Here’s Looking at You, Kid

an accidental romance in fifteen parts

by Douglas

Chapter 1 – Diving In

Looking back, I should have known better, than to go to Jim and Greg’s pool party. I really should have.

Not that I regret it – far from it. WAY far from it. But, still, all things considered, it was a stupid thing to do. I can see that, now.

“All set?” asked Derrick. He turned away from his mirror for a second and glanced at me; and after a split second, I could see him carefully controlling his expression. “You’re . . . wearing that?”

“It’s a pool party,” I went, patiently. “I’m not going to be wearing anything.”

“Maybe not, once you get in the water. But . . . sweats?” He looked pained.

Derrick’s my best friend in the world, the best friend I’ll ever have, and – well, back then, anyway – I lived with him. In our dorm; we were suite-mates.

I’ll never live up to his standards, though. In some areas; like, clothes. Derrick DRESSES.

“What?” I looked down at myself. “They’re clean. Fairly new.” I held up one arm, and sniffed at the cloth. “Actually, they’re still kind of fluffy . . . ” I rubbed one sleeve against my cheek.

I was just teasing him. Of course. We both knew it.

“Uh-huh. And what if you, say, meet somebody tonight? Maybe somebody you really like? What if the impossible happens, and you actually meet somebody you’d like to, say, go out with, after the party?” He saw the look on my face, and he raised his hands. “I know, I know; you don’t put out, on a first date.”

“Like that’s a bad thing? I HATE getting all physical with somebody I don’t know. It’s just so . . . slimy, and fake. Pretend love.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” His dark brown eyes looking into mine closely, a second, and suddenly we were off-script. “Jeremy . . . it’s been more than six months, now. You haven’t even HAD a second date. . . ”

“Yes I have!  Twice!”

“Okay, okay. Two whole second dates, and then, each time, you stopped calling them back. What I’m trying to say is . . . don’t you think it’s time to – I don’t know. Relax, a little? Open yourself up, a little?”

And for once, I didn’t answer.

Derrick and me have been best friends since the early high school days. Years and years ago; we were best friends all through high school, and now in college, too.

I remember meeting him, as a fourteen-year-old; on the first day of school. This beautiful, beautiful boy, all by himself, looking a little lost. A kind of sweet face, and – even then, I could tell – nice muscles, dark hair, brown, smooth skin, beautiful dark eyes; exotic, to me. Stunning, actually. I found out later, he’s almost pure Greek (no jokes, please, he’s heard them all).

And then we were talking, and he was brightly telling me about his new school outfits, and the haircuts of the other boys around us, and about baking tea cookies with his mom the night before –

We’ve been brothers, ever since.

Way, WAY more important to each other, than if we’d been boyfriends.

Oh, we helped each other with boyfriends, too. When he started dating a boy from our grade named Peter Whittacher, I gently told him it was a big, big mistake, and of course I was right – it’s always easier to see these things from the outside.

And when I took up with a college boy named Jesse, when I was almost seventeen, Derrick told me Jesse was a manipulative jerk with only an accidental acquaintance with telling the truth – (well, he may have put it in slightly more diplomatic terms).

And I didn’t listen.

It only took me two years to find out, Derrick was right.

I’ve learned to listen to Derrick.

Well, except when it comes to his advice about clothes.

“Maybe you’re right,” I went. Looking down at my feet, a little. “I . . . guess I could do a little better.” I looked up at him, again. “I could change into my BEST sweats?”

“Jerk.” Derrick aimed a swat at my butt, which I dodged. Then he grabbed my arm, and pulled me in front of the mirror, facing it, with him standing in back of me. “At least let me do something with all this hair?” He fluffed at my hair with his fingertips.

My reflection looked back at me. Taller than Derrick; lean, to just this side of skinny; blue eyes, and high cheekbones, under thick, blond hair that forever, as long as I live, will only ever want to flop down in a sideways swoosh over my forehead.

And just for that moment – I was looking at myself like I would a stranger; looking at the expression in that stranger’s face; kind of careful, watchful, guarded – and vulnerable. I had to admit – I could see the vulnerability.

It was one of those weird, almost out-of-body experiences we all have, once in awhile . . .

My reflection smiled back at Derrick, a little crookedly. “And what would you do with it? Gel?”

I could see Derrick begin choosing his words, again. “Just a little, maybe.” His fingertips pulled up my forehead-flop. “Just once? Once won’t kill you, Jeremy. . . ”

“No, it wouldn’t.” I twisted around in his arms, gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, and let him go. “I’d just wash it off, showering before getting into the pool, anyway. I promise, I’ll get into the water as soon as we get to Jim and Greg’s. Okay?”

“All right,” he went, meekly. “Although. . . ”

“Shhhh.” I put a fingertip to his lips. “I know you’re right. It’s just that I’m counting on looking better, wet. I mean, I usually do look better wet; you’ve always said so. Right?”

“I guess.”

*

There was a reason why Derrick gave up so easy. And it’s connected to the reason why going to the pool party was a stupid idea.

It’s not easy to get an invitation to one of Jim & Greg’s parties.

Partly, it’s the place. Jim & Greg’s house is way, way up in the Berkeley hills, right below the crest of Grizzly Peaks Road; which means, it has multi-million dollar views, of Berkeley and the UC Berkeley campus – where we go to school – on the slopes below, and then of the Bay, and then of San Francisco, towers and hills glittering across the dark water in the fog.

It’s just a small house; but it’s perfect, a restored Craftsman bungalow, beautifully, expensively decorated, inside and out. It’s been in architectural magazines, and everything.

Derrick and I were part of the decorations. Tonight, anyway; and at the last two pool parties, too.

Well, that’s a little harsh. I mean, Jim and Greg are really wonderful, to us; real friends. I think they’d do, well, a lot for us, if we asked. And if they could.

It’s just that . . . well, to be totally, painfully honest, Derrick and I don’t really have a lot in common with a very, very wealthy, middle-aged couple, with wealthy middle-aged friends . . .

We’re eye candy. Derrick, me, and some other younger guys. As sweet and nice as Jim and Greg are, it’s why we’re invited; we all know it.

But there’s a little more to it than that, even. Derrick thinks I’m the real reason we both get invited; why HE gets invited. And that keeps him . . . solicitous. When it comes to me going to Jim and Greg’s, anyway.

And just to make it more complicated – this time, me, Derrick and the other college-age guys weren’t the only eye candy coming.

*

“Are you sure this is . . . going to be . . . okay?” We were in my Mini Cooper; me driving up the steep streets towards Grizzly Peaks Road in the dark.

“What?” I could feel him looking at me, quickly.

I just looked back at him, a second, and said nothing.

“Oh, come on, Jeremy. It’s just a party. You know what Jim and Greg’s parties are like.”

Meaning – kind of dull, actually. The eye-candy boys hanging out together, mostly with towels around their waists, pretending not to strike poses for the forty-somethings and fifty-somethings watching them. And then later, the middle-agers relaxing and laughing and acting out together and just generally having a much better time than the boys.

But this was something new.

“Yeah. I know. But – high school kids? They’re . . . high school kids.” I looked at him again, and downshifted as we got to a steeper stretch of road.

“WE were high school kids, a couple of years ago. Wouldn’t you have loved going to one of Jim and Greg’s parties, back then?”

“It’s not exactly the same. Unless they all grew up like we did . . . ”

As in, grew up in San Diego. As in, skinnydipping in friends’ pools, most summers; and then spending lots of time – a LOT of our time – at Black’s Beach. The most famous nude beach in North America, maybe. Derrick and I used to go there and just hang out, after school, most warm days; it’s where I first met Jesse, just stunned by the sight of him, splashing wet and naked in the surf . . .

Okay. Ctrl-alt-delete that thought.

