by Vawn Cassidy
I slide down into the armchair watching the sea from my window as I chew my sandwich slowly. My stomach growls loudly in appreciation, and with the worst of the hunger pangs sated, my mind drifts back to the gorgeous mystery man on the beach. It was all a bit of a disorienting blur at the time, my adrenalin pumping from almost drowning, the lack of sleep, the emotional stress of the past twenty-four hours, but now I’ve finally stopped, it all comes crashing in on me with distressing clarity.
Why on earth had I told him my name was Nat? No one calls me Nat. It’s always been Nathan. Well… actually, no, that’s not exactly true, I ponder. My sister, Sophia, used to call me Nat when we were children… back when we were happy.
I chew over that startling thought and realise it’s true, that had been the last time I’d been really happy. Partly because I’d been too young to understand what truly crappy people our parents are, but mostly because Sophia and I had each other.
Sophia’s a couple of years older than me. Growing up, she’d been largely ignored by our father because she wasn’t a boy, and barely noticed by our mother, who’s the least maternal woman I’ve ever known. In fact, I’m pretty certain our mother only reproduced because my father insisted on having a son, and seeing as he was her meal ticket, she grudgingly agreed, only to be disappointed she’d had a girl and would have to do it again. After giving birth to me, she pretty much shut up shop. Not that my father cared much, he had his son and his trophy wife, while trying his best to ignore the fact my sister existed at all.
But I’d loved Sophia more than anything. I’d followed her around like a puppy, and by some miracle, instead of resenting me, she’d loved me right back. We were a little covert team of two. She secretly called me Nat, and I called her Pia, never in front of our parents though. In front of them we behaved as was expected, but with each other, it had been real.
I can’t remember when things began to change, maybe when they sent her away to boarding school, or maybe when they’d married her off to an acquaintance of our father’s, someone older than her who ran in the same social circles.
In the end, Nat and Pia had slowly disappeared. These days we rarely see each other except at social functions, and even then the conversation is stilted and awkward as if we’ve run out of things to say to each other. I still miss her though; the Pia I’d once loved. She’s the only thing I regret losing.
Shaking off my bleak mood, I find myself once again swamped with exhaustion, and dragging my t-shirt over my head, I toss it over the chair and climb into the bed pulling the covers over me as I sink down into sleep.
When I open my eyes again, the room is dark, I try to pinpoint what had woken me, but as my hand is inside my shorts and wrapped around my cock, which is as hard as granite, I have a pretty good idea what it was. My mind is still wrapped in layers of sleep, still partly immersed in the vivid dream I’d been lost in. I’d been back on the beach with him, the beautiful blonde stranger with the hazel eyes and abs like an accordion beneath his soaked white t-shirt.
In my dream, he’d had me pinned to the sand like before, my hands wrapped tightly around his biceps as he lay intimately between my spread legs, his weight braced on his hands either side of my head, but this time, instead of pushing him away, I’d drawn him closer. I’d felt the hard press of his dick pressing against my own, felt the dizzying friction as he’d rocked between my legs. I’d reached up and pulled him down to me, the weight of his firmly muscled body pinning me as his lips had pressed to mine.
I’d opened my mouth, feeling the heated slide of his tongue as he tasted me, groaning as we sank deeper into the kiss, his spit in my mouth and his tongue tangling with mine as my hands gripped his hair. My hips rocked up into his desperately, and I felt his hand slide down my body, tugging open the buttons on the fly of my jeans. He shoved his hand in roughly, sliding down into my boxers and fisting my cock tightly in his large, calloused grip.
Christ, I breath sharply in the silence of the room, and giving into the fully formed fantasy in my mind, I reach down and shoved my sleeping shorts over my hips, kicking them off along with the covers until I’m splayed out naked in the darkness, breathing hard. My neck and spine arch helplessly as my fingers tighten around my dick. I’m so hard, my dick is throbbing and aching unbearably, my balls drawn up high and tight. I run my fist up the length, rubbing my thumb over the head and feeling the bead of moisture seeping from my slit. I glide up and down my length slowly a few times before lifting my hand to my mouth and licking the length of my palm, tasting the saltiness of my precum, and making my hand nice and slick. I fist my prick again, stroking my length firmly as I close my eyes and surrender to the fantasy.
