Gay Erotic Stories

The Gulf Of Plenty By Bill Gunn In high summer I stowed some gear in the jeep and headed for the Gulf of Plenty in the north of the island. Strung along the Gulf is Seventy Mile Beach, a stretch of virgin coastline dotted with rocky outcrops and sandwiched between vast necklaces of yellow sand. Off the main road tracks are hard going. I stopped to eat near a termite mound and watched the insects scurry to and fro intent on their labors. Unlike me they seemed to know exactly where they were going and what they were supposed to do. In my life everything sucked. I was alone, college studies on the mainland were stalled, my friends had stayed across the water, and I was still wondering what to do with my time. I read and I dreamed and I waited. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the rear view mirror. A serious face my Ma had always called it. Heavy blond hair from her side, long at the top with a fringe that fell in my eyes, and green eyes set wide apart from my father’s side. Straight nose that curled up slightly at the end, and a full mouth that drooped open when I concentrated. My expression gave little away for a relatively naïve twenty-three year old who’d done little more than leave school and hoped eventually becoming a painter. The closest I’d ever come to serious art was to pose for amateur dabblers at the local night classes. I’d spent much of my early life playing football in the winter and surfing all summer, so my body was a reasonable subject for canvas with broad shoulders and narrow waist tapering to a flat stomach and long legs. My biceps retained the springiness of youth and I wasn’t worried about stripping off for strangers. Even when people I didn’t know stared for a little too long at my dick or those who’d known me all my life patted me on the shoulder at the end of the sitting. My aunt used to say that I was someone born with all the gifts except the capacity to be ashamed or ambitious, almost a contradiction in terms. It took me till late afternoon to reach the end of the track near the cliffs around Candle Creek. The Creek flows down between two mountains into a saltwater lagoon. The lagoon washes into the sea at high tide. I first came here with my Dad and brothers when I was a kid, and we’d spend weeks surfing and fishing close to the sandbank. I don’t think anyone else ever came here at the same time so it was kind of my place. I left the jeep and lugged my gear down the steep incline in two trips the half-mile down to the beach. Towards sunset I pitched my tent near a stand of scrub trees on a rise just inland, took off all my clothes, grabbed the board and hit the water. I left unpacking the food stores and building a makeshift larder on a platform away from animals till next morning. I didn’t light the lantern at all. Just built a stone circle, piled on some dry wood, sat round the fire and ate some cold stew while watching the world die down. Before sleeping I walked a couple of miles along the beach in the moonlight. I was naked, I was alone and the earth was at peace. I was almost content. Over the next couple of days I exhausted myself surfing, fishing and exploring the old places familiar from my childhood. After one expedition I came back to the campsite and saw a low tent pitched about half a mile away on the other side of the flow from the lagoon to the sea. I scanned the beach but there was no one there. Then I saw someone body surfing about one hundred feet out. Whoever it was came through the breakers, stood on the sand and waved. He looked pretty young but went right back out. He’d pitched his tent on the other side of the wash, away from mine, presumably to set some distance between us, so I guess he wanted to maintain his privacy as well. I worked out he was a stranger to these parts since his tent wouldn’t last five minutes in the kind of summer storms common to the gulf in late summer. Nevertheless, I felt invaded. My first reaction was to think about leaving and heading further up the coast. Damn. This was my place. Maybe if I kept my reserve I could psyche him into moving. When he came out of the water I was sitting in the shade eating a sandwich. He seemed, however, as unwilling as me to make contact. He just waved again and headed towards his own tent. After a while he must have decided to sleep during the hottest part of the afternoon. What now? I was pissed off and couldn’t relax. For the first time since arriving I was forced to put on some clothes, board-shorts and a tee shirt. I grabbed my sketch pad and walked round the cliffs away from the creek and the stranger. I climbed the steep rise and sat way above the spectacular view below. I spent the rest of