The point is, Derrick and me, you could almost say we were sort-of-nudists. I mean, we’re USED to it, we’re both really comfortable with our bodies, and, and, I just love it. I love the feelings, of being naked outdoors, I love swimming and hot tubbing naked, I love looking at cute, naked boys, I love the ENERGY of being naked with cute, naked boys . . .

And so we fit in with Jim and Greg’s pool parties, because swimsuits – for anybody – are not an option. No Clothes Allowed, anywhere.

And Derrick and I don’t much bother with the wrapping-yourself-in-a-towel thing.

All right. I know it sounds – well, kind of over the top. Highly sexual. Orgiastic, maybe.

It isn’t!  Like I said, mostly it’s pretty dull; posing, and talking and discrete flirting, maybe; and more talking. In the two other times I’d been, I never saw anyone much under forty doing anything more than social, peck-on-the-cheek kissing; and the only really racy action I’d seen had been between two fiftyish bears, who started making out heavily in the hot tub.

THAT cleared out the tub pretty fast; believe me.

Not that there’s anything wrong with fiftyish bears, bless them. It was more about the splashing, and where the legs were flailing . . .

Anyway.

That was then. Everybody over eighteen; even if some of us were too young to drink the expensive wine Jim and Greg had out.

But – high school kids?

“Jeremy. It’s just a party. How about this? If we see anybody underage, like, drinking, or anything – we’ll go.”

“Really?” I looked over at him.

Derrick was, well, – really into Jim and Greg’s parties; rubbing shoulders with A-list, gay college boys and young professionals . . . he was sure he’d find his next boyfriend, there. Maybe his permanent boyfriend.

It was important to him.

“Really.” He sounded firm. And a second later – “Jeremy?”

“Yeah?”

“This time – try to spend at least five minutes talking to people, before you go off and start doing laps in the pool? Okay?”

“I’m not THAT bad . . . ”

“Yeah, you are. Promise me? And I promise, we’ll leave if you feel uncomfortable. Okay?”

“Yeah. I promise.” I reached over and squeezed his knee – which is really easy to do, in a Mini Cooper.

Still. I should have known better.

*

“Derrick!  Jeremy!  I’m SO glad you both could come!”

The Jim half of Jim & Greg was lean, fit, tanned as a walnut all over, and he discretely leaned forward to peck us each on the lips as we came out of the changing room, carrying our towels.

“Thanks for inviting us again,” went Derrick.

“You are both absolutely going to LOVE the food tonight, we have a new caterer. You do eat shrimp, don’t you - ? . . . ” And as he talked, I saw those eyes, bracketed by good-living laugh lines, drift south, down my body, for a second; then snap back up again. And I could feel Derrick noticing.

Okay. Here’s the thing. I’m kind of . . . big, down there.

My endowment, I mean.

No, I don’t haul around my own personal winch to take care of it. And I am not going to give you measurements in centimeters or inches, or talk about diameters or circumferences. And I’m not proud of it, it’s not something I can take credit for; it just . . . happened.

It’s not like I’m grotesque, or anything; I’m just . . . kind of big. And since I was old enough to shower at the gym, or go to Black’s Beach – it’s gotten me a fair amount of attention.

“ . . . AND we have grilled lamb and steak kebabs, they’re absolutely wonderful, you have to try them! . . . ”

Derrick thinks it’s why we both get invited to Jim & Greg’s.

It’s ridiculous, of course. I mean, really; Derrick is much more beautiful than he thinks he is – he’s always fretting about something with his body, his hair, his skin, but he’s BEAUTIFUL – and he’s very outgoing, and good with people, and social, and me, well, I’ve been told I’ve got a nice body, and a cute face, and, and . . .

And Jim and Greg aren’t shallow; I mean, one’s a lawyer, the other one is a dot-com millionaire, who had the sense to cash out before the crash. They wouldn’t invite me, or us, just because of – that. I mean, how ridiculous . . .

I think.

“ . . . and you have to try the hummus, also; we get it from a little shop in San Francisco, the owner’s mother makes it fresh every day, it’s just wonderful. And the pita!  Oops, that reminds me, I have to go put out more pita bread. So, I’ll see you later, out on the deck - ?”

“Of course,” went Derrick.

“Wonderful!  And you too, Jeremy, we’ll see you out on the deck, too?”

“Sure. Absolutely.”

I felt a little – uncomfortable. I wondered if Jim had said anything to Derrick about me skulking off, at the last party; and Jim was looking at me a little – intently.

“Excellent. Go enjoy, enjoy,” Jim said, and sort of flipped his fingertips at us, before he disappeared in the general direction of the kitchen.

“He didn’t say anything . . . ?”

“Of course not!” Derrick took my hand, and began pulling me towards the doors to the patio. “He just wants a chance to talk to you. For a change.” He stopped a second, and looked right at me. “Now, remember; you promised, five minutes. Okay?”

“Go on.” I slapped him, lightly on his bare butt. “More than that. Especially if I find a really cute guy.” And we walked out together into the evening breeze, and the murmurs of conversations and clinking glasses in the dusk.

*

But there weren’t any cute guys, in our gaggle of eye-candy; at least, guys that I thought were particularly cute, or – more important than cute, NICE guys, genuine, intelligent, REAL guys . . .

I tried. I really did try, to work up an interest in somebody. There was this one college boy, with short dark hair and an intense look who was a music major, but – he started flirting real, real openly, and . . .

And inside of that five minutes, he reminded me, strongly of Jesse. The kind of arch, mocking way he talked; the self-absorption, the little jokes, the sexual innuendos that were a little too much, the way he held himself, even –

No. Just, no; it would never, ever work.

I looked around, hoping for a graceful way out. At our little group of college boys, off to one side of the food layout, all of us in twos or threes; the grownups, mostly clustered, by now, in front of the drinks table – we’d arrived late, and it was already getting to be that time of night when the adults were beginning to find each other more interesting than the eye candy – and there, off by themselves, by the hot tub, must have been the high-school boys . . .

I watched, curious, for a while, as the Music Major went on talking about himself, at me.

It was funny, in a way, if also a little sad. They all had towels wrapped around them; three of them were smoking, and all in all, they stood and posed and moved and languidly blew out smoke, as they talked to each other, like the most world-weary sophisticates in West Hollywood. And of course, it was pathetically unconvincing.

“Excuse me a second,” I said to the Music Major, and slipped off to get another bottle of ice water; and Derrick was there, almost at once, worried about me as usual.

I love Derrick.

“How’s it going?” He looked at me.

“Oh, fine. Fine.” I twisted the cap off of my bottle, and took a quick drink. “And you?”

His face glowed. “His name’s Drew, he’s a business major, and he’s really, REALLY cute. And, weirdly enough, he’s really into me. At least, I think he is; so far, anyway.” He looked at me. “Would you mind if I . . . drive back with him - ?”

“As if.” I touched his cheek. “Good for you, babe!  And good for him, he’s got good taste. You go for it.” He flushed – to the extent that Derrick CAN flush – and looked grateful.

“And what about you?   You seem to be getting along pretty well with. . . ” he half-motioned his head towards Music Major, who was talking to a friend and trying to look like he wasn’t watching for me to come back.

“Yeah, well . . . we’ll see.” I took another swig from the bottle. “Actually, I was thinking about going over to talk to those high school boys, over there. Just to give them a thrill.”

“And ruin their act? They’d probably all panic and run away. You are joking, aren’t you?” He looked alarmed. “You ARE joking? You know the age-of-consent laws here. . . ”

“Which I broke with Jesse.” Eighteen is the legal age in California. Jesse was twenty-four, when I met him down at Black’s Beach.

“HE broke them. You were sixteen!”

“Whatever.” I leaned over, and pecked him on the cheek. “No,  I won’t bother the boys. I think I’ll go shower off, and swim for awhile. And maybe after that, if I’m lucky, I’ll circulate around and find myself a nice, rich daddy, to take care of me.”

