Here’s Looking at You, Kid

an accidental romance in fifteen parts

 

by Douglas

 

 

Chapter 3 – A Different Kind of Date

 

It was maybe just a little past noon when I walked out the front doors of dorm, past the security desk and the notice boards and the clumps of noisy students ebbing in and out of the building, and met Cole in the courtyard.

 

And, yeah; picking him out from the other people there, my eyes clicked to his, and his clicked to mine, and it was a jolt, almost a physical jolt, and I knew I flushed, and I couldn’t help it, I knew I had that same idiot grin all over my face. I mean, how uncool?

 

“Hey,” he said, as I stopped in front of him. His head tilted over to one side, a little, in that way I remembered from Friday night; still amused. “You look different with your clothes on.”

 

It’s a line I’ve heard before, from Black’s Beach days; but. It was cute, coming from him.

 

“And dry,” I agreed. “You too.” And I deliberately stepped up, hugged him – briefly – and kissed him on the cheek; then stepped back to look at him.

 

He DID look different; big, multicolored cross-trainers which made his feet look enormous, and some sort of dark baggy pants, and a long-sleeved t-shirt, a sweatshirt in his hand . . .

 

I missed being able to see the body I knew, underneath. But at the same time, it was – interesting.

 

I mean, we take so many clues from clothes; things like, well, geography (I remember the first time I saw a cute farm boy with great abs in a short-cut, mesh t-shirt and a REAL tractor cap, out in the Central Valley), and economic status, and background, and, I don’t know, ethnicity, maybe – there are thousands of clues we don’t consciously think about. But above all, especially age; for the first time, I could really, really tell that Cole was a teenager, a high school boy.

 

And his hair. I’d only seen it wet, before; now, it was dry, and straight, thick, and fine, cut in an older-teenage-boy’s cut, that subtle, slightly-longer kind of cut that frames the face just a little . . . it looked wonderfully soft, and I wanted to touch it.

 

No gel, thank God.

 

I actually mentioned it, a little abruptly, as we headed north along the street, towards the campus, walking side by side. It was almost the first thing out of my mouth. “I like your hair. A lot.”

 

“Really?” He sounded pleased. “Thanks. I know I need to get it cut shorter, soon – I mean, permanently shorter. I’m kind of outgrowing this. But I do like it; I think I’ll miss it.” And he made a show of tossing his head, to make his hair swish.

 

“You don’t have to cut it on my account.”

 

That brought a grin. Then: “But I thought you were into older guys. Or older-looking guys?”

 

“Jeez! You like being direct, don’t you?” No answer, except his corners-turned-up-grin. “Well, I guess maybe I am, and maybe I’m not.” Pause, for a second, as we walked. “But what about you? I thought you were into older guys, too? Older than me?”

 

“Oh, we’ll see. You do look young, but you kind of remind me of my mom.”

 

“Brat.”

 

 

My car was in a student lot, clear on the other side of the campus; so we crossed Bancroft, then down, and into the campus, heading through Sproul Plaza – all stone and brick paving and manicured trees, and dozens of hand-lettered signs and posters for any cause and interest imaginable, chained down to the stonework – and then through the arched iron-work of Sather Gate. And off to one side, up a slope, the white-stone tower of the Campanile, the bell tower, the symbol of Cal, standing up against the hot blue sky.

 

It was my second year at U.C. Berkeley; and still, every time I passed this way, through Sather Gate, I still got a little emotional bump, knowing I was a student here, I was PART of this, I was part of this incredible community of students, I BELONGED here . . .

 

As long as I kept working hard enough, anyway. And my folks kept up the payments.

 

“So, I was thinking . . . maybe we could go see the new deYoung Museum, in San Francisco? If you haven’t been there yet, anyway,” I went, as we were passing Durant Hall.

 

“Ahhhh. We could. But, actually, that was the last time I was over there; me and my mom.”

 

“Oh. Okay. Well, we can do almost anything; the Asian Art Museum – ”

 

“That was the time before. My mom’s into museums.” He shrugged, apologetically.

 

“Doesn’t matter.” I looked over at him, walking next to me. “We could go to the Metreon to see a movie, or wander through Golden Gate Park – ”

 

“That would be cool! I haven’t done that in a long time.”

 

“ – as long as we don’t miss dinner.” I glanced back over at him. “I made reservations at seven o’clock for us at Foreign Cinema; ever hear of it?”

 

“Maybe - ?”

 

“It’s really, really interesting. It’s in the Mission; and it’s got outdoor seating, and really good food, and they actually project foreign movies against the wall, real foreign movies, while you eat; it’s just incredibly cool, and very atmospheric.” I tried not to grin, as I described it. It was pricey; and I’d only been there once, on one of my disastrous first dates. But Derrick, as usual, bless him, knew somebody who knew somebody . . . I’d scored, getting the reservations.

 

And, it was my treat; that made it more fun.

 

“Uh-huh,” went Cole, walking beside me; then he slowed up, and stopped, and I turned to face him.

 

“What?”

 

“So, let me guess. This is, like, the impress-the-younger-boy-with-how-sophisticated-we-are date?” Again that amusement, that tilt of the head.

 

“No! I – ”

 

And I stopped, still, and just looked at him, for a second.

 

“You know,” I said, slowly, “come to think of it – I think I got taken on one of those, once, myself.” Some memories from San Diego and Jesse came back and, watching my face, Cole’s smile got a little bit bigger.

 

“But,” I went on, using a little irony of my own, “no. No, this is more the, show-the-boy-you-like-him-for-more-than-his-body date. Or, that was the idea.”

 

Another one of those moments of defining clarity; that energy, between us. And amazingly, as I watched, he actually blushed; his face got a little red, and his smile got a little bigger.