The thought of him, rough and male, the heavy, unfamiliar weight of him rocking against my body fills me with heat as I imagine his fist pumping my cock, wanking me roughly, his tongue in my mouth and my lips swollen from his kiss.
I’m pumping my own cock furiously now, picturing him touching me desperately, taking exactly what he wants from my body and overwhelming my senses. I can still smell the salty tang of the ocean on my skin, and it only serves to add another sensory layer to my fantasy.
I reach down and cup my balls in my other hand, tugging them gently as I grip my dick harder. I can see it now, see him pulling back from our kiss, his eyes burning into mine as my cock erupts in his grip, spurting hot slick spunk over his fingers. He pulls his hand out of my boxers and licks my cum from his fingers before taking my mouth once again, and I taste myself on his tongue.
I gasp out as ropes of semen paint my stomach, and I pant heavily. As the pulsing in my cock slowly subsides, I fall back against the pillow, breathing hard and heart pounding in my chest.
Fuck, I huff quietly. This really is a new low point for me, reduced to banging one out over the man who was kind enough to save my life. When my heart rate gradually subsides into a more sedate pace, I draw in a breath and roll off the bed padding comfortably naked across the floor to the small windowless bathroom and clicking on the dim light.
I turn the tap on and wash my cock and stomach, patting my skin dry with the soft fluffy hand towel. For a moment, I stand staring at my reflection in the large, framed mirror in front of me. The line of my dark pubes is just about visible as my gaze tracks up the ‘V’ shape of my pelvis, across my flat stomach and up my lean torso. I may not have the firmly muscled build of my spank bank hero, but I have a tough disciplined body.
I like to run. Yes, I know, make of that what you will Dr Freud. I would often pound the pavement across London, anything to get out of the headspace I so often found myself trapped in. On the plus side, it has left me with the lean athletic frame of a runner.
I study my face, scratching absently at the dark five o’clock shadow at my jaw. My skin is olive, and my hair is dark, thanks to the fact my mother is Italian, but I get my startling blue eyes from my father, although his are lot colder and less self-deprecating than mine.
I scrub my hand through my hair thoughtfully, thanks to the fact it got soaked and windswept earlier it’s now a mad tumble of thick, loose wavy curls on top. Back in London, I would always be immaculately dressed in an expensive tailored suit, clean shaven, with a short back and sides, and the top of my hair neatly parted and combed. That was the Nathan Elliott everyone knew.
The man standing naked in front of the mirror now is as different to my former self as night is to day. My cheeks are flushed from my orgasm, my hair wild and the beginnings of a beard rippling along my jaw.
Maybe this is Nat, maybe this is who that happy carefree boy would’ve grown up to be if his choices hadn’t been made for him.
I think back to moments ago to when I’d pleasured myself to thoughts of the gorgeous stranger on the beach, and I pause, waiting for the familiar rush of shame to materialise… but strangely enough, this time it doesn’t.
Huh... I think with a little huff of surprise.
I’m not a virgin by any means, I’ve slept with a few women, admittedly mo
re from expectation than any real desire to do so, but I’ve never, believe it or not, had any kind of sexual experience with a man.
I’ve always known I was gay from the moment I realised that my morning glory was down to the thought of one of the boys from my science class naked in the shower after P.E, and it only got worse with time. In fact, the truth is that I wasn’t interested in girls at all.
In my defence, I did try to broach the subject with my dad when I was fifteen, which had taken some serious balls I might add. I was, at the time, still desperately hoping that my father was a semi decent human being, until that conversation disabused me of the notion. I can still hear him now, very clearly expressing his views about ‘faggots.’
Needless to say, I did not come out to my dad that day. I’d ended up trying to convince myself that I was Bi, but to my eternal shame, the only way I could get hard enough to actually have sex with a woman was to think about guys.