“You could do worse,” he went, looking at me a little mournfully. I felt a pang again, that he should be worrying about me.

“Hey. I’ll get there. You go have a good time, that’s the important thing.” I touched his cheek again with my fingertips, and sent him off to his business major date.

*

After the music and noise and crowds by the tables, the pool was beautifully quiet, and still. The underwater lights were on; the water glowed like blue sapphire, and I could see just a little steam rising from the surface. Jim and Greg like to keep it warm.

I did a dive from the pool deck, and swam the length of the pool underwater, feeling the ‘ahhhhhh . . . ’ of the clean, clear water flowing over my bare skin; no suit, no wet cloth – just me, my body –

Okay. Confession.

Yeah, I DID come to Jim and Greg’s party to meet somebody. In the hopes of meeting somebody. Of course I did. Even if I acted a little reluctant, for Derrick.

Actually, Derrick knows better. He knows me; and he humors me. Like I said, I love Derrick.

But – swimming free like this, in their pool – this was the big consolation prize, just like it was the two parties before. If you’ve never tried skinnydipping in a warm pool, you just have no conception. It feels so, so GOOD; it’s hard to describe. Sensuous, and free, and wet, and, and, just PERFECT. In some ways, even better than hot tubbing naked – (lots of hot tubs are just too hot, for my taste; I mean, if I want a sauna, I’ll go sit in a sauna, but why get all sweaty in the water?)  (Actually, Jim and Greg’s hot tub isn’t that way, it’s just about perfect, too; I’m just saying.)

I did an underwater flip at the end of the pool, feeling the textured concrete against the bottoms of my feet, and pushed off hard, angling up to the surface slowly, breast stroking, kicking lazily, just loving the feelings, until I fetched up back at the deep end and flipped my head to get the wet hair out of my eyes.

“Whoa,” went a voice in the darkness.

“Woops,” I said, panting a little. I peered into the shadows; there was somebody there, close. “Sorry. Did I spray you?”

“’S okay. I was already wet.”

It was a boy’s voice; a teenage boy’s voice, and I could see a hint of a half-smile, in the gloom.

“Yeah,” I said, reaching out to the side. “Makes sense.” I looked back down the length of the pool, and at my feet kicking in the clear water. “I didn’t see you here – I don’t want to, like, interrupt . . . ”

“No, that’s cool,” said the voice. I saw another pair of feet come up, as he leaned back against the side and kicked, lazily. “Besides, this is supposed to be a pool party. Even if we’re the only ones in the pool.”

“I know. What IS it with that, anyway? I mean, this is the best pool I’ve ever been in, ever. And the last time I was at one of their parties, I think I was the only one actually swimming.”

My eyes were adjusting to low light, and as I glanced over at the boy, I could see his face, a little. I saw the corner of his mouth turn up, just slightly.

“It’s not about swimming. That’s for sure. I’ll be surprised if any of my friends even get wet, tonight.”

“Yeah?”

“Most of them are too shy to take off their towels. And the rest . . . ” I saw him give a little shrug, in the water. “ . . . they’d just rather hang out.”

I looked over at him, quickly; then ran my eyes down his body, what little I could see of it in the water.

He was beautiful. In profile, anyway; brown hair, as near as I could tell; and – well, a cute, cute face. Smooth; boyish. His body looked to be on the slender side.

And so, so young. Maybe fifteen, or sixteen? His voice was pure teenage boy, deeper than most his age, maybe, but with that kind of high-low resonance that only boys of a certain age can do; before they turn into men.

And that made it easy.

Easy for me, to want to talk to him, a little; because, ever since I was a kid – younger than him – I knew I was into older guys, more mature guys; guys in their early twenties, preferably. Guys – men – who are a little more emotionally mature, who know how to express themselves, know what they want to do with their lives . . .

Well, not that Jesse turned out to be that emotionally mature. Or expressive. But. Still, that’s the idea, and it was what I was looking for . . .

So I leaned my head back against the side of the pool more, and began to relax.

“I’m Jeremy,” I said, turning a little towards him

“Cole.” And he held out his hand, so I reached over across my body, and took it in mine. “Good to meet you,” he went on as we shook.

“Same here.”

“So, you’ve been to one of these before?” he asked, a second later, after we both settled back a little, both looking down the length of the pool. “I mean – if you don’t mind me asking?”

“No, that’s okay. And yeah, I’ve been to a couple of Jim and Greg’s parties, before.”

“Were they – like this one?” He seemed a little shy about asking.

“Pool parties?”

“Yeah. No; I guess I meant – I don’t know, like the way this one is going. Everybody kind of talking, and looking. . . ”

“You mean, were they orgies?” I said it dryly.

That upturned corner of his mouth again, and I heard a little puff of laughter. “Yeah. Well, this is our first time, and I didn’t exactly know what to expect . . . ”

“But you did know it was a skins-only pool party, right?”

“Yeah. My friend Jason’s older brother sort of got us our invitations – he’s here tonight, too – and he explained the whole thing to us. He said it was okay, not creepy or anything; more like just skinnydipping. And meeting cute guys.”

That explained how the high school boys wound up here. “Well, he’s right. It’s pretty civilized; I guess. It’s not like a bunch of old men bothering you, or anything.” And then, I thought about something. “You know about the picture-taking thing?”

The rule was; cameras were okay, but no pictures without consent of the people being photographed. And, no flash photography, at night, without consent.

A puff of laughter, from Cole. “Yeah.” A glimpse of his half-smile, in profile. “Yeah, we know the rules. My friend Trev brought his camera; and I know the guy he wants to use it on. We’ll see if he gets anything.”

More lazy kicking, by both of us, in the water.

“But,” Cole went on, after a second, with a tilt of his head –  “Jason’s brother also showed us that, like, outdoor bed, in the patio, that we’re supposed to use if we want to, like, make out, or have sex, or something.” He said it with a half-smile. “That’s kind of over the top.”

“Oh, Lord. I forgot about that.”

The first party we’d come to here, Jim had taken us on a tour of the house, then a tour of the back yard and patio and hot tub and pool. And right by the side of patio was a kind of screened-off nook, with leafy vines for a ceiling and iron trellises for walls, with an open futon bed in the center, surrounded by lit candles and complete with some bowls of condoms and tubes of lube . . . and Jim had carefully explained that it was a Sex Positive Party, and we should feel free to use the nook if we wanted to ‘get to know someone better’, as he put it.

I’d never seen anybody even go into the nook, much less use it for . . . that. Derrick and I thought it was a joke.

“Nothing like that goes on here, I’m pretty sure of it.” I looked at him, a little more closely. “Nobody’s been, like, bothering you – any of you – or anything? Have they?”

“You sound like my mom.” He smiled at me, kind of ironically. “Nah. Everybody’s been really nice, when they’re not ignoring us.” He let his legs drop down, then turned around to face the wall. “I want a smoke. Cigarette?” He hoisted himself up, smoothly, me catching a glimpse of his smooth, bare butt, then twisted around to sit with his legs in the water.

“No, thanks, I don’t smoke.”

“Mind if I do?”

I shrugged. “Not on my account. And I don’t want to sound like your mom.” He smiled as he shook out a cigarette, and picked up the lighter. “Want some water?”

“Sure.”

I hoisted myself up out of the water, trying not to splash him, then went dripping off to the drinks table.

When I came back, with a bottle of water in each hand, I felt his eyes on me; and I braced myself. I didn’t really want to hear another comment about my size . . . but Cole just thanked me, utterly calm, as I handed him his water, and sat down next to him.

We wound up talking. For a long time.

And it was so much FUN talking to him. And easy. And kind of oddly comfortable.

He was (it turned out) sixteen, seemingly going on forty, or so, I thought; with this kind of dry, ironic view of the world, and his friends, and surprisingly enough, even himself. I’m not sure, but I doubt I laughed at myself much, at sixteen . . . it was a little weird, coming from a boy his age; but it fit him.

