this was—

  A lie.

  I wished I was on my back, and he was between my legs, and my fingernails raked his shoulders with red streaks of desire, and his woman, and his sons, and his sunburnt, lucky country watched my humiliation.

  He drilled me. My pucker was a gaping wound, raw, inflamed. Blake’s cock was a brutal invader, barbarian and powerful, invading, hurting, fulfilling.

  “Nice,” he crooned, and stabbed another half foot into me.

  “Yeah.” Such a simple word. And, for the first time, maybe, the truth.

  He chuckled, jabbed balls deep.

  I think I passed out from the agony. Or maybe I saw God. I don’t think there’s much difference.

  When I returned to this world, Blake moved inside me; slowly, deliberately. He savored me. He liked how it felt. I could tell. Yeah, maybe it was velvet up there for him. I hoped it was. It had to be tight, a flesh sleeve encasing his godlike cock.

  When there’s a cock inside you the size of Blake’s, you acquiesce to his motion. Your rectum shifts with his strokes, and your nerves transmit jangling electricity to your brain, and your brain rolls over, its tongue lolling like a dog getting its belly scratched.

  “Fuck, man, you’re good.” Blake slapped my asscheek. “Ride you. Ride you. Yeah. Take that. Yeah. Yeah. Breeder cock.”

  A shiver of pleasure ran up my spine. My balls drew tight against my leaking shaft.

  He rode me. He rode me good. He liked skewering me with off-center strokes. It made me clench on his prong, and he liked it tight. The precum hanging from my cockslit looked like a thin cellophane ribbon, scintillating in the twilight, swaying with the motion of his pounding hips.

  I remember fading into the ghostly memory of dreams and desires I’d forgotten I possessed. I remember rolling my hips, twisting them, pleasuring his invader, as a way of giving thanks. I remember not feeling truly human anymore.

  It was something beyond pleasure. It was different: dangerous, male, like thunder cowing the world beneath; a spiritual fulfillment.

  “It hurt?” he asked.

  It didn’t, not anymore, but I didn’t answer.

  “It fucking hurts, Yank, and you know it.”

  He smacked my ass; not a love tap, but a full on, shoulder cocked back, Louisville slugger of a smack. It hurt. I shrieked like a soulless thing in a lonely swamp on the edge of the world, and clenched.

  “Better,” he growled, grinding his crotch against my sweaty ass. He roared, silencing the frogs, and fucked on.

  Blake reached around, began jacking me. It felt odd—artificial; smooth; plastic. His skin had no texture, not the way I’d felt it when I took the marijuana from his hands.

  I realized he had a roll of paper in his hands, and he was jacking me with it.

  I moaned. I squealed. It was hot. There was something about it—

  I looked down.

  Blake was jacking me with a twenty-dollar Australian bill.

  I remember how the orgasm came, how it caught me the way an unexpected breaker slaps you behind the head if you’re not looking. I became a jism candle, slathering sperm onto the bench, drenching it with thick white slugs.

  “Cunt,” he breathed.

  Shuddering, I looked over my shoulder. Sweat streaked his furrowed, angry brow. Blood boiled in his steely eyes. Breath puffed like steam. Poet of the waves? No more. This surfer boy was adamantine hard, from his belly to his cock to his soul. He knew me. I was flesh he was going to breed. I would never be anything more to him.

  He saw things in me. His eyes held no warmth for me.

  His strokes came faster, hammering, desperate for release.

  His cockhead thrust at me, leaving a throbbing tumor of pain inside each time.

  His ball sac swayed, and I breathed sweat, salt, hemp; blood. It slapped against my own sac and my thighs, as Blake’s thrusting reached a stormy crescendo.

  Blake let out a howl, like a werewolf, transforming; soulless, shrieking into the void.

  He jabbed inside me.

  And then he bred.

  I felt it. I felt each spurt. Like a superfluous heartbeat, emerging from nothing, blazing into life at the empty core of my being. I felt his heat, his slime, his daddy babyjuice, a fountain, a torrent, the sea itself; sperm, hot and slithery; molten ambergris jetting up my hole.

  This is the moment, I thought, that you spend your life seeking.