the afternoon drawing the waves, the beach and the lagoon with increasing frustration. I was angry at having my peace disturbed but also because my perspective was askew. Sometimes I think I’ll never get anywhere drawing or painting and wonder whether I really have the talent to make it work. For a few days we avoided one another. I knew he watched me sketching way above the beach, and I followed his explorations of the point away from me, surfing and tumbling in the sand. He remained a minor irritation in my meditations and I hoped he would eventually leave. Towards dusk on the third day since his unwelcome arrival I returned to the tent and found a six-pack left outside the flap sitting in the late afternoon sun. The note read `Sorry for interrupting your calm, man. I was told the place would be deserted this time of year. I’ll only stay a couple of days more until my food runs out – can’t face dragging everything back to the four-wheel drive right away. Hope I haven’t made a nuisance of myself’. It was signed `Ari’. I took beer and left the bottles to cool in shallow of the lagoon. Then I went surfing until it was almost dark. The beer was cold and by the time I finished eating and drinking a couple of bottles the tide was down. I thought of doing nothing to disturb my routine but at least he had been thoughtful, probably more so than me, since I was here first. I took the rest of the beer and waded through the wash to the other side of Candle Creek. “Hey man,” I called out to him when I got near his tent. I heard a muffled response and waited a moment or two. He came out on his hands and knees and stood up in the glow of the dying camp-fire and the slivers of moonlight reflecting against the sand. He was about six feet tall, slightly taller than me, and extended his hand towards me. As I touched his palm in greeting I saw in a glance that he was also younger than me, about 19 years old. Furthermore, he possessed that rare quality distinguishing only a few women and men and held in common with animals like panthers or gazelles, a physical grace that is both natural and erotic. My painter’s eye noted the details in one glance. Dark brown hair cut close to his scalp but slightly longer on the top and curling from saltwater. An oval face with a chin narrowing but still fleshed with puppy fat. Dark brown eyes set wide apart and holding intelligence, wariness and expectation. Thick set shoulders extending down into well-defined biceps and large nipples that glistened with sweat in the heat of the tent and the fire. He wore cut away denim overalls that obscured the rest of his body. There was no hair on his chest. I held my breath and stood back just a moment too long. His eyes opened slightly and he stepped back too. “I’m Andrew,” I said thickly, “Andrew Burnett.” “Ari,” he answered. “Short for Aristides…Ari Peters.” Then, almost in embarrassment, “had to get some clothes on, don’t usually wear much when I’m alone.” “Look, I won’t stay long,” I responded. “Thanks for the beer and sorry for not being more friendly over the last few days. I’ve had a lot on my mind. I’ve brought some of your beer with me, how about a drink or two?” He nodded, hunching down next to the fire. He motioned me to do the same. I handed him a bottle from the remaining pack and raised mine in the air. “Here’s to Candle Creek. I’ve been coming here most of my life but you’re the first person to ever be here at the same time as me, aside from my Dad and brothers.” “Yeah,” he responded ruefully. “Sorry about that Andrew. I didn’t think anyone would be here this time of year. With the holidays over and most people gone back to the mainland, I thought the whole coast was mine.” “Call me Andy,” I said. “ You’re not from the island?” “Nope.” He smiled and his mouth wrinkled in a wry expression. “I know mainies stand out like a sore thumb after the summer season. I should be back in drama school, but I decided to take a year off and see some of the country before I get too tied up with career and all the rest.” “Wise move,” I added. Then, as an afterthought, “I guess I’m in the same kind of boat. I always wanted to be a painter but leaving here to study like everybody else appealed to me less. So I dabble away and hope for something to happen and until it does I’m kind of roamin’ around.” He nodded sympathetically and his dark eyes moved towards the fire in a reflective mood. “I’ve always wanted to be an actor. I joined a circus for a few months ‘cause at junior college I was good at acrobatics. Tried being a clown too, then found my way to drama school. Who knows what’s next? Drama teachers say I’m too young, that I need experience, so I thought…what the hell. If I need experience