Not that it fooled me. It was just a way of talking, a cover for the boy underneath; but it was kind of like he was acknowledging that, too, and laughing at himself for doing it, at the same time.

He liked being blunt; he liked saying things in short, sharp little phrases, things that were just a little shocking, and then sitting back, to watch my reaction. And usually, before saying it, –  I’d see that little ironic upturn, again, at the corner of his mouth.

We went back in the water, a couple of times; then back out, to sit on the deck, again, feeling the breeze on us, shivering a little. Just talking about – whatever. Parents. High school (not usually a fatal condition, I was able to tell him). More dissection of the other people at the party; I told him more about my crowd, the other college-age guys, and the Music Major.

And, I mentioned how Derrick was here on a dedicated boyfriend-hunt.

“Hmmmm,” he started, doing that upturned-corner-smile thing, again. “I’m not sure I want a boyfriend. It’s kind of like having a dog, you know?”

“A dog?” We were back sitting on the edge of pool, dangling our feet. Cole took a slow puff from yet another cigarette.

“Yeah. You have to pet them, and talk nice to them, and walk them. Spend a lot of time and trouble, training them. Spank them, once in awhile, for their own good. And as soon as you turn around, they run off and start sniffing and licking some other dog’s butt.” Another puff. “Nah. More trouble than they’re worth.”

“Yeah. And then they come back and want to lick your face, after.” I smiled and took another sip of water. I waited a couple of comfortable seconds, making a ripple on the surface of the water with my foot. “So. What’s his name?”

“Huh?”

“Your ex. Mine was Jesse. It’s been about six months. That was his m.o., too; except, somehow, whatever happened, it always turned out to be my fault. Somehow, it always wound up with me being the one to apologize.”

“Jesse? Oh, man, you are SO lucky. I’m jealous.”

“Lucky?”

“Yeah. Mine was a Michael. And, you know. Seems like every second guy you meet is a Michael; there are just SO many Michaels in the world. And I’m never, ever going to be able to date a Michael again.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “It’s just not fair.”

“God, you’re so right,” I went, nodding fake-seriously. “I never thought of that. I’ve never even met another Jesse. I am so, so lucky.”

Another short, companionable pause. The sound of the music, and the voices, from the patio was a kind of soothing backdrop.

“What was he like?”, from the boy at my side.

“Jesse? He was a TA – a teaching assistant – at UC San Diego. He was twenty-four when I met him, and I was sixteen, and I thought he was so, so sophisticated. God,” I said, shaking my head. “That seems so long ago.”

“Long ago? How old are you now?” He looked at me, closely.

“Nineteen. Going on twenty.”

“Hm. I thought you were younger. Closer to my age.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said, picking up some of his irony. I’ve always been kind of baby-faced. I wish I wasn’t. I looked down at my feet, in the water. “How about you? Your Michael?”

He gave a little puff of laughter, looking down the pool. “He isn’t exactly MY beloved Michael.”

He said it with a certain drawl; and I glanced sideways at him. “Monsieur Blaine?” I used my best fake French accent.

He looked pleased. “You got it? Wow. Yeah, kind of a quote from ‘Casablanca’. One of my favorite movies.” He kicked a foot, making a little splash. “Michael was twenty-three, and he was – still is – a barrista at this coffee shop on Bancroft, and he had these BIG muscles – ” and he held out his hands, measuring biceps in the air – “and he had to shave twice a day, and I was on, like, a permanent caffeine jag while we were dating, hanging around the shop, always waiting for him. God, I’m surprised I didn’t have a heart attack.” He smiled, and shook his head. “And the rest is pretty much like yours. Michael specialized in Keeping His Customers Happy.  Usually in horizontal positions.”

“Let me guess. When you had to be home, at night. After your curfew.”

“Yeah.” He looked over at me, amusement on his face. “Yours too?”

“Um-hmm.”

He sighed, and reached for his bottled water. “You know what? Being into older guys can be an expensive hobby.”

More paraphrased ‘Casablanca’. I was really getting to like him.

*

And at that, the talk went back to safer things; his mom, again – he lived with her, down below us in Berkeley, but visited his dad in LA every month or so – and me growing up in San Diego, and at Black’s Beach, and adjusting to the dorms and the fog at Cal –

“You’ve got your own room, in the dorm? I thought dorm rooms were always shared.”

“Kind of shared. They’re called suites; Derrick and I each have these tiny little bedrooms, but we share a kind of living room, and a kitchenette. Just the two of us. I don’t think I could do the regular dorm thing, otherwise; I wouldn’t like sharing a bedroom.”

“Did you share a room, as a kid? Like, with a brother?”

“No. I have two older sisters; I was lucky, I always had my own bedroom. You?”

“Only child. My parents’ last chance at immortality for their genomes, and I don’t think their genomes are going to get lucky.” He tilted his head up, and slowly and sensuously blew out a stream of smoke.

“You never know. These days.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

And as we talked, on the deck, or in the water, I couldn’t help feel something – changing. In the air; between us.

It’s not like I wasn’t – noticing him. Looking at him. Of course I looked.

At first, he just seemed kind of, well, small, to me; he wasn’t a big teenager, maybe five-eight, five-nine, tops; and I was right, he was slender. I didn’t think he weighed more than 120 pounds, wet.

But the more we talked, and the more I looked, the more I noticed him; as in, really, really noticed him.

As in, how SMOOTH he was, all over; impossibly smooth, especially when he was wet all over from the pool, and the underwater lights shined on the curves of his muscles, as he hoisted himself back out on the deck . . .

And as in how graceful he was; just how graceful his whole body was. All over.

No, not that he moved especially gracefully; he was okay, as he swam, or stretched, or talked, but he still had some of that teenager-awkwardness, that slight hesitation about where to put the hands, the feet, that air of not quite being used to the size of his body . . .

I found that really – touching, actually.

No, I thought there was something just really graceful about him physically; his whole body. The proportions, the slenderness, the slim muscles over his smaller bones, the narrow hips, the flat, taught stomach, and it struck me, finally – he reminded me of a Greek kouros, one of the statues of teenage boys the classical Greeks would put up in a temple; a smiling, nude boy, stepping forward, holding out a hand –

The epitome of beauty, to the Greeks.

And yeah; I had to admit to myself, Cole was that beautiful.

And more importantly – much more importantly – I really, really liked him. I had to admit that, too. I really liked him, as a person.

In spite of everything – in spite of how I liked older men, in spite of how we BOTH liked older men – I found myself wishing that, somehow, I could have met up with him at sixteen. In high school; in the same high school. Maybe if we’d been the same age . . .

I guess it was because of that all that – how he was affecting me – that I mentioned it, when he reached for the cigarettes again.

“Do you usually smoke this much? I mean, it’s not any of my business, I know.”

Again that sideways look, the upward curl of his smile, as he flicked the lighter.

“No, Gramps.” He exhaled more smoke. “Not usually, anyway. Mostly just at parties, with other people.”

“Gramps.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “Right.” I kicked my legs a little, in the warm water, again. “Where do you  GET them, anyway?”

“That’s easy. I swipe them from my mom.” More curled-lip smiling.

“You steal them from your mother?” It just slipped out.

“No, I don’t steal them. I swipe them; a few at a time. I leave money in her wallet to pay for them. I get enough money from my dad.” He shook his head, mock-sadly, enjoying the look on my face. “Do you have any idea how expensive these things are, these days?” He held up his cigarette, the glowing tip red in the darkness. “I should probably save a few for later.”

“And does she know about this?” I couldn’t help it, I was fascinated.

“Sure. She yells at me, and I tell her I’ll quit if she quits, and she says she will, and she keeps buying more smokes, and so it just keeps on happening.”

Probably, I thought, the only kid in America who sneaks extra money into his mom’s wallet.