 

“Oh. One of those kinds of dates. Well; I already knew THAT. That you liked me for more than just sex.”

 

“You did?”

 

“Yeah. You’re not that hard to read.” He turned and started walking again, and I fell in beside him. “So, you don’t need to spend a lot of money to prove it. We can save it for another time.”

 

Another little pulse of electricity, there. The reference to another time . . .

 

“Besides,” he went on, looking at me sideways, “do you really think we’re dressed right, for Foreign Cinema?”

 

“Huh?” I looked down at myself. I had on, I don’t know . . . long pants, and my running shoes, and a white sweatshirt . . .

 

“Tsk,” he went; and he shook his head in mock-sorrow, and then, head-rush of all head-rushes, he actually took hold of my hand, just briefly, as we walked; and my heartbeat went racing up, and I could feel myself flushing bright red. “You are going to need some help from me. I can tell.”

 

“You should talk to Derrick . . . ” I somehow managed to get it out.

 

 

*

 

 

“I can’t believe this!,” Cole laughed. “This is so unreal!” He tilted his head way back, looking up through the open sunroof, grinning in delight.

 

The top deck of the Bay Bridge is one of the most photographed places in the world: it’s the westbound section, with the massive, grey steel bridge towers marching ahead, framing the view in front; and off to the right, the hills and skyscrapers of San Francisco, growing up, it seems, right out of the water, and further west, the orange Golden Gate bridge, almost obscured by a solid wall of blue-gray fog, flowing into the bay, piling up, towering over everything.

 

Yeah; you’ve seen it in pictures and TV commercials, but BEING there is something else. The fresh wind from the open windows and sunroof (and the sunroof in a Mini Cooper is BIG), and the bulge of the bridge deck rising up gently in front of us as we went, the contrast between the warm summer air and the fresh ocean breeze, and the sheer, heart-stopping BEAUTY of the city framed in the blue water and that surreal wall of cool fog . . . the sunlight glittering on the water was bright enough to hurt my eyes, but it was worth it. It was a moment for feeling alive.

 

Having Cole in the seat next to me, inches away – helped.

 

“Wow! Oh, wow!” he called out, as we passed under the first bridge tower, and he watched from underneath. “I’ve never seen that before, it is just AMAZING!” He twisted in his seat, looking back; then up, then forward again. “I absolutely fucking love this car! Although it does feel a little bit like riding on the freeway, on a skateboard . . . ”

 

“Hey! It’s not THAT small!”

 

And just then, an AC Transit bus went roaring by on the right side, incredibly close, looming over us like a loud, threatening, mobile cliff; and Cole laughed, though I could barely hear him.

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I went, when I could, after the bus went by. “So . . . what are we going to do, again? Where are we going?”

 

 

The whole way from Berkeley, up ‘til then, we’d just been . . . talking. About anything; about nothing.

 

And, it was so, so comfortable, again; like it had been, back in the pool, before . . . well, you know. Back when we were just talking. I felt like I was reconnecting with him, getting to know him, all over again. And it felt – good.

 

 

“I don’t know. The park? That sounds calm. And kind of peaceful,” he said.

 

“Or . . . ” I felt an idea coming on, kind of a wicked one, and I started to smile.

 

“What?”

 

“You know . . . we COULD do something different.” I glanced over at him, quickly, as the signs for the different Bay Bridge turnoffs began looming up; then back at the road. “We could play tourists; like real, out-of-town tourists, just for the day?”

 

“How out-of-town?”

 

I glanced over again, and saw that amused, turned-up-corner smile starting up on his smooth face.

 

“Totally out-of-town! We could, like, ride the cable cars to Fisherman’s Wharf, and, I don’t know, go to the Wax Museum – ”

 

“Oooh! Could we go to Ripley’s Believe It or Not? I’ve always wanted to go to Ripley’s Believe It or Not -  !” The smile got broader.

 

“You haven’t been yet? Of course we can!”, I went, “Absolutely! And we could do a tour bus thing, and wander around, and look at the fishing boats, and buy souvenirs – ”

 

“Oh, dude!” He was laughing, again. “Will you get me one of those, ‘Alcatraz Swim Team’ t-shirts? I would SO love that!”

 

“If you get me one of those, ‘I Got Crabs At Fisherman’s Wharf’ t-shirts.”

 

“Oh, cool, perfect! This’ll be so much FUN!” And he leaned back in his seat, laughing and hugging himself.

 

“Deal!”

 

 

*

 

 

I’d forgotten about the cable cars; what they’re like. I really had.

 

Cole and I waited for a Hyde Street car, at the Powell and Market turntable, and when it came, we made sure to on the outside, on the running board, hanging on to the handholds –

 

If you do a cable car, do NOT let them put you inside. That’s like riding a bus. The outside seats are okay; but standing up, on the running board, hanging on – that’s best. You’re just THERE, in the moment, with the mechanical clanking of the steel wheels and the grip, and the whine of the cable running in the slot, just zooming along inches away from cars and trucks and pedestrians, rolling through the most beautiful neighborhoods, down quiet streets, around sharp corners, and then there’s the long descent, more of a barely-controlled, near-catastrophic slide, down the hill to Aquatic Park, and the edge of the Bay and Alcatraz almost at the end of the street . . .

 

We were laughing, most of the way. Partly because we were deliberately bumping each other – he started it, the little brat – but really, mostly, just because it was such a rush.

 

It was FUN.

 

And from there, from Aquatic Park, we headed off to be Dork Tourists. As deliberately Dork Tourists as we could manage.

 

 

We cut back up through Ghirardelli Square first, this multi-level, maze-like, red brick complex of old buildings, turned into shops and restaurants – getting ourselves lost in the process. But we did get the chocolate bars we wanted to buy. And it was too famous a landmark to ignore.