I certainly won’t find it here so I’m moving around to fill what they told me was my `emotional reservoir’.” Ari pronounced the last two words in what I assumed was drama school-speak, and laughed. Well, if it’s experience you need to fill that emotional reservoir I’m not sure you came to the right place.” I smiled. “This would be the quietest and most unemotional spot in the country.” “Hey man,” he responded in a more serious manner, “emotion is all about quiet and peacefulness too.” Then he added more fiercely, “I haven’t really been anywhere in my life, felt almost nothing. I want it all.” “And you want it now!” I said quickly. We both laughed. We continued talking in this vein for over an easy hour and I found that Ari was insatiably curious about almost everything. He demanded I tell him about my life, where I was born, what school was like, who my friends were, what relationships I’d had. At the same time he was relatively shy about himself. When I asked he answered that so little had happened to him that it was hardly worthwhile mentioning. He was unattached, `as free as a bird’, and that the world would be his oyster. He grew increasingly animated by the dying fire and I guessed he was lonely, in truth, despite his relatively grandiose ambitions to experience life to the full. The shadows flickered against his face and I watched him with a painter’s eye, noting the way his eyes dipped away when the conversation became too serious and how his mouth curled in a wry moment. Then I surprised myself by asking if I could draw him in the day. “You mean like an artist’s model,” he asked. “Would I have to take my clothes off?” He looked at me with a wary expression and sniggered when he saw that I was taken aback. “Well, I’m an artist’s model when they need a subject for life drawing, but I don’t mean that I’d like you to pose,” I laughed. “No, I just want to sketch you surfing, whatever. You won’t even know I’m there. This is about me…I think I’ve drawn every tree and rock and water view around Candle Creek. I think it’s time to move onto another subject.” He nodded. “That’s OK Andy, I’ll strip for you if you want.” He laughed again at my expression. “Just kiddin’ fella. Draw away if it makes you happy. I’ll be body surfing tomorrow and thought I’d try some skin diving after that. If you want to paint me underwater you can.” We talked for a while longer about this and that and I rose to go. As I walked back across the wash I saw that he had doused the fire and had gone back into his tent. I made a mental note to tell him about making it more secure. If we did have a storm that tent wouldn’t last long at all. When I ate the next morning I could see that he was already in the water. At one point he saw me too and we resumed our waving relationship. After eating I took my sketchpad and walked across the beach near to where he was catching dumpers. He seemed tireless and made me tired watching him. I draw him from the side, wearing board shorts and noted the tattooed bracelet around his right bicep. He was slimmer than I’d thought but being an athlete of sorts including a stint as clown-acrobat in the circus his chest pectorals were powerfully defined and his abdominal muscles rippled towards his stomach as he heaved himself back towards the breakers. His black hair glistened with salt and sun and a tiny curl of public hair was flattened smooth against his stomach. I don’t know whether he noticed me drawing at first but I realized he was aware when he started clowning about in the water. I remembered he was also an actor so I guess he couldn’t help performing when there was an audience. After a while even Ari tired of surfing and came out of the water. He strode towards me, stopping to remove his board shorts, but keeping on a pair of speedos. “Like this?” he yelled out to me. He assumed a pose, legs wide apart, pelvis thrust forward, with one hand on his chest and the other against his thigh, his thumb tucked into the top of his bathers. He was slim but was really well built, and the damp gleamed against his chest and stomach. Then he turned slightly to the side and with his thumb slightly pulled down the top of the speedos, revealing a small expanse of public hair. He smiled. “Or this?” He laughed mischievously. I went on sketching without saying a word. After a short while he pointed towards his tent. “I’m going back to get something to eat,” he called out. “Catch ya later Andy.” I packed up the sketches I’d made so far and headed back to my own tent. I spread them on the ground and placed them in some order. They were good. I was starting to catch the exuberance of youth and the power of the sea. I cursed that I hadn’t brought any paints. However, these