I shook my head.

“Well, you know . . . still. Those things aren’t exactly good for you.”

Actually, I thought, they’ll kill you. If you’ve not careful.

“Yeah. I know. I’ll quit soon enough; I don’t want to get lung cancer, or anything.”

“It’s not just that. They really cut into your performance; if you’re at all athletic, or if you like doing anything physical. Like running, or hiking, or biking. Smoking makes a big difference to your performance.”

“Are you athletic?” Those brown eyes looked at me, over the curl of smoke.

I shrugged. “Not really. Not anymore. I was on the swim team in my high school; but these days, I mostly just ride my bike.”

“Ahhhhh.” He stubbed out his cigarette butt in the ashtray, carefully, slowly. “Well. It so happens, I’m on my high school swim team right now – or I will be, after they hold tryouts. And I’ll bet, even with smoking, I can do a lap, end of the pool and back, faster than you.”

“Think so, boy?” I felt myself smiling back at him. I was actually pretty fast.

“Yeah. I think so.” He grinned at me, that way, then slowly kind of half-brought-up his legs, like he was going to stand up, and he looked down the length of the pool. Then, all in a rush – “readysetgo!” and he launched himself into the water in a kind of a flat racing dive.

“Hey!”, I laughed. He was halfway to the far end, by the time I was in the water, chasing him.

He was fast; I’ll give him that. Although he had a really slight problem with his kick, with his right foot . . .

Still, I was catching up to him, and in a regular-sized pool I would have beat him.

But in the end, he slapped the wall with his hand first, and turned around to face the way he came, beginning to let out a ‘whoop’, just in time for me to come barreling up into him. In a second, with my momentum, we wound up all tangled, pressed against each other, arms and legs all over each other.

And that’s when it happened.

Have you ever noticed, how some of the most insignificant things – things that are really, really hard to even describe – can change your life? A word, a shake of the head, a gesture? For better, or for worse? (And yeah, I could say something unpleasant about Jesse and me, here – but I’m still trying to ctrl-alt-delete those thoughts.)

This was one of those moments.

The better ones. The life-changing-better ones.

Because, pressed up against Cole, front-to-front, tangled up with him, him beginning to laugh, I could have just said, ‘oops, excuse me’, and immediately pushed back away from him, and –

I stayed there a second too long. One heartbeat; two heartbeats; maybe three. Really, really aware of the feeling of him, against me; his skin against mine. His chest against mine; warm skin, in the water, against my genitals. Aware of him; his muscles, his shape, the feel of his body against mine. Close enough to smell his breath. The first time I’d been that close to another boy in – well, forever.

One of my arms settled around his shoulders, for just a second; it seemed so natural. Automatic. It seemed like I didn’t have anything to do with it.

And Cole didn’t push away from me, either.

Oh, I DID say ‘oops’. After that extra second or two. And I did move back, in the water, and we both laughed, and I called him a little brat (for the first time; but way, way far from the last time). And I flipped the wet hair out of my eyes, again, deliberately spraying him, this time, which made him splash some water at me –

But everything had changed, in that moment. That instant, when I didn’t let him go.

And when we settled back again, side-by-side, against the pool wall – my heart rate wasn’t going down, much; I could feel my heart going thump-thump-thump in my chest, and my breathing was a little too fast, and I really wanted it not to be so obvious, but I couldn’t help it. And I was so, so aware of Cole, next to me, close to me, both of us kicking out, slowly, in the water in front of us, again.

And suddenly, we weren’t saying that much, anymore. Just, silence; and our legs moving in the water.

And it seemed an hour, even though it was just a few minutes, we were like that; quiet, when we’d been so easy with each other, before; looking down at each other’s body in the dim pool light, the tension between us building, and building . . .

When his right foot just lightly brushed my left shin, on one of his slow kicks – so, so gently; just accidentally, it seemed – I was lost. Totally, utterly lost.

Because it wasn’t an accident. And it was obvious, and we both knew it, and I knew I wanted him, I really WANTED him, this beautiful, smart-mouthed, funny boy, and we were naked and wet together, and him touching me like that meant that he wanted ME, and that was unbelievable, and so incredibly EXCITING –

I got hard. Like, in seconds. Even in the water. Really, really hard. One of those sensitive-hardons, where you think if something rubbed you there, even accidentally, you might just explode.

And I touched him back. With my foot, on his leg. A slightly longer touch; I just brushed him, lightly, really, with the sole of my foot.

And then, the shock of his bare foot on mine, rubbing and caressing against mine in the water; and the sides of our hips kind of floated together and bumped up against each other, in the water, and I couldn’t help myself, I reached around with my right hand and ran my palm over his smooth chest, with those pectorals just beginning to bud out, and I thumbed one of his nipples –

And then, impossibly, he was in my arms; pressed up against me, again, this time deliberately, warm, soft, smooth, and my right arm was around him as I held on to the side, and both his arms were around me, and he made a noise, and his mouth was on mine . . .

He knew how to kiss. God, he knew.

Jesse didn’t like to kiss, that much; it was always me kissing him, and him letting himself be kissed.

Cole –

His mouth was soft, on mine; a little open, but using his lips on mine, feeling my mouth, opening my lips with his, brushing against them, warm, soft, wet, with just the hint of his tongue, pulling back a moment, then his lips soft against mine again, and I could feel his lower body pushing in closer against my crotch, and his arms around me, holding me tighter, his hands against my back, and then his tongue against mine –

Okay.

What was I thinking, you might ask.

Good question.

I mean, here I was, a legal adult; naked in a pool, beginning to make out, more and more outrageously, with a beautiful, nude, and very, very underage sixteen year old boy . . . with potential witnesses, close by.

Very close by.

Well, of course, at first I wasn’t thinking at all. Or maybe more accurately, the parts of me that were thinking, were underwater and pressed up against that same sixteen year old boy, and didn’t want to be anywhere the hell else on earth, right at that minute.

But as we went on making out – and that’s exactly what we were doing; making out, and doing it really, really well – I could feel myself just sinking into Cole (well, emotionally, I mean; the rest came later), sinking into him, the FEEL of him, the feel of him not just as a body, but as a PERSON, that whole, electrical, charged CONNECTEDNESS when you get physical with somebody who’s right, somebody who’s right for you, and it felt so, so GOOD, so incredibly GOOD and right after all this time . . .

And then the thinking part of me that was above the water kicked in. Late, and briefly.

“Ooofta,” I sputtered, just for a second, pulling back; and I kind of paused for just a second, and breathed, and then I couldn’t help it, I put my mouth against his again, and felt his warm lips and his tongue on mine, again, so slick and soft and delicious, and I was suddenly aware of his own erection pressing against my groin –

“ . . . Wait,” I managed again, a second later.

And this time he was the one who closed in, for another sensuous, sensuous, helpless, passionate, wet kiss; more movement, our wet bodies sliding against each other. Me holding him as tightly as him holding me.

“ . . . I’m not sure. . . ”, I began, more seconds later, sputtering a little, some more.

“You’re right.” Underneath his panting, that turned-up smile, again, his brown eyes on mine, knowing exactly what I meant, and exactly what he was doing. “We need to move down here.” And holding my arm, tight, he pulled us both down the side of the pool to shallower water, where we could both touch bottom, easily. Then, “That’s better.”

And then I was in his arms again, and he was in mine, and I was lost for good.

Have you ever made out with someone, in a pool? Or a hot tub, or any kind of shallow water?

It was my first time.

I never knew. I was so, so amazed.

Maybe it’s the way dolphins or whales feel, maybe it’s what they experience, when they have sex in the water; I don’t know. All I DO know is, we were floating, against each other; his legs around my waist, or mine around his, or sometimes our whole bodies just rubbing up against each other, one of us touching bottom with his toes to keep our heads above water, as we held each other, doing weightless gyrations against each other, constantly shifting, rubbing, changing positions, and running our hands over each other’s body, and kissing, and KISSING, and making out, and I was beginning to feel so, so much in my heart for this cocky, vulnerable little brat boy, and I held him tight, and –

Splash.