  When he was done he slipped his cock out of me. Chest heaving, he reached for his shorts. Crisply, averting his eyes, he tugged them into place.

  Sneering, he tossed the twenty at me. It fluttered the sand between us like a monarch butterfly, slowly dying.

  “They say Americans can’t cum unless you pay.” He spat. “Hope you lose, you fucking barbarians.”

  He walked off, and the gloom swallowed his unfucked ass.

  I still think of it, Blake’s ass. It still dimples, I’m sure, when he becomes Poseidon, and rides the waves like a god.

  I flew back home hating him. Later I became able to open my patriotic heart to heresy. I think that was the lesson he wanted to teach. He was a wise man.

  BEST-LAID PLANS

  Aaron Michaels

  Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

  David Bishop squinted at the sullen ocean and overcast sky. A steady breeze blew toward shore, making David wish he’d worn something heavier than a windbreaker to the beach.

  Two years living on the Oregon coast, and he still forgot he wasn’t in sunny Southern California where he could get by with jeans, a T-shirt, and a windbreaker even in the middle of winter. He zipped up his jacket and shoved his hands in the pockets to keep them warm, wishing he’d remembered his gloves.

  Waves crashed on shore, decent-sized breakers chasing foam up the wet sand. He stood back from the reach of the waves. Half a mile away a man and woman walked along the edge of the wet sand line, hand in hand. A dark-coated dog, too short in the legs to be a Lab, danced around them. David looked away. He didn’t need to be reminded he wasn’t part of a couple.

  David hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in over a month. His emergency funds were more than a little depleted, and his inventory of back stock—paintings he’d rushed through in a white-hot blaze of creativity two years ago when he first moved here and everything, including his relationship with Bruce, was bright and shiny new—was down to single digits.

  Being a full-time artist was as much ego as business and for better or worse, David still had an abundance of ego. He was battered and bruised, but at least that was one thing that hadn’t deserted him.

  Bruce thought he’d had too much ego and not enough libido. David always thought Bruce had more than enough libido for the both of them. Six months ago Bruce had told him otherwise and walked out, and David was nowhere close to getting over it.

  A car door slammed, the sound from the parking lot behind the beach small compared to
the constant churning of the ocean. David paid it no mind. He wasn’t in the mood to interact with anyone, and if the newcomers were a couple, or worse—a family—David would just pack up his battered psyche and go home.

  The newcomer loped past David, all long limbs and dark, curly hair and neoprene-encased slender body, a surfboard tucked beneath one arm.

  David stared. A surfer? In this water? Was the guy crazy?

  The surfer gave David a friendly grin and a little wave of his free hand, then jogged into the water, flinging himself down on the surfboard.

  Apparently the man had cast-iron balls. Year round the ocean was cold. Bruce had playfully shoved David toward the waves once during a walk along the beach, back in the days when they still held hands. David had tripped, off balance, and wound up on his butt just in time for an energetic wave to soak him up to his armpits. Bruce had laughed as he outran the wave so that not even his feet got wet. David, half frozen, hadn’t been nearly so amused.

  Okay, enough about Bruce, David told himself. He could either stand on the beach, freezing in the chill wind while he remembered the not-so-good old days, go back to his apartment and stare at a blank canvas, or go rent a movie.

  Or…he could stay and watch the surfer for a while.

  The guy was pretty good. David had never surfed, not even in Los Angeles, but he had spent a good deal of time walking on Venice Beach, admiring the scenery both on- and offshore. On any given day, Venice Beach had provided David with more than enough inspiration, both for his canvases and his fantasies. He hadn’t had a good fantasy since Bruce walked out.

  This guy though, this surfer with the cast-iron balls—he could provide David with fantasy material for weeks.

  David watched while the guy caught a wave and rode it halfway to shore before it petered out and the guy had to paddle out again. He wasn’t close enough for David to get a good look at his features, but he could tell the guy had that mix of delicate and masculine that pushed all of David’s buttons. Strong jaw, thin lips, hint of a beard around his chin and upper lip, dark eyes, narrow nose, high cheekbones—oh, yeah, definitely inspirational. And David hadn’t even gotten that good a look at the guy’s body. All he knew was the guy was tall and slender and moved with the easy grace of a natural athlete.