sketches could really be turned into something. I had something to drink and lay in the shade until I saw him come down to the beach, walk across the wash and head towards the rocky shelf one my side of the creek where there is a tangle of kelp and at low tide, rock pools. He wore a white tee shirt over his speedos and only carried a knife. When he saw me he put the knife in his mouth posing like a South Seas diver, and pointed towards the water. “Looks better for diving on this side,” he called out. “It is,” I shouted back. He waded into the sea, adjusted his goggles and dove down until I couldn’t see him anymore. Every now and then he would surface for air and I would see him arch his waist and head down again. I sat on the rocks nearby and sketched him diving and coming up for air. I have a photographer’s eye and could hold the moment long enough to get it down on sketch pad. When he came out he stood about twenty feet away and shrugged his shoulders. “Guess all the fish have left for the day,” he chuckled. Then he placed his knife on the sand, and stooped to pull off his speedos kicking it away from him, glancing out towards the sea. I cruised down the lower part of his body. His flaccid prick dangled down but must have been at least 10 inches long. Having rarely had the opportunity to check out other guys on our sparsely populated island, I stared at it with curiosity until I noticed that he was aware of my concentrated glance. He simply smiled and walked into the water, took off his tee shirt to wring it out while holding the knife in his teeth. Then he came back towards me, naked but holding the wet tee shirt over his genitals. “Am I a good subject?” he asked. “The best Ari,” I answered thickly. “Take a look.” He threw his towel down next to me and stood behind, his dangling prick just touching my shoulder. “Hey,’ he said. “These are good. Wish I could draw like that.” “Just stand in front of me for a moment Ari. I’d like to sketch you just as you are now.” “Me a child of nature? he grinned. “For you, Andy my man, anything.” I drew him from the waist to the knees, sparse pubic hair curled around the top of his penis, narrow upper legs, the wide space between his thighs, centered by the impossibly long penis curved slightly towards the right, a slight wrinkle just above the cut head, the same color as his dark skin. He flashed a smile after a few minutes. “Okay my man. That should do you for a while. I’m off to get something to eat and grab a snooze. Why don’t you come over later today and we can share a beer.” Then he added almost as an afterthought, “now that you’ve seen all my secrets.” He loped away and headed across the wash. I watched him go with slight unease. For the first time in my life I felt a deep erotic stirring for someone I hardly knew and hardly knew me. The feeling was almost laughable and also frightening. I’d never really been turned on by anyone before, not even when I should have been at puberty. That period was filled only with memories of jacking off to magazine pictures given me by other kids at the only school on the island. Sure, I’d had a couple of encounters but they were experiments in childish enthusiasm when my body had a life of its own. Even on the mainland I’d stayed clear of personal entanglements apart from the odd quick fuck when it was offered. But nothing that really involved me. I walked back to the tent, pulled open the flap and stared down at my own body for a moment. I was more muscular than Ari, thicker round the chest and the thighs. I was certainly no acrobat. I took off my tee shirt and shorts and lay on top of the sleeping bag, sliding my right hand into my jocks, rubbing the palms over my prick already thickening to attention. I pulled my dick through the opening of my jocks and let it fall between my legs, about 8 inches flaccid, veined and three inches or so thick. I held it at the base and moved it back and forth until it stiffened to attention at about 10 inches or so, at least when I’d last measured. Then I eased it back through the opening and took my jocks off. I held it straight, seeming to have a life of its own. How would Ari like to suck on this, I thought, surprised at the thought itself. I switched hands and pulled at the head, then circled the base, sliding both hands along the length. I lay back and stroked back and forth. My thing is that I do it rough. I love the feeling of pain and pleasure all at once and have a fantasy of really being pulled hard by another hand. My right hand stroked down and up, harder and faster, until I felt my balls contract and the jism rising through the pole. Cum squirt across my stomach, some of it spattering against my face. It was over really fast. I took some tissues from the pack and wiped myself clean. Then I sank back in a strange reverie, spent but still unsatisfied. I closed my eyes and willed the world quiet except for the sound of the surf. I slept most of the afternoon and went for a walk round the point. Towards dusk I came back to the tent only to find another note. `Don’t forget to bring a bottle or two if you have some to spare. I’m running low.’ I lit a fire in the stone circle and fried an egg and some bacon that I ate with stale bread. Just before dark I crossed the wash. The sky was a deeper blue than it had been the night before and I wondered if a storm might be brewing. As a kid, we’d experienced some amazing storms on the Seventy Mile Beach. One year a huge downpour drenched the mountains around Candle Creek and the water had rushed down the gorge and across the wash, inching towards our campsite so that in the rain and dark we’d shifted ground and huddled in a shelter up the slope until morning. I made a mental note to warn Ari about shifting his tent to higher ground. He’d already drunk a couple of pots by the time I got there. The fire was too built up and he seemed even brighter than before. “Hey Andy my man. Welcome to the Ari abode. Take a pew. Drink man, drink.” He tossed me a bottle and I unscrewed the lid. He’d taken my advice about cooling the beer in the lagoon. After a while he relaxed, the fire died down somewhat, and he lay near the embers talking about surfing, traveling, acting and almost anything else that popped into his nervous mind. Again I was aware of that faint erotic stirring I had felt earlier in the day. He wore nothing but a pair of white cotton shorts loose around his thighs. We drank and talked and drank some more. He raised himself on one elbow and scratched his groin. I noticed his semi-erect penis poking out through the hem of his shorts. He followed my eye but made no attempt to hide himself. “Hey,” he grinned impishly, “it happens.” I looked into his dark eyes and smiled back. “And what would happen if someone else liked that it happens?” “Depends who it was.” He hesitated. “What if it was me?” “You, Andy my man?” He looked at me warily. “I don’t know. I’d have to think about it. I’d do what I always do and put off thinking about it till tomorrow…you know…like….” “Like Scarlett O’Hara”, I finished the sentence for him. “Yeah. Quit teasin’ me Andy. Have another beer. I left more in the four-wheel drive but I’ll get that tomorrow.” I was more disturbed by my role in this short conversation than I had been about anything that passed between us before. Sometimes I can make an absolute ass of myself before controlling what I say. More to the point, I was experiencing something that would be more difficult to control if it went any further. I stood up. “Sorry little Ari. For some reason I’m tired, though I haven’t done anything tiring at all today. But I think I’ll turn in. Maybe tomorrow?” “Sure, sure,’ he said quickly, swallowing and standing too quickly. He fell back and I realized he was slightly drunk. “Take it easy Ari. I’ll catch you tomorrow.” He nodded as I walked away, giving me a weak thumbs-up as I moved into the darkness. I crossed the wash and looked back. Across the point and into the horizon I saw the flash of lightning. Damn. I’d forgotten to tell him about moving the tent. I turned back towards his tent. Maybe I could help him move a few things to higher ground just in case there was a storm. When I drew near the fire I could see his silhouette against the white canvas flickering from the effect of the dousing flames. I held my breath. He was lying back into the sand with his eyes closed. He’d taken off the cotton shorts and he was stroking his prick erect, right hand round the base and the other rubbing along the crease of his ass. Then he stretched even further and raised his left hand to the cradle of his shoulder, opening his eyes slowly to look up and then down at the pole between his legs. His thighs were muscular, but because they hadn’t lost the thinness of youth his prick rose like some enormous limb from the smallness of his groin. He glanced down at his prick, now extended to over a foot long, and moved it backwards and forwards. He moved his hand to the center of the shaft and began to rhythmically stoke it backwards and forwards. The thickness of the pole seemed to dwarf his fingers. He drew the other hand from behind his head and wrapped his palm around the head of his prick, stroking with one hand and caressing with the other. I held my breath and waited. He went on stroking and touching for what seemed like an eternity, closing his eyes in a swoon and arching his back. As he stroked with his