I scrub a hand over my face wearily. I’ve done a lot of things in my life I’m not proud of, and front and center is sleeping with those women just to appease my dad and keep him from finding out the truth about me. I never even experimented with boys because I was so terrified of word getting back to him. I can’t even begin to explain the pressure and expectation he put on me.
Even in my most private moments, when I was trying to give myself a little relief, I would feel the shame as if fantasising about men was somehow dirty or wrong.
Straightening my spine, my jaw tightens unconsciously with a steady resolution. I’m done listening to his voice in my head, and from this moment on, there will be no more excuses, no evasions, no more living under the weight of someone else's expectations, it’s all on me now. Whatever decisions and mistakes I make from this point on are on me, and I’m going to own them all. I don’t want to be Nathan Elliott anymore.
I smile slowly at my reflection; I’m going to be Nat again.
Chapter Four
Nat
‘If you don’t know what the hell you’re doing, fake it ‘til you make it.’
The morning dawns crisp and bright, as if the rain the day before has washed everything clean. I rise with the dawn and head downstairs. I have to admit the full English breakfast had sounded appealing, but not appealing enough to risk running into the insatiable Ms Molly. Instead, I grab a hasty bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice, stuffing some fruit into my pocket as I set out to explore the sleepy little coastal town the locals refer to as ‘the bay’.
There’s a path that leads up and around the headland. The sea is calm today without a cloud in the sky and the sun is glittering against the water. There’s still a brisk wind coming in off the sea, but with a day like today, it’s easy to detect a hint of the onset of summer. Breathing the salty air deeply I feel the tension drain out of me and my body start to relax.
As a London boy, the thought of all this bracing sea air, quaint little cottages and wide-open spaces should horrify me I think with a grin. But the truth is, I have a feeling I could get used to this with very little effort. It wasn’t until I’d left London that I realised just how suffocating it was with the crush of towering buildings, the heaviness and pollution in the air, the constant sounds of traffic and sirens, and the never-ending press of people always in a hurry.
The path curves across the bluffs, and I pass by a gorgeous old ramshackle sea cottage framed with wildflowers and overgrown shrubs and a little white wooden gate. The cottage itself is a beautiful weathered silvery blue with a charming rickety chimney stack, which is listing to the side like a drunken sailor. As I continue past the postcard cottage, I spy another building emerging from its side. The extension is clearly more modern with huge windows, which stretch from floor to ceiling, and I can only imagine the incredible view from inside. Despite the modern addition, it still somehow matches the rest of the cottage, probably because whoever built it kept the same slate roof tiles and clad the back and sides of the building in faded ash.
I wonder who lives in the quirky cottage in such a remote and idyllic spot. Perhaps a grouchy old woman with an army of cats, or a young couple who wanted a project dream house, or maybe it’s just a holiday rental.
Just past the cottage is a little overgrown pathway which seems to be leading down to the beach. Feeling quite adventurous, I squeeze myself through the gap in the brush and start edging down the winding, dusty path. It’s a little steep in places but fairly well worn as if someone uses it often. After a while, the path opens up onto the sand and I hear the loud crash of the waves.
Setting myself down on a large boulder, I reach down and pull my shoes off. I’m onto my spare pair, and I’d rather not trash these ones too. Peeling off my socks I stuff them inside my shoes, rolling the legs of my jeans a fraction and setting my feet down on the sand, giving my toes a little experimental wiggle.
The sand feels damp and a little cool against my skin, sifting between my toes as I give a little helpless chuckle. I know, you’re thinking what a twat. He’s obviously never been outside of London, but that’s just not the case. We travelled loads when I was a kid, just not to quaint little seaside towns. In fact, we didn’t visit many places in the UK at all. My father is a dedicated urbanite, all our family trips were not only awkward and stressful but boring as hell. There was no Disneyland or luxury beaches for Sophia and me. It was always city breaks and centres of culture, Prague, Rome, Paris, Brussels.