Splash!

Then, SPLASH! as a much larger body hit the water, hard, and spray spattered over both of us.

And I was aware of voices – older, maybe just slightly drunk, voices, hooting, and calling to each other, and laughing.

And then there was that exact moment when they finally noticed us, and somebody’s hooting went up to a high, high pitch; “whoooOOOPPP!”

“Oh, shit. Are we interrupting something, boys?”

Some slightly off-key laughter, then another voice. “Or maybe we could just give you a hand?”

“Ted – ” the first voice began.

I managed to pull back from kissing Cole; his legs were around my waist again, and he followed me back, snuggling his whole body up against me, pressing against me, leaning his head on my shoulder, and I held him tight against me with my arms.

“That’s okay,” I managed to say, and I started to walk us slowly down through the water, towards the other end of the pool, the shallow end.

“I’m sorry. We’ll stay on this side. I promise,” said the first voice, then there was another SPLASH! as another man jumped in.

“I don’t promise!” went the Ted voice.

“Be good!” went the first voice, then there was general laughter, and more explosive splashing, and droplets falling all over the place, hitting me on the shoulders, and more voices, and more laughter between them . . .

I only half-registered it.

Cole’s mouth, back on mine; his legs around me, his pelvis pushing against me, and PUSHING, and his body in my arms; and I was so, so close –

But more important, I was so, so close – WITH someone. WE were so close, both of us, and I was so AWARE of him, so wrapped up in giving somebody else pleasure, DOING it with someone else –

“Carl!  Over here!!” Two wet guys floundered over in front of us, and jumped up to try to catch a beach ball, then fell back into the water like breaching whales. Spraying both of us; hard.

I twisted us around, facing the other way; and somehow, I pulled my mouth back from Cole’s.

His lips were so wet, and looked kind of – swollen – and his eyes were lidded, almost rolling up . . .

I panted once, twice, just looking at him. Then – “Cole. Let’s go.”

SPLASH!!  And somebody actually brushed against me, in the water, as more wet bodies chased the beach ball and more drops rained down.

“Shit.” From Cole; he blinked, and he slowly, reluctantly, unhooked his legs from around me, and I so, so hated to feel that. He came upright, standing on the bottom, still with his chest pressed against me, my arms still around him.

“Over here,” I whispered into his ear.

I pulled him, by one hand – I wouldn’t let him go completely; I couldn’t stand that – over to a clear edge, as the splashing chaos seemed to grow around us; and we hoisted ourselves up onto the deck. The head of my hard dick scraped over the side, as I pulled myself up, and I had to turn awkwardly to get over the edge of the pool.

The most embarrassing thing was running over to where our towels were; I was as hard as I’ve ever been, and Cole was hard, and there were more hoots and comments from the men in the water –

“I’m sorry, guys!  I’m really sorry,” went the first, nice voice, from earlier, and it sounded like he meant it, so I kind of gave him a kind of pained half-smile and a half-wave as I held my towel over my crotch with one hand, and held Cole’s wrist with my other, and we trotted over towards the house . . .

Okay. I confess.

I was determined to have Cole, by now. There was, like, No Way it was not going to happen. No way at all.

All my glands, my hormones, those millions and millions of strands of my DNA – all of my seminal vesicles, the Cowper’s Fluid leaking from the tip of my dick, all my excited little sperm just bumping around frantically, waiting to be released, that enterprising and excitable and always overactive prostate of mine – everything in my body was all set, all revved up, ready and enthusiastic and just aching to have an orgasm with Cole. A really fantastic, warm, wet, skin-to-skin, gasping, holding-him-against-me, loud, mutual orgasm . . .

Because I wanted, I really, really wanted to give him the best cum of his life, too. Whatever it took; whatever he wanted. I wanted to FEEL it, when he came, and get his semen on me. As in, all over me; slick and warm and slimy, all over my skin. Or in me. Yeah; even better; in me.

I wanted us to cum together. I really, really did. I NEEDED it.

I guess, just maybe, that part of me above the neck which is supposed to do the rational thinking . . . was taking a slight holiday, at that point.

Except for the practical consideration, that maybe in Jim and Greg’s house we could find a bedroom, or a nook or a corner or something, somewhere, where I could get Cole alone . . .

“Come on!” I pulled him, as fast as I could, up the side path to the door to the kitchen, trying to step on the walkway stones –

“Oh,” I said, as we barged into the bright kitchen; and three towel-clad men who all sort of reminded me of my dad, broke off their conversation to look at us. One of them held a piece of pita bread, as he munched, and munched, his moustache wriggling. I noticed, absurdly, some crumbs stuck in his black-and-grey chest hair. “Sorry to interrupt . . . ” I went on, and we pushed past them, awkwardly.

I barely remembered the layout of the house; I led us down a short hall, feeling some hugely expensive carpet runner under my bare feet, to a door.

It was locked.

“Fuck!”

And I felt Cole’s arms come around me, as he plastered his whole front up against my back, and his hard dick was kind of poking around against my butt, my thighs, and he squeezed tight, and I felt a flash of wet as his tongue licked my back . . .

Back down the hall, to another door. This one was unlocked, and I opened it, to the sight and sound of three naked bodies on the bed, moving and writhing – two of them older, a little more thick-set, and poking out from under the both of them the head and shoulders of the Music Major, his eyes closed, his mouth open, panting and gasping and whimpering in ecstasy as the two worked on him with their mouths and tongues and fingers . . .

And this time I felt the puff of laughter from Cole against my back, as I swung the door closed, gently; and I had to admit, it WAS a brutally hilarious situation, but –

But it didn’t stop Cole from rubbing against me, and his fingers from working over my nipples, and I wasn’t any less frantic, I still really needed, NEEDED to cum with him.

We tried everywhere.

The living room had eight naked men sitting on towels draped over the armchairs and couches, drinking from brandy glasses, discussing – whatever. We didn’t wait to find out what.

The changing room, where we all left our clothes? At least a half-dozen people, dressing or undressing, talking and laughing, as they hopped around one-legged, putting on socks, stripping off pants . . .

EVERY room. Locked; occupied, or both. We tried the bathroom last; locked, and from the sounds, and the noises, and the splashes, some sort of party all its own was going on inside.

I was slowly coming to realize, that maybe Jim & Greg’s parties were just a little less tame than I’d always thought.

Suddenly, Cole was skin-to-skin against my front, pressing, warm, his arms around my neck; somewhere he’d dropped the towel he carried. And then his mouth was on mine, again, and so SLICK against mine, again, and I was moving my hands over his back, and down his back, to his butt, pulling his crotch in to me, and I dimly realized that he was going for it, he wanted us to cum, right HERE, right in the hallways, because it was the only place we had, and I NEEDED to come with him –

“Oops. Excuse us,” I heard, and two of the living-room crowd squeezed past us in the hallway, and someone else came in from the patio, and –

“Fuuucckk!” I hissed. I felt like crying.

Cole made a moaning sound; kind of a desperate, moaning growl, and he put his cheek against my chest.

And then, it hit me.

“Here!  Come on!!” I let him go and pulled him, again, by the wrist, out the through the living room, past the World Council of Statesmen and out through the french doors onto the patio –

I’m not sure how many eyes looked at us, then. Not all of them, I hope; there must have been two dozen people, talking and drinking and hanging around the food and liquor tables. I mean, they didn’t ALL look up at us, as I pulled Cole out through the doors, and off to the side, did they?

I hope.