right hand he licked the fingers of his left, and then slid the middle two along the line of his ass, slowly pushing them into the opening, tentative, one finger, then two, and then the tip of the third. In and out, adding more spittle, stroking and diving. I thought he might have heard the harsh breathing that came from my throat and chest as he suddenly rose onto his knees. But he crouched on his feet and kept stroking the swollen prick and diving his fingers in and out of his hole. He balanced himself by placing one hand behind him. Then he rose on to the tips of his feet like a dancer and lowered his head until his mouth touched the helmet of that humongous prick. His lips touched the end and slowly encircled the head. I narrowed my eyes. I had heard of self-sucking but didn’t think it was possible. I suppose his skill as an acrobat allowed these contortions but to see it performed in the flesh is an amazing thing. His mouth and lips swallowed the head and sank down on the helmet of his prick, and with his free hand he circled the base, somehow pushing the whole thing up and making it even longer so that he could suck with little effort. His strained abdominal muscles heaved as the rhythm of his mouth rising and falling along that great pole increased. Finally he drew his mouth away and sat on the sand, his legs splayed flat and both hands returning to stroking the swollen prick. As his jism arced from the head he shook his head like some wild beast, stroking on and on until he was milked dry. When he was finished he lay back, holding the still erect penis in his hand and rubbing cum across his straining abdominal muscles. He continued to hold the engorged prick and kept pulling at it for what seemed like forever, stroking back and forth with such vigor I thought he might cum again. Finally he opened his eyes to stare down again at the slowly diminishing erection. He smiled, then rolled around in the sand so that his body was coated with grit and cum. After a while he crawled back into his tent and I heard no more sound. I stumbled into the darkness and back across the wash, dick straining against the tight of my jeans. I thought my groin would explode. I was twenty-three years old, I’d never imagined sex like this, and the kid would drive me mad. I walked for what seemed like hours, across the rocks and onto the next beach, until the ice in the rising wind made me turn back. There would be a storm but I didn’t have the heart to wake him. When I finally lay down in my own tent and surrendered to sleep my last thought was that the clouds would scurry by and leave Candle Creek as a protected sanctuary for that amazing boy across the wash. I woke when the lightning flashed, even before I heard the thunder, and waited in drowsy anticipation. At first the rain was light and then the sky seemed to open up and water streamed onto the coastline. I was reasonably well protected by the scrub so that the driving wind roared from the sea and around the tent rather than against it, but I knew that the lagoon would quickly soak and the wash would rise. That meant I was cut off at least till morning. I lay on my stomach and hoped Ari would be okay. I tried to close my eyes again but it’s really impossible to sleep in this kind of storm on the island. I sat up and opened the flap of the tent to see small rivulets of water rush across the rise and down the slope to the beach. I had dug a trench around the tent so at least the ground where I was sleeping would remain relatively dry. Nevertheless, I rose to check the pegs and ropes flapping uneasily in the driving rain. Through the rumble of rain and whipping wind I heard my name being called. I slid down the bank of the muddy rise to the soaked beach and headed for the wash. He was almost across to me side, dragging a heavy pack and fighting the current of water that streamed across the beach flat from the swollen lagoon to the sea. I waded in keeping as firm a foothold as I could. He reached out his hand and I dragged him towards the shallows. He lost hold of the pack and it swirled into the treacherous eddy and in a split second was lost to the current. He flopped exhausted to the sand, panting for breath while the world seemed to go crazy as the rain intensified. “Come on,” I yelled. “You can’t stay here!” He looked up and got to his knees. He was naked and stung by wind and current, a small tote bag strapped around one shoulder. “It came so fast,” he yelled above the sound of the breakers and the wind. “The tent just blew and I couldn’t find anything. I thought if I came here you could help!” “Don’t talk, this way!” I shouted back. I took his arm and half pushed and pulled him towards the rise and the