 

And then we came back out of Beach Street, which was just PERFECT, with sidewalk vendors with velvet paintings of cavorting dolphins, and artists doing cartoons of tourists on the spot, and then –

 

“Oh, wait, wait, look at THIS!”, from Cole, at the first t-shirt shop we came to. He plunged inside, and I followed him.

 

“What?”

 

‘This’ turned out to be – not just an Alcatraz Swim Team t-shirt; it was an all-black, stark shirt with sober white block letters, very official-looking, ‘ALCATRAZ FEDERAL PENITENTIARY SWIM TEAM’. On the front AND the back.

 

“I have to have this.” Those brown eyes, over that turned-up-corners-smile, looking up at me, as he held the shirt up over his chest. “I just do. Buy it for me?”

 

“It’s perfect! Oh, my god.” I took the shirt, held it up, looked at the tag. “But what about me? Crabs at Fisherman’s Wharf, you know?”

 

And as I was talking, Cole’s eyes went right past me, and I swear they opened even wider, and he started laughing. He took my hand, and spun me around.

 

“You have to,” he said, between laughs, catching his breath. “You have to. I am SO totally getting this for you.”

 

It was another t-shirt; it was red, and it said, ‘OFFICIAL HOOTERS® QUALITY CONTROL INSPECTOR’.

 

I think I turned about as red as the shirt. “Oh, no. No way. No way am I going to wear that out in publ – ”

 

“Come onnn! We both agreed. I’m getting this for you, and you’re going to wear it!” Still laughing, he pushed his way over to the red t-shirt, fussed around until he got one that was just ‘Large’ rather than ‘Extra Large’ or ‘XXX-Large’ – (which made me wonder about the sort of guy who usually bought a shirt like that) – and we went up to pay for them.

 

And somehow, when we wound up on the sidewalk again, we’d also gotten a San Francisco Cable Car snow globe, a booklet of postcards, a giant pencil decorated with San Francisco scenes, a gold plastic model of the Golden Gate Bridge, a couple of keychains –

 

 

Okay. Here’s the thing. I am NOT making fun of tourists.

 

I mean, I’m from San Diego; when it comes to SF, I AM a tourist. I barely know my way around.

 

And, and, I’m not even making fun of Fisherman’s Wharf, or any tourist area, actually. I LIKE places like Fisherman’s Wharf; or parts of the San Diego Zoo, or Tijuana, or Cannery Row in Monterey . . . they aren’t places for good food, or culture, or anything, but they’re FUN, it’s like going to a carnival, or a fair . . . it’s just, in a weird, way, kind of fun. I mean, these are places that are welcoming to everybody, in every language, they’re places that are going out of the way to try to amuse you, entertain you . . . and make it easy to spend your money, of course. And usually, they don’t have too many pretensions. I like that, too.

 

Okay. So I also like snowglobes. That one I have to admit.

 

If you haven’t been to Fisherman’s Wharf – you should go.

 

 

We crossed the street in the middle of the block, through gridlocked, crawling cars, past a bicycle cab cranking along between the parked cars and the stalled traffic. Opposite the t-shirt shop was a kind of grassy lawn with pine trees, part of the grounds of the Maritime Museum; it overlooked the little sandy beach at Aquatic Park, with the little boats anchored in the protected cove off the beach, and the big ships of the museum parked along a pier jutting out into the bay, in the distance.

 

Cole immediately stripped off his white shirt, to put on his new t-shirt, right out there in public, on the grass, and of course I just kind of gawked at seeing his smooth bare chest and boyish-muscular shoulders in the foggy sunshine, and of course I got busted by him, big-time; he smiled up at me, and he took his time, a long time, feeling around in his new t-shirt, taking off the price sticker and shaking it out and looking at it, before putting it on again . . .

 

His nipples are kind of brown. I hadn’t been able to tell, in the dark.

 

“Go on,” he went, after he pulled the shirt on, as he smoothed the cloth over his stomach. “Your turn.”

 

So I went ahead and began pulling off my own shirt, and he didn’t even pretend NOT to look, he just stood there, smiling, looking close, as I pulled it off over my head; then I fumbled awkwardly with the new shirt, and I looked up, and the look on his face was priceless, his mouth was open just a little, and his eyes were all over my bare torso, and the his expression – I can only describe it as, maybe – kind of hungry . . .

 

I got hard. Enormously. Instantly.

 

“Shit!” I had to laugh, but it was so still so embarrassing, and I turned away from the street as I pulled the new shirt over my head. It didn’t go below my waist very much.

 

“C’mere,” went Cole, and he pulled me further away from the street, over to the concrete stadium seats that lead down to the beach. “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

 

“It’s not my fault!” I half-laughed, still embarrassed.

 

“It’s not my bulge,” he said. He shook his head, mock-sorry for me. “What the hell did you do about that when you were my age? Like, in high school?”

 

“Wore tighter jockey shorts. Mostly.” I looked over at him. “And what about you - ?”

 

“Yeah, I’m hard. And that’s what I’m wearing now.” More head-shaking, suppressing a smile. “Maybe we should get you some souvenir San Francisco Underpants while we’re here, too . . . ”

 

 

*

 

 

We did the Wharf; really well.

 

We went to the Wax Museum, and then to Ripley’s Believe it Or Not (and THAT was even more fun and interesting than I thought it would be – there’s a lot of strange stuff in the world), and then down a block and then along Jefferson, where the fishing boats actually do dock – and I was surprised, standing at the railing, looking at the boats; some of them were clearly tourist boats, but a lot of them were these tiny, kind of dirty, wooden fishing boats that looked totally authentic – we wondered if anybody actually used them anymore, and if they actually went outside the Bay – and then further down, past steaming, smelly sidewalk crab pots, and whole-crabs-on-ice, and nice looking restaurants and dumpy looking restaurants . . .