I glance along the quiet beach while I sit atop my boulder and spy what I assume are locals as it’s probably still a little too early in the year for the summer tourism to pick up. There’s a little girl with messy pigtails, wearing rolled up jeans and a pink hoodie smeared with wet sand. She’s planted contentedly on the damp ground banging the bottom of an upturned plastic bucket as her mother watches on with an indulgent smile.
I watch in rapt fascination as the little girl lifts the pink plastic bucket with a delighted Ta-dah! Laughing as her mother hands her a little foil windmill on a brightly coloured stick that she plants in the top of her sandcastle laughing as it spins madly in the wind.
I shake my head, while we were busy touring art galleries and museums as kids, we’d have much rather been building sandcastles with cheap plastic buckets and spades.
Pushing myself off the small rock I start down the beach, feeling the uneven slide of sand beneath my feet, it’s still a little cold, but I don’t mind. I wander down the beach aimlessly just enjoying the pace and the fresh air with my shoes swinging from my hand. There’s an older couple heading toward me with a small fluffy dog on a lead, at least I think it’s a dog, it’s a bit hard to tell beneath the little ball of fur matted with wet sand. As they head closer, they both smile widely at me, nodding their heads and calling out a friendly ‘Good Morning.’
I blink and glance behind me wondering who they’re speaking to until it occurs to me that they’re greeting me. ‘Oh… um morning.’ I nod in return as they pass by me and continue along the beach.
How very odd. Back in London, we natives, avoid eye contact at all costs, especially on the tube and the crowded streets. It’s like we have some sort of echolocation, which allows you to skirt around potential obstacles and pedestrians while keeping your gaze firmly fixed on either your phone or the pavement. We never speak to each other, and any kind of random greeting between strangers would be regarded as a serious breach of etiquette, it’s almost an unspoken understanding that we’re far too busy and important to acknowledge each other or engage in small talk as we hurry along, but here, it’s so laid back and… friendly. I continue along the beach in bemusement, maybe it was just a fluke I ponder as I pass a couple with two children who are running ahead.
‘Morning.’ They smile as they pass by.
‘Morning,’ I acknowledge with an amused smile, not a fluke then, maybe this is just how everyone is in this neck of the woods. I see another local up ahead, an older gentleman in his late sixties wearing a brightly coloured neon safety vest. He’s holding onto a bin
bag with one hand and a grabbing stick in the other hand, with which he’s busily picking up random pieces of litter. This time I’m prepared as I plaster an amiable smile on my face. ‘Good morning,’ I call out pleasantly.
He fixes me with a highly suspicious look. ‘What’s so good about it?’ he grumbles.
I shake my head and smile as he grunts and returns to his litter picking, so not everyone then, I chuckle to myself.
I’ve walked a fair distance down the beach when the skies turn a little overcast and the wind picks up tugging at my hoodie with playful fingers. I hope it’s not going to rain I think as I glance up and the first fat drops of rain start to fall.
Oh well, that’s British weather for you, one minute it’s bright sunshine, the next the heavens open. I spy some wooden steps up ahead, which lead up to a decked terrace and has some cover. The building is a large, square single story building with a pitched roof and a huge wooden sign that reads ‘Sully’s.’ It looks to be a restaurant judging by the folded chairs and tables out front.
I jog along the remaining distance and trot up the stairs, and just as I reach the covered awning, the rain comes down hard. I awkwardly dust the sand off my feet and pull my socks and shoes back on before turning to glance at the doors. The sign says open, but it doesn’t look like it actually is. In fact, it reminds me a bit of the restaurant from The Goonies, and I absently wonder, as I open the door and tentatively step inside, if I’m going to find the Fratelli’s holed up with a dead body in the back.
‘Hello?’ I call out stepping further inside and seeing that it’s empty.
It’s a really nice space, a little shabby and worn, but welcoming. Running the length of the bank of front windows are a neat row of tables and chairs. Along another wall are several more intimate looking booths. There’s an open plan cooking area and a long bar toward the back, and the large room is scattered with round tables and chairs.