shelter of my tent. I opened the flap and half pulled and pushed him inside, turned on the lantern torch and snuffled around for dry towels. I handed him one and dabbed myself with the other. I was soaked and he was shivering. “Here,” I handed him the large beach towel, hearing his teeth chatter, “wrap this round yourself…” I took off my shirt and jeans and tossed them through the flap, putting on a dry pair of jocks. “Oh thanks Andy,” he said through the shivers, rubbing his hair and face with the ends of the towel. “That was awesome. It came so fast and I didn’t know what to do, the wash looks so deceptive…” “It’s the gorge up higher,” I answered, rubbing my hair with the towel. “It’s really narrow and the water collects in minutes rather than hours, runs down like a wall into the lagoon and swells too fast to do anything much. I should have warned you. I came back tonight to tell you but…” “Tonight? After you left…?” He glanced down at his chest heaving with the effort of keeping himself warm. Then hunched into the towel like a small kid. “There’s nothing else dry,” I interrupted. I unzipped the sleeping bag to fold it out into a blanket. Get under this until you get warm.” Like a child he did as he was told and lay curled against my thigh. “I’m freezing,” he whimpered. “What’ll I do?” I looked at him for a moment and then raised the flap of blanket and eased myself next to him. “Hold on to me,” I said. “Body heat…” He wrapped his arms around my chest and lowered his head into the crook of my neck. I held him until the shivering subsided and he fell into a drowsy nap. When he finally fell asleep I eased his arms away. My prick was hard against his stomach so I turned around facing the wall of the tent. When the rain finally stopped I fell asleep as well, his body curved against mine. In his sleep he’d wrapped one arm around my waist. When I tried to remove it he shifted it back. Finally I nodded off myself. I woke an hour or so later as his enfolding arm squeezed my stomach. His chest was warm but his legs were cool against mine. His lips were pressed against my neck. He’d nestled his prick in the fold between my thighs and it was hard against my flesh. I raised my head slightly and caught his open eyes. “Thanks Andy my man,” he said lazily. “You came back tonight to tell me…you saw me?” His voice didn’t flinch and I lowered my head in embarrassment. “Turn around,” he added. Then, when I was facing him he cupped my chin and brushed his fingers against my cheek. “You saw me?” I waited. “Why…?” “Because I wanted to be there with you,” I responded savagely. “I don’t know what I felt or thought. I just wanted to with you then.” I made to turn around but he held on to me shoulders. “But Andy my man…” he said slowly, his voice thickening. “I wanted you to be there too. I was thinking about you. I didn’t know how to….” He stopped and I could almost see his smile in the dark. “But I’m here now aren’t I? You’re something else…something else…I knew you’d help me…I owe you man. I didn’t think I was anything…” He paused for a moment and then pressed his mouth towards mine, eager, hurried. His tongue curved against my teeth and his fingers kneaded against my back. I could taste the salt and beer and almonds on his lips and in his mouth. Then my body turned to fire. “Let me touch you,” I whispered. He made no sound but arched back, one hand under his head and the other by his side. In the dark my fingers traced the line of his chest, the hard muscles above his stomach, and the line of hair that curled down to his prick. I held the engorged pole in my hand and folded it gently down onto his thigh as he opened himself up to me without a sound. He lowered one hand to his thigh to spread his legs apart as I trailed my fingers between his legs and the curve of his ass. “Whatever you want Andy…it’s what I want…what I’ve been thinking about since I first saw you…I thought I’d go mad…never felt…anything like this before,” he said softly. He raised himself slightly so that I could trace the ridge of his thighs to the knee. Then I moved back to the shaft of his prick, pulled it back so that it sprang towards he midsection. “Whatever…you want,” he murmured again. He covered my hand with his and led the stroke, all along the twelve inches, from the base to the head and down again. “And you….” he added in the dark, “let me touch you…my beautiful man.” He sprinkled his fingers across the curve of my chest than raised his hand and combed his fingers through my hair. “That gold hair…man…you’re something else.” His hand fell towards my groin and he lightly touched my swollen prick, holding the base and moving it slightly from side to side. “Gee Andy…” “What?” I answered, almost