 

Talking, the whole way.

 

 

Oh, sometimes it was serious, of course. Like when I asked Cole about his mom, after he called on his cell, to check in with her.

 

“Seems like she keeps you . . . under a close watch.”

 

We were walking slowly down the main pier of the Maritime Museum, a big, paddle-wheel ferry on one side of us, and an honest-to-gosh, three-masted sailing ship on the other side. I mean, it was HUGE.

 

“Maybe,” he said. Then, after another step of two – “kind of. More like, she worries.”

 

I just looked at him, once.

 

“Well . . . the breakup thing with Michael was kind of – messy.” He put his hands in his pockets, and for once, he didn’t look at me. “I mean, I was kind of messy. Like, telling her everything. Too much, actually.”

 

“You came out to her?”

 

“Yeah.” He made a face. “And then some. It wasn’t real pretty.” He looked up, at the towering side of the clipper ship, and the masts just soaring up, overhead. “Can you imagine actually going out to sea, in that thing? I mean, to, like, Europe, or China?”

 

“No. I’d freeze to death on the first night.” I looked up, with him. “We’ve got a ship like this down in San Diego; I think they used to belong to the same company. They sailed to Alaska, if you can believe it.” I looked back down at Cole. “So – what happened?”

 

“Oh, not that much,” he went, looking down, again. That half-smile starting up. “I was a mess, and she freaked, and she dragged me to the UC Health Center.” He made a little shaking motion with his head. “I thought I had, like, gonorrhea or something, and she was sure I had HIV, and so she just, totally freaked. So I got tested for just about everything, and then we did it all over again a month later, and then the month after that . . . all negative, thank God. I have to give Michael that much; he must have been fairly safe, with everybody else, at least.”

 

“That’s a lot.” I felt a rush of – relief. For Cole.

 

“Yeah . . but anyway, I really was a mess, for kind of a long time; and since then, she’s been a little – protective, maybe. She wants to hear from me, more often. And like you saw – I’ve got a curfew.” The mischievous smile was back in bloom, now.

 

I wanted to ask – I REALLY wanted to ask – if she’d tried to make any legal trouble, for Michael, over the whole thing.

 

But I didn’t.

 

I couldn’t; not with Cole right there, in front of me. More vulnerable, more open, than I’d seen, yet. I could tell from his face, there was a lot he wasn’t saying, about his breakup.

 

More silence, for a little bit, together, gazing up at the big ships on either side of us; noticing them move against the mooring ropes, just a little bit, on the cool breeze coming in though the Golden Gate. Then –

 

“What about you?”, asked Cole. “How was it with your parents? Coming out, I mean.”

 

I shrugged; and puffed out a small laugh. A not-very-happy one. “I’ll let you know when it happens.”

 

“No way.” Cole stared up at me.

 

“Oh, they know. Of course they do. I’ve never in my life dated a girl, or pretended to. And Derrick . . . well. He’s kind of – obvious. Bless him.” I put my own hands in my pockets, and stared up at the sailing ship; looking at the coarse texture of the grey-and-black-painted hull plates, at the tips of the masts, moving against the sky as the ship floated. “And then . . . Jesse was around. A lot.”

 

“No way! What were you thinking?”

 

The sheer astonishment in his voice told me a lot.

 

“Yeah. Well, I guess I wasn’t, really. Thinking, I mean. I told my parents he was one of my friends’ older brother. Pretty good older brother, to constantly be giving me rides places, huh?” I gave him a kind of wry smile.

 

“I can’t believe you’d do that! My mom never even knew Michael’s name. I always had cover stories, for when I was with him.”

 

“Yeah . . . ”  Actually, I hated lying to people. Especially my parents; it just felt so – creepy. “Anyway. The point is, I couldn’t really ever officially come out to my folks, without busting Jesse. It would have been so obvious. It still would be; even now. And I don’t want to get him into trouble.” A family with a couple of little kids – a girl, and a boy – went up the gangplank of the sailing ship, the kids running and shouting and making a huge clatter with their feet.

 

“But,” I went on, after a second, “they still knew. When I broke up with Jesse, I was, like, in bed for three days.” I laughed, a little. “I was a mess, too. And my mom, just, like, made all my favorite meals, and was, like, so sweet, and my dad . . . ”  I realized I was actually beginning to – well, blink a little, thinking about my parents. Back then. And still, actually.

 

“But you didn’t tell them?”, from Cole. Quietly.

 

“No. We don’t talk about things like that. We – avoid confrontation. I guess.”

 

“I guess.” Cole was looking at me like I was some kind of alien.

 

“But. I DO want to come out to them. Someday. Soon.”

 

And at that – there was a slightly complicated silence. As I realized what I’d just said; basically, that dating Cole – dating someone underage – would make it harder for me to come out. Would have a downside. And I was mentally kicking myself for saying it, and trying to think of something to say to undo it, and coming up completely blank –

 

And I could tell Cole was seeing right through me, just from his expression. That amusement, again. Working on multiple levels.

 

“Well,” he went. “Coming out hasn’t exactly make my life – easier.” He looked up the gangplank, where the nuclear family had gone a second ago. “You want to go up on the ship?”

 

“Sure.” I shrugged. “That’s why we bought the tickets.”

 

“Cool.” That mischievous, up-at-the-corners smile, again. “You can be the grizzled old sea captain, and I can be the young little cabin boy. Trying really hard to please.” The irony was really clear.

 

So I just gave him a look. “Brat.”