I pulled Cole around, past and around the crowd, keeping my head down, trying to ignore them all, me naked and still totally hard and not covered at all, and I swear I heard Cole laugh again –

And then we were in the nook. That semi-screened-off, unprivate, open-air little nook next to the patio, lined with candles around the edges, and as God is merciful, it was empty as always, and Cole was in my arms, and we were plopping down, full length on the terrycloth cover to the futon bed . . .

“Ooooohhhhhhh . . . ” Cole moaned, and in a second, he did something to push me over, and then I was lying flat out on my back, and he was stretched out full-length on top of me, warm, and rubbing against me. He lifted up his face, right above mine, and I was looking into his dark brown eyes, and his open, wet, panting mouth.

And then his mouth was on mine, again. And I was making my own noises, into his mouth.

I really, really liked making out with him in the water, in the pool – but this felt GOOD. Incredibly good; the weight of him, on me, horizontally, body to body, the warmth of skin to skin, mostly dry now in the night air . . .

And I really wanted HIM to feel that, too; so I rolled him over, him helping me, to be on the bottom, me on the top, ON him, and he groaned.

“Unnngghhh,” I panted. I ground my crotch into him, looking down at him, his face a little lower than mine, and I whispered. “Yeah. I want to make you come . . . ” And I covered his mouth with mine, again, and humped.

Through my fog, some part of my brain heard low voices, from close outside, right outside the wrought-iron trellis. “Christ . . . Come check this out!”

“Oh, my god!”, then laughter.

I pulled back from Cole’s mouth, just to look down at him, so, so beautiful there, underneath me . . . those eyes, that boy’s face – as I moved on top of him, against him, sliding my whole body against his erection, wishing I were sliding myself INSIDE him –

“Fuck me!  Please - ?” Cole’s face was screwed up; he was so close, I could tell.

“Uhhhh . . . ”

“Come on!  Please!!!” His arms tightened around my neck, and his legs came up around my waist, and I lowered my lips back down to his and lost myself in that wet mouth, moving against mine, again.

“Oh, shit!”, came another voice, from the other side of the iron trellis. “Look at that!  They’re beautiful!”

“Think they’re going to?”

“Shhhhhh!!!”

“I really want it!” Cole, whispering, now; his eyes desperate. “Come ON!”

Okay.

Here’s the thing.

I’m a . . . top. I mean, I really, really, REALLY like – anal intercourse. Fucking; which is much too coarse and brief and vulgar a word for something so beautiful. I LOVE anal intercourse; fucking. With somebody I care about. It’s so wildly, incredibly INTIMATE, actually BEING in somebody, being INSIDE somebody, penetrating, thrusting, bringing him to orgasm, FEELING him, when he orgasms . . .

And I so, so wanted to do that with Cole. To Cole. With Cole.

Inside Cole.

But.

There are technical . . . details, to take into consideration. And those details are one of the reasons why me being . . . big, down there, is a mixed blessing. Sometimes.

 “I . . . don’t want to hurt you,” I whispered back at Cole. Looking at him; trying to make him understand.

“Oh, come on, please!” His legs squeezed my waist, and he ground his crotch up into me.

“Philip, I can’t believe you’re watching!  Give them a break!”

Okay, again. Background.

My first time ever, as a top, was with Jesse. Of course. (My first time as a bottom, too – and that was FUN, but it’s a different story.)

I didn’t know as much then, as I know now. And to make a long story short – well, he wasn’t as relaxed as he could have been. As relaxed as I maybe could have made him. And there was a little bit of blood, involved. Just a little.

(And don’t think I didn’t pay for THAT, going forward. For a long, long time . . . that silent soldier, nobly suffering his wounds . . . the reminders, at certain, strategic moments . . . )

Ctrl-alt-delete. Again.

The point is – I didn’t want to do that to Cole. I didn’t want to hurt ANYBODY – but especially, I didn’t want to hurt Cole.

Oh, I wanted to fuck him, all right; oh, God, did I want to fuck him, right then, right there, I didn’t care who was watching, I really, really wanted to FUCK him, and make him COME –

But I knew I had to relax him, first; for a long, long time. It might take – a couple of dates, even. Patience, over time.

I didn’t want to hurt him. Ever.

And of course – much more important, there was the whole safety issue. Even though I’m HIV- and STD-free, it’d still mean a condom, and, well, standard-size condoms on me really kind of hurt, I always use my own larger-size ones, but I didn’t have any here –

And it was just an excuse. Because the most important thing was, – I didn’t want to hurt Cole.

Ever.

“Please - ?!” from Cole.

I panted, looking down at him, a long second. Torn; in spite of everything.

“No.” I panted another second. “I mean, I really, REALLY want to. God, you have no idea . . . But I need to, like, work on you, first; work on relaxing you. So, next time; okay? We’ll do it right, next time?”

It was another one of those moments. The ones that change things.

I looked down at him, kind of pleading with my eyes; and as I looked, I saw the corners of his mouth go up first, and then a smile was lighting up his whole face, and it finally dawned on me, he was smiling because I’d said there would BE a next time, that I WANTED there to be a next time; and the fact that he so clearly wanted there to be a next time made me start to smile too, until I felt myself just grinning down at him like an idiot, his arms still around my neck, our crotches still grinding together.

“Promise?” It was still almost a whisper; but his voice had a little bit of that cockiness back in it.

“I promise,” I said, and brought my mouth down to his to seal the deal, with a long, long wet kiss.

And the kiss just seemed to keep going on, and I just sort of sank deeper into it, and we were pushing together, down below our waists, more and more urgently, and then, the time for saying anything, anything at all coherent, was just SO past . . .

Okay. Confession.

I’m . . . really sexual. As in, really, REALLY sexual. I always have been.

And it’s always been something I’ve kind of kept – secret. Something I’ve kept hidden; even from, well, – I’ve kept it secret.

I can’t remember a time when I DIDN’T jack off, play with myself, down there; I just always did. I do remember my first dry orgasm, though; I was five, and rubbing my dick against the sheets in bed, and it started feeling better, and better, and then it – my dick – just started spasming, and I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, afraid that I’d broken something, but the feeling just went away . . .

And it was always about boys. Always.

I used to almost hyperventilate – when I was younger – when it was time to go swimming with other boys. Just the idea of seeing them, almost-bare, in swim trunks . . .

And then there was the exquisite agony when I started skinnydipping with friends, in junior high, and it was so, so, SO important not to look too close, so important to act NORMAL, like it was nothing special . . . nothing at all erotic . . .

And of course, that’s why I started going to Black’s Beach. Of course it was. Although the freedom and the comfort and the sheer beauty became much more important, real soon . . . Still. It was SEEING other boys, nude – BEING with other guys, all of us nude, being able to LOOK at those beautiful bare boys, in the water, playing frisbee, running around . . . a lot of them, looking back at me; the same way . . .

The nude boys were why I was there.

And then there were the crushes. Really strong, really sexual crushes; on boys on TV shows (the usual ones, though it was always weird to see my crush get younger when reruns recycled to earlier seasons), and boys in school –

I never let on. I never really let on, especially about those strong sexual feelings. Not even to Derrick.

Not even to Jesse.

Oh, I . . . hinted. And I expressed it . . . physically. And Jesse would sort of respond, and then kind of make a joke about it, and then, somehow, the thing would be twisted around, and sex would be something I’d get rewarded with, if I behaved myself . . .

This was SO different.

My first clue came as I was lying there, on top of Cole, making out with him, humping him, lost in the whole experience, the sensations, after all this time . . . and he somehow managed to push and pull me over, until HE was on top of ME, humping himself against me even more aggressively, more enthusiastically than I’d been doing him.