unable to speak. “I love this…you…your body…who would have thought.” “Quiet,” I urged. “Touch me everywhere.” He squeezed my prick and his mouth fell against mine again. His tongue filled my being, kneading with his hands, the heat from my body spreading to his, holding me, gasping for breath, his tongue deeper inside my mouth wanting more, nothing being enough. He trailed his mouth down my chest and across my belly, licking and biting into the public hair, sliding his mouth up my shaft until his lips found the head, sinking down from the head, kneading my thighs. He held the base of my prick running his tongue around the head, down again, the warmth of his mouth against the sensitive skin, licking my balls, running his fingers across my chest. A gentle rhythm enveloped my pole, up and down, swirling his tongue round the head until I was ready to explode. “Easy…easy,” he whispered. “Inside me, I want you inside…now.” I fell on my elbow and turned to him. “But I’ve never…” “Nor me…” he murmured, “I’ve fingered myself but I want you in there…”. My mouth found his huge shaft, sucking at the head, then down and along the crack of his ass. I circled the puckered hole, licking, slipping my tongue in and out the relaxed opening. I took some spittle from my tongue and wiped it around the crack, then into the hole with my fingers, slipping two fingers in and out, tight at first then relaxed and opening. I knelt between his legs and slowly eased my swollen prick into the hole, easy as he seized up, waited till he relaxed, then a little more, waited, then a little more, relaxed, to the hilt, then slightly out, then in, till we moved to a rhythm, in and out, sliding my hands across his chest, finding his pole, stroking his prick, his fingers on my, pulling together. Then he rolled slightly to the left and in one motion straddled me while I was still in him, facing me and bending to find my lips, raising and lowering his body with the limber motions of an athlete, my hands grasping at his prick, stroking hard, then harder. “Oh man…he moaned.” I felt the jism rise from the base of my prick and then spurt into him. He leaned back supporting himself with his hands on either side of my thighs and I sensed the pulsing of his own cum rising the shaft, then through the head and onto me, across my face and neck, in my mouth and against my cheeks, warm and salty, smelling of him. He lay down on my chest and held me, trembling, his tongue licking mine, taste of beer and almonds, running his fingers feverishly across my face and through my hair. Till he withdrew without a sound, easy, lying next to me, holding me so tight I thought I would burst, till we both slept, not another word said. We slept past dawn and when I woke he was already gone. I went outside and saw him surfing alone, the sea still rough, the sun out and the world anew. When he came back I’d found some drying wood and built a fire to heat water for coffee. He smiled shyly as if we were strangers again, standing some distance away from me and avoiding my eyes. I took his arm and he hesitated, then laughed as we fell against one another, my mouth on his, licking his neck and his eyes. We were still to know one another but his intimacy was freely given and a beginning to something else. The sea had taken all his possessions but for the satchel with his wallet and keys. He came to me naked and I gave him clothes, we shared food and went into town to buy more and stayed at Candle Creek. We swam, talked, drove and walked, I sketched and bought more paper. He wanted me all the time and I him, seeking out every secret from that body, he entering mine, days intoxicated with salt and cum. When the season turned he was sent a hurried note from his agent and he left. He left and I left and went home, stir crazy, diverting the energy to painting from the sketches till months passed and he faded somewhat from my consciousness except for the tremble in my body as I painted him and relived all those moments squeezed into a lifetime of days. I sent photographs of the paintings to a friend on the mainland who passed them to a dealer who passed them to a gallery. They were excited by my work and called me for an exhibition in the New Year. It would be called `The Gulf of Plenty’, an obscure title but one that kind of resonated in my imagination with some of his erotic displays. One afternoon in late fall I happened to watch a soap on television and caught him there. He was playing the ingenue, really well, except that from behind the animated face emerged a deep sense of knowing. I guess he’d found that `emotional reservoir’ he’d often talked about. I sent him a flyer for the exhibition. Maybe he’d turn up. Maybe…