 

 

*

 

 

And on the sailing ship, and on the other ships, on the wharf – it was easy, being with Cole. Talking with Cole; laughing with Cole. SO easy.

 

And a part of me was sort of standing aside, watching all this, the way you do on a first date – kind of detached, am-I-enjoying-this?, and – I could tell, of course, Cole was doing the same thing; everybody does it, I could see that little, detached look in his face, now and then –

 

We were both having a good time. It was really easy to tell.

 

 

We wound up, eventually, at Pier 39; this built-for-tourists amusement pier, all kind of brightly-painted, weathered wood jutting out into the bay, with two levels on either side, places to eat like Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. and Hard Rock Cafe, and dozens of places for fast-food fish and sushi and hamburgers, with street performers and souvenir shops and what must have been, maybe, the single biggest concentration of nuclear families – all tourists – in the whole area.

 

I mean, Berkeley and San Francisco aren’t really known for traditional family structures, after all.

 

And eventually – well, we DID stop for some fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies; just to hold us over until dinner – eventually, we got to the best part of Pier 39; the sea lions.

 

“See?” I told Cole. “Just like I said.”

 

“Oh, cool!” Cole pushed his way up closer – there’s always a crowd – and looked down.

 

It’s the best thing at the whole pier; and it’s an accident.

 

When they built Pier 39, they included a boat marina; with floating walkways, and boat berths – it was fairly elaborate. And it was supposed to make a lot of money for the developers.

 

Then the sea lions decided to move in.

 

If you’ve never seen one – sea lions can be big. REALLY big; as in, hundreds and hundreds of pounds, ten feet long . . . and for some reason, (maybe all the fish restaurants at the pier), a whole bunch of sea lions decided that those floating walkways and platforms of that boat marina would be the perfect place to haul out of the water, bask in the sun, flop against each other, argue a little –

 

Okay. They didn’t take over the WHOLE marina; just a big chunk of it.

 

But they did move in; and they haven’t moved out.

 

At first, the developers tried to move them off. With things like high-pressure fire hoses; as if a thousand-pound, intelligent mammal that lives in the water cares much about getting splashed . . .

 

That went on for a long time, I’d read, and I got the impression that the sea lions enjoyed the whole thing. And then – the developers discovered that the tourists LIKED the sea lions; I mean, who wouldn’t? Seeing these huge, cute, but totally wild animals, up close?

 

The sea lions won. And maybe brought more tourists, and more money, to Pier 39 than the boats would have.

 

“You know, of course, that they’re all adolescent boys?” I leaned on the wooden rail, next to Cole, looking down. There were at least a hundred sea lions on the floating platforms below us; sleeping, yakking . . . “The sea lions, I mean. Adolescent males.”

 

“No way!” That delighted grin, again.

 

“Way. Well, mostly younger males, anyway; just look at the signs on the wall. These guys hang out here, because the adult males drive them off – to keep them away from the harems. The females.”

 

“Adolescent males, hm?” went Cole, looking down. Below us, two of the sea lions were playing; trying to push each other off of one of the floats with loud barking, and shoving each other with their chests. “Well, I guess that explains a lot.”

 

“Including the smell.”

 

“Hey! I resent that!” He shoved his hip against mine, almost knocking me over.

 

“Sorry! Sorry,” I laughed. “I didn’t mean you. You smell good.”

 

“I taste better.”

 

“Your butt sure does,” I went, and clapped my hand over my mouth as Cole threw back his head and laughed. I tried to keep from looking around, to see if anybody heard me.

 

 

A contented quiet, then, for a few seconds, as we watched the smooth bodies sleeping and playing below us, and listened to the barking. Then, from Cole;

 

“You know . . . this DOES all kind of remind me of something.” Turned-up half-smile, again. “Let’s see. All this water, and all the wet bodies, pressed up together . . . lying on top of each other . . . and the fact that they’re all boys – hm. Is it giving you any ideas?”

 

Where we were standing, the breeze from the Golden Gate was steady, and cool. He reached over and just gently rubbed two fingertips over my wrist, and I got goosebumps, and I shivered; and he saw it, the brat.

 

“Yeah,” I said, a little ironically, to cover up my swelling down there, below the waist – yet again. “Yeah. It does sort of remind you of a party, doesn’t it?” I looked up at the people, all up and down the rail and the wooden walkway, crowding in from behind, just gazing down, fascinated. “Complete with an audience.” Some digital camera flashed once, then twice. “And photography. Well, at least the sea lions don’t have to worry about getting their pictures taken.”

 

Greg, of Jim & Greg, had gone around the crowd at the party and made everybody delete their pictures of us. Bless him.

 

“Oh, I’m not worried about that. Trevor’s pictures are really good; but you can’t tell who we are. Not very well, anyway.”

 

“What?!” I looked over at him.

 

“Well, yeah. That guy – the owner?”

 

“Greg.”

 

“He made Trev delete his pictures, so Trev did, and then he undeleted them. They’re pretty hot, actually,” he went on, a little smugly. “Especially what you’re doing to me; makes me shiver to look at it.” He put his arms around himself, enjoying my reaction. “I’ll give you a DVD, next time we get together. You’ll like them.”

 

“Oh, Jesus,” I moaned, and covered my face.

 

“Relax, Jeremy. I told you, nobody can tell who we are. And it’s just between you and me. Well, and Trev, of course.” He put one arm up around my shoulders, and squeezed.

 

“Of course.” I looked back at him sideways, and tried to keep my voice down. “You share EVERYTHING with Trevor? I mean, isn’t this a little – much?”