And the next clue was when he pulled himself away, up on his slender arms, looking down at me like some wild-eyed, teenage Peter Pan, with his mouth part open and wet, and his eyes slitted –

And in another second – he reversed. On me, again; but his head in my crotch, me feeling his hands on my balls, his smooth face rubbing against my dick, and I arched my back and groaned, really loud –

But more importantly – to me, anyway – his legs were straddling me, and his beautiful, smooth, PERFECT butt was right in front of my face; so, so close, and open to me, and kind of partly spread, already, and so AVAILABLE to me –

And in a second, my arms were around his waist, and my head was up, and I gave a long, long lick to one smooth cheek of his butt, and then I used my teeth and my open mouth – gently – on his other cheek –

“Come on!  You know you want it!”, from an arm’s length outside the trellis.

“Shhhhhhh - !”, from about six different voices; and an angry whisper from a seventh.

I barely registered them.

With my fingers, I gently pulled his cheeks even more open, and nuzzled into his crack with my nose and my lips and then, increasingly, my tongue, and I heard Cole whimper into my crotch, and he MOVED on top of me as he ground his dick against my chest, and then I almost, almost exploded as I felt the feathery, cool/warm/wet/slickness of his mouth and his tongue and his lips as he took my erection into his mouth, and I really, really SHOVED my face into his butt, and my tongue found the slickness of his anus and begin moving against it, tickling it, lapping against it –

Okay. Here’s another thing.

Rimming is something – that almost defines me. I love, love, LOVE doing it; as foreplay, or just as an end it itself; a way to get off, a way to get the OTHER guy off.

I’m a little bit obsessive about it, really. I mean – anybody I date, anybody I’m intimate with – they’re going to get rimmed. A lot. Deeply.

It helps . . . a lot . . . if the guy getting rimmed, likes it. Is into it.

Cole whined, my dick in his mouth, and pushed back against my tongue, and I swear, I swear, he opened himself up even more to me; giving that part of himself to me, giving me the opportunity to give him pleasure . . .

And I did it, I went IN, I went INTO Cole with my tongue, feeling the slickness of his anus around my tongue, and he spasmed above me, on top of me, and I felt him moaning or something as his mouth moved on my cock . . .

FLASH!, as the whole world exploded in light around me, then a couple more flashes, farther away, then another FLASH of brilliant light –

“No flash photography!” came a voice that I kind of dimly recognized as Greg’s, of Jim & Greg. “No faces!” He actually sounded mad.

“I think their faces are otherwise occupied,” said a dry voice, from somewhere near my shoulder.

“Shush!”, from next to the dry voice.

And then Cole was REALLY pushing himself back against my face, and I was licking and probing and then pulling back to spread him, and tease his anus with my fingertips, then back IN again, probing with my tongue, and that made Cole make noises around my cock again, and his whole body jerked and shuddered as he ground himself, his crotch, against my chest –

And then, all of a sudden, I felt a burst of wetness on my chest, my middle, as Cole orgasmed; and it went on for a long time, it seemed to me, but I kept on tonguing his clenched-up anus, and licking it, and poking against it . . .

And there was a second, a brief second, where my dick was out of his mouth, and sort of wagging, rubbery, wet, in the cool night air; and then, almost before he’d finished coming, his slick mouth and tongue slid down on it again, and his hand SQUEEZED my balls, my scrotum, gently but so, so sweetly, and then I was there, over the top, face still buried in Cole’s crack as I came, and came, and CAME . . . and with each pulse, his fingers massaged my balls, gently, tickled and caressed my balls, so tight up against my body now, fingering them, rhythmically, relentlessly, as I spasmed into his mouth . . .

“Mmmmpphh - !” I moaned, into Cole’s ass; so close, so intimate, as I slowly, slowly began to come down from the feelings.

“Beautiful,” from close outside, then somebody actually started clapping, and somebody else joined him, before laughter and another scolding voice made them stop.

Cole collapsed against me, warm, comfortable, relaxed, and wet, his breath on my wet dick; and then – I swear I felt him swallow. Finally.

And then, I heard/felt the strangest thing; a kind of humming, or purring, right up against my balls. A contented kind of humming. And as I hugged his waist, and stroked his back, it just kept going, on and on . . .

“Cole!”, came a voice.

“Dude!” This one was laughing. “Way to go! Oh, my god.”

“Always watch out for the cynical ones. . . ” More laughter.

“Cole, we need to get going. You’re going to miss your curfew, dude.”

I felt him stiffen, on top of me; and his head came up.

“Shit!  What time is it?” he called out.

“Nine thirty, dude.”

I turned my head, on the futon bed; it was the gaggle of high school boys, but they were all dressed, now, in high-school-boy-armor of hooded sweatshirts and baggy pants. And looking down at us; Cole and me.

And they weren’t alone; on the other side of the trellis, the whole crowd of adults, clumped around the food and drinks tables, or clumped together in groups, were looking at us too. Some of them pretending not to; some not caring.

As I started getting my breath back, it slowly began to come to me; what we’d just done.

In public.

“Shit!” Cole lifted his head up, then swiveled around on top of me, fast, so he was facing me, straddling my waist. “I’ve got to go, or I’ll be grounded for a month.” He looked wildly down at me; then his mouth was on mine, and it was a deep, DEEP kiss – in spite of how sloppy my mouth was, from being in his butt – and I tasted some of my cum in his mouth.

“Come on, dude!  If you’re coming.”

Cole pulled back, then he was off of me, and out of the niche, in a flash.

“Man, you’re a mess.” One of the laughing boys pointed at his middle, which was covered in Cole’s semen. A lot of it.

“Here.” I was up too, now, and I tossed him my towel. Cole started wiping himself, frantically; and the laughing boy had his arms around Cole’s shoulders, from behind, as he did. A second boy squeezed Cole’s arm, then grinned over at me as he copped a feel of his friend’s bare butt. I ignored him. “Cole . . . can I get your number?!”

I guess I sounded a little desperate. In front of . . . I don’t want to think about, how many people. But I didn’t care.

“Shit!” Cole looked up. “And I need yours. Who’s got some paper - ?”

Somebody pulled out a piece of torn-off binder paper, and a pen, and gave it to the laughing boy, who used Cole’s bare back as a desk. “Go ahead,” the laughing boy said to me, and I proceeded to give my cell number out in front of a couple of dozen people I didn’t know.

“What about yours?”

“More paper?” Cole looked around, a little frantic, until someone came up with a scrap; and then he whispered something to the laughing boy, and let himself be used as a desk, again, as the laughing boy obviously wrote out the number from memory. “Here,” he said, taking it from the boy and giving it to me. “But let me call you, okay? Please? When my mom isn’t around. . . ”

“Okay. Sure.”

I looked at him; and then, just for a second, we were both still, both just looking at each other, and then in a flash he was in my arms, pressed up against me, bare front to bare front,  pressing hard, arms around me, tongue between my lips, and it went on, and on as his friends whoo-hooed the way only teenage boys can do.

“Dude. . . ”, from the first voice, again.

Cole pulled back, and looked in my eyes, blinking. “I’ll call you,” he said; and then, with the gaggle of boys clustered around him, he was running towards the house, and his clothes.

And, just like that – I found myself standing there, in front of all those people. Naked; which was okay, but – still almost-hard; and still basically covered with Cole’s cum.

Knowing what they’d all just seen us do.

And, the beautiful little brat ran off with my towel; I had nothing to cover up with.

I’ve been embarrassed, humiliated, in public, before; there wasn’t a word for this. So, so EXPOSED; so completely, utterly, thoroughly mortified . . .

“Here,” went a voice, and I found a bottle of water in my hand. “I think you need it.” I looked up, and it was Greg, of Jim & Greg, smiling sympathetically at me.

“Thanks. . . ” My face still felt like a steam radiator, and the world still had that weird, pounding, unreal look to it; but I took the cap off the bottle, and took a drink. “I think . . . I think I’ll just go take another dip in the pool. . . ” I heard myself say, lamely, and I sort-of smiled back at him, and with all those eyes still on me – it felt like it, anyway – I tried to walk calmly away from the patio, back towards the comfortable darkness of the pool.

*  *  *  *  *

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