 

Again, with the grin; but this time, there was something a little – calculating, in his eyes. Watching my reaction. “Not really. Trev and I have been jackoff buddies since, like, elementary school. We do each other, actually; we’ve been doing each other for years and years, and he’s seen it all, believe me. Well,” he went on, thoughtfully, “except for some of the stuff we did Friday night . . . ”

 

“Oh.” I swallowed. “Okay.” I looked down at the water. Thinking of Jesse screwing around, while we were together. Really, really not liking this news; the feelings it brought back.

 

“’Course, we don’t do each other when one of us is dating. Nah; that would be gross.” And I looked up to see that impish little smile back on his face; and the silence stretched on, one beat, two beats . . .

 

“We should think about dinner,” I said, finally, to change the subject.

 

“Okay. But remember, you promised me something soft.” He worked his jaw, a little, his brown eyes twinkling at me. “After seeing those pictures, I’m surprised I can eat at all.”

 

 

*

 

 

We kept in character, for dinner; we ate at a Boudin Bakery stand, further back on the pier, where you can get steamy clam chowder in bowl-shaped, hollowed-out loaves of sourdough bread. It’s really good, actually. Especially when it’s breezy and cool outside, and you eat on the outdoor benches and tables.

 

And after all; clam chowder IS easy to eat. All joking aside.

 

We were both just beginning to dismantle the bread bowls, when Cole’s cell went off. I didn’t hear it; he had it set to vibrate.

 

“Oh, shit,” he said, looking at who was calling. “I know this is incredibly rude, but it’s Trev. And he’s my cover story today; we’re supposed to be here in San Francisco together.”

 

Again that reminder; sneaking around, lying to parents. I just nodded, as I tried not to wince.

 

“Hey,” went Cole, as he opened his phone, and brought it up to his ear. “Everything all right?”

 

Long pause, as Cole listened; then he laughed. “Okay, I will.” He held his phone up, so he could look at the screen, and pointed the little camera lens at me. “Smile,” he said – I didn’t – and he pressed a button; and then did the scroll-down-the-address-book, and hit-send kind of thing, and then went back to talking.

 

And while he talked, I took the opportunity to look at him.

 

I mean, I’d BEEN looking at him, all afternoon; but it’s different, looking at somebody while they’re not looking back. While they’re talking to somebody else; that’s usually a good time. You can study them; study the way they move, the way they talk; the little things, like the breeze ruffling his soft hair, the shape of his fingers, as he held the phone . . . The curve of his cheek; so smooth – I didn’t think he shaved, yet – and so, so DIFFERENT, kind of delicate, but still, I don’t know, boyishly masculine, maybe –

 

Cole’s brown eyes came up and met mine, and I knew I was busted again. He smiled that slightly maddening, knowing smile.

 

“Trev says you look different with your clothes on.”

 

“Thanks a lot.” I tried to say it just loud enough for the irony to carry to the phone. Glad that we were the only people out on the deck, right then.

 

“Yeah,” said Cole, into the phone; then he listened some more. “Yeah . . . yeah . . . no, you doofus, you can’t see his tongue in that picture.” His eyes came up to meet mine, again, laughing. “No, you DEFINITELY can’t see that either . . . ” and I covered my face with my hands.

 

“Yeah,” Cole was saying into the phone, again; then listening. He looked up at me, again. “It’s Sunday, so I need to be back by 9:30 tonight. Are we going to be that late?”

 

“Probably. I thought of one more thing we’ve got to see, before we get back.”

 

“Okay.” Back to the phone. “Right around 9:30, then. You okay with that?” He listened some more, then smiled. “Cool. Okay; I’ll phone you after I get home; promise.” Another pause to listen. “Bye.” And he flipped the phone closed. “He’s kind of lying low, with a friend of ours; he didn’t want to go home until I went home. Our moms know each other pretty well, and they talk.”

 

“Makes sense.” I was trying not to remember what Cole had said about being jack-off buddies with Trev, and not being very successful. “That’s really . . . nice of him, to do this for you.”

 

“I’ve done it for him too.” Cole shrugged, and tore off more bread.

 

“Does he really have those pictures of us?” It just came out.

 

“Does that bother you?” Those amused eyes on mine, again. “You didn’t seem very bothered when he was taking them. When the other people were taking pictures, either.”

 

“My . . . mind was on other things.” I smiled at him, and he smiled back, around his mouthful of bread.

 

“Well,” he said, after swallowing; then his mouth screwed up. “Ouch; that still hurts a little.” He massaged his jaw. “Yeah, he’s got those two pictures. But he’s got a LOT more of me, like, nude, and stuff; and he’s got shots of him and me together, doing – well, like jerking each other. Some really good shots. We’re both into photography, and he’s really good at it.”

 

“Jesus,” I breathed. And I looked around; nobody was close enough to hear.

 

“In fact,” he went on, cocking his head a little as he looked at me, “I was thinking of getting him to take some more shots of us, of you and me, making out, making love; having sex. Especially fucking; I’d really like to see some good shots of us fucking. Maybe some videos, too, Trev and I both want to explore that a little more. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

 

Again, with that verbal jabbing; keeping me off balance.

 

And hard as a rock, and breathing so fast I was almost panting, in a second.

 

“Jesus! Are you serious?”

 

“Sure. Not to give to anybody else; and not for porn, I really don’t like most porn. Just home pictures, and home movies. I think we should do it.” He looked up at me, almost batting his eyes.

 

“You enjoy doing that, don’t you?” I knew I was bright red, and I wouldn’t be able to stand up in public for – well, awhile. “You really like catching me like that.”

 

“Yeah,” he said, and his smile was adorable. “I really do.” Then his smile changed, and something more serious crept in behind it. “You know what, Jeremy?”

 

“What?”

 

“I think you need it. I think this Jesse person, like, starved you for sex. I think he used sex to keep you in line; and I think he did it just because he enjoyed having that kind of power over you. Even without the screwing-around-on-you part, I really don’t like him, and I’ve never met him.”

 

I just listened. Slightly stunned.

 

“I think you NEED it, I think you need somebody as horny as you are to sleep with and fool around with and FUCK with, a whole lot, someone to really explore sex with; and I think I might just decide to be that person, for awhile. I think I might just make you my project.” He smiled, and there was something kind of smug about it.

 

And adorable. Yeah; but also smug.

 

“Yeah?” I wasn’t getting any less hard.

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Okay,” I started. And as I went, the thoughts – I guess, the things I’d been noticing, the things I’d been thinking, subconsciously – just started coming to me. “Okay. You know what I think?”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“I think you’re right. About me, and, and – well. You’re right. But I also think there’s a reason why you like to be kind of shocking, and why you like to get me hard in public. I think you used to do it with Michael, just to get his attention; just to get him to take you seriously, every once in awhile; and not ignore you, not treat you like, well, just a kid.” I noticed his mouth beginning to open, a little, and he stared at me; and I knew I was on the right track. “And, well. You don’t need to get my attention; you’ve GOT my attention. You’re smart, and you’re interesting, and I already take you seriously. And when I do fuck you and make you come – ”

 

Hey, Cole’s not the only one who can enjoy being a little shocking, once in awhile –

 

“When I do fuck you to orgasm, it’ll be because of who you are, the PERSON you are; not because you’re young. Because I, I, like you . . . ”

 

And with that, I kind of ran out of steam, and trailed off, a little lamely; which was maybe a good thing, because Cole was flushing really, really heavily, and breathing almost like me, and we sat there across the table from each other, for a long tick of seconds, not saying anything.

 

Then Cole looked up at me, a little shamefaced, and he grinned.

 

“I could use a pair of those San Francisco souvenir underpants right now, too. I’m getting a little wet down there.”

 

“Yeah. Me too.” Actually, I was a whole lot wet, with precum; I could feel it. I’ve always been a heavy leaker.

 

“Do you think we dare get up and start walking?” That tilt of the head, that ironic twitch of a smile.

 

“We’ve got the shopping bags to cover up with. Let’s do it.”

 

“Where to?” We got up out of bench-table combination carefully and slowly, both of us; it must have looked hilarious.

 

“Back to the car. Then the last stop for the day.”

 

 

*

 

 

When we got back to my car – we took the F Market streetcar, one of those old, 1930’s electric streetcars that run along the Embarcadero, for most of the way – it was getting later in the afternoon, the sun was getting lower and redder, and I was anxious not to miss it. What I had planned.

 

So, as I drove us across the city, I just took California Street, which was probably not the fastest way, but I didn’t know anything more direct, and I didn’t have time to hunt around.

 

The thing about San Francisco in general, and California Street in particular – it’s hilly. WAY hilly. And a lot of the streets run straight up those hills.

 

It’s not that fun in a stick shift. Like my Mini Cooper.

 

I mean, it could be worse; San Diego has some hills, too, so it wasn’t like I’d never done it before. But with the traffic, with the stop-and-go, inching up hills steep enough to hold a ski jump –

 

Cole enjoyed it, though. Or at least he enjoyed my language.

 

“I didn’t know you talked like that! You seemed so clean-mouthed. Back at the party, anyway.”

 

“Yeah? Fuck!”, as the Lexis in front of me stopped short at a yellow light, and I was facing another hill start, on what felt like a forty-five degree slope. “Idiot’s on his cell phone . . . Yeah, well, maybe I just save it for when I really feel like it.”

 

“That’s cool,” he said, comfortably. Still enjoying it.

 

When we started up again, he was looking down carefully, as I shifted up through the gears, and we came out on top of the hill; then he was dazzled by Grace Cathedral, and the Fairmont with all the flags and limousines, and the huge brown mansion that was a private club, and the views of the Bay, and then we were on the brink of another deep valley, and he was watching, again, while I downshifted. “That looks – really interesting. Think you could teach me how to drive?”

 

“You don’t know yet?” I glanced at him.

 

“We don’t have a car.” Those upturned corners of his mouth, again. “It’s, like Berkeley, you know?”

 

“Okay,” I said. “Yeah; well, we could do that; it would be fun . . . when you get a learner’s permit. And after you turn eighteen.”

 

In California, you need to pass a written test, and then you get a learner’s permit. But if you’re under eighteen, you can only drive with a licensed instructor, like in a driving school. You have to wait until you’re eighteen to use your permit with a regular driver like me.   

 

“Oh, come on. I just want to see what it’s like; maybe I won’t even bother getting a license. Just let me try it a couple of times?”

 

“Nope. Not without a permit. Know what that would do to my insurance?”

 

“Like someone would catch us.”

 

“They might. No; I need this thing, at least down in San Diego; you can’t live down there, if you don’t have a car. But, anyway. You can get a permit easy enough, and if you want, I can help you check out driving schools.”

 

I glanced over at him, and his head was just that little bit tilted, as he looked out the windshield; and I swear, I knew him well enough – I don’t know HOW, but I KNEW him – I knew he was thinking, how much fun would it be to make Jeremy give in, versus how much trouble would it take?

 

“Maybe,” he said. Which didn’t answer anything at all, as we headed out straight west towards the ocean.

 

 

*

 

 

We turned right on Arguello, then up, into the Presidio – the big, wooded park on the northern tip of the city that used to be the Army base – and twisted around through the quiet streets, past the old Army housing, solid, old, 19th-century buildings looking like they were transplanted from the East Coast, and then through the pine and eucalyptus groves, until we hit Lincoln, the main road running along the cliffs overlooking the Pacific –

 

And at the last minute, the next-to-last turnoff before hitting the bridge, left into the little tree-lined, dead-end court with one of the five best views in San Francisco.

 

Which is saying a lot.

 

“Oh, fuck!” Cole gasped, as we rolled across the gravel, up to the very edge of the cliff, and the wooden wheel-stops. And his gasp made it worth it.

 

“Come on! It gets better.” I climbed out and led him a little closer, past the last cars, along a trail through the lush bushes, up a little rise, and into a grove of cypress trees at the very lip of the cliff.

 

It was the Golden Gate, right below us, at our feet; the San Francisco end of the bridge looked close enough to touch, the whole, golden, lit-up span jumping across the strait, impossibly beautiful, with the incredibly steep, stark cliffs of the Marin County side looming over it all.

 

We were lucky. Sometimes the fog covers everything, and you only hear the foghorns; sometimes there’s no fog, and that can be beautiful, but kind of – boring; to me, anyway. But tonight, there was a layer of thick, still, blue fog kind of hanging over the water, obscuring some parts of the bridge deck, leaving other parts of it clear, with the golden, spotlit towers jutting up and up, over our heads, and the bridge lights illuminating the fog from underneath . . .

 

And yeah, there were foghorns going. A close, loud, one, echoed faintly by one on the Marin side.

 

“Oh, man! This is SO cool,” he went, taking my hand, and leaning his warm shoulder against mine. And we stood like that, in the gentle breeze, just drinking it in, for minute after minute . . .

 

 

Actually, it was way more than just, cool.

 

It was one of those moments. Not just a Cole-and-me moment, though; one of those moments that just – happen, to all of us. When everything somehow comes together; the time, the feelings, the place; the person next to you.

 

It was magic. I was feeling it; and I knew Cole was feeling it, here beside me, warm, his heart beating, and I knew – somehow – that HE was just as aware of the moment as me . . .

 

And the moment just, stretched on; heartbeat after heartbeat, high up on the cliff, the sea breeze flowing through the trees, the fairy-tale bridge glittering below . . .

 

 

Until I felt him looking over at me, in the blue dusk, his face inches away. “You so totally planned this, didn’t you? Like, the timing, and everything?” I saw the knowing, Cole half-smile.

 

“Well, duh.” I squeezed his hand.

 

And he squeezed back.

 

Cole, holding my hand, in the gloom. Squeezing back. Another head rush.

 

Another peaceful pause, as we just, looked.

 

 

“How did you ever find a place like this? And what is it, anyway?” He tore his eyes away, looking around.

 

“It’s an old gun emplacement. Those buildings we passed back there - ?” I motioned with my chin.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“There were a bunch of cannons, there. Like, really, really big ones; from the early 1900’s. In back of that concrete shield thing.”

 

“That’s a shield?”

 

“Yeah. There’s a kind of information board that explains the whole setup, a little further back. It’s really interesting . . . ”

 

“But how did you find it?”

 

 

Okay. A momentary discomfort. I figured, when I plotted this out – it would come up.

 

“Well . . . there’s a beach, down below us. It’s really nice; I’ve been here, a couple of times.”

 

“A beach.” I glanced over at him; he was grinning openly, now. “Would it be, like, . . . a gay beach? As in, a gay nude beach?”

 

“Well . . . yeah. Sort of.”

 

Okay.

 

Yeah, it was a gay nude beach; Bad Boy Beach, to be precise, although I’ve heard it called other things too.

 

And it IS  a beautiful beach, actually, with world-class views, and a rocky cliff in back of it that kind of soaks up the sun and keeps it warmer than you’d expect; and it goes on and on for, like, forever, right up to Fort Point, at the base of the South Tower of the Golden Gate Bridge, you can wander along, feet wet, for more than a mile in the most incredible beauty you can imagine –

 

And it’s got a reputation.

 

And I’d be lying if I said I came just to work on my tan.

 

The fact is, Bad Boy Beach was a cruising spot.

 

Oh, not a really high-pressure cruising spot; lots of people really did go for their tans. And nude beaches tend to be pretty laid-back, regardless.

 

But it was a cruising spot, where naked boys went to meet other naked boys. And the hillside above – even this parking lot – was kind of a cruising spot, too. And when I’d come here, it was partly in hope of finding some part of myself that would LIKE that kind of thing, would enjoy anonymous sex with somebody on the beach –

 

I didn’t. Connect with anyone, I mean. Or even connect with that theoretical part of myself.

 

But it was embarrassing to admit it to Cole.

 

So I told him everything.

 

 

First, he just listened; then he squeezed my hand, and we were warm and silent together, looking down at the sparkling bridge, listening to the foghorns. Then, with that little tilt of his head –

 

 “A real nude beach, huh?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

Silence, for a second.

 

“Can we get down to it tonight?”

 

“No! I mean, no way; it’s a real bad trail, we could get killed.” It WAS a bad trail; in some places, you were – literally – six inches away from a fall that might kill you. And the trail ran mostly along the cliff top, and the cliff top was unstable; it crumbled, in places.

 

“Oh,” from Cole. A disappointed sounding, ‘Oh’.

 

“We can come back during the day, sometime.” I hesitated; and I felt my heart pounding up. “Actually . . . I want to take you to another gay beach. A little further south. I was kind of . . . thinking about it, yesterday.”

 

In bed. While exercising my right arm.

 

“You promise? It’ll be your second promise, you know.” Cole’s eyes glittered in the deepening dusk.

 

“Oh, I promise,” I went. A little ironically. Thinking of what I had in mind . . .

 

More quiet. A loaded quiet. Then;

 

“So. This whole area, around here – it’s one of those places? A, like, cruising spot?” He twisted around, looking through the trees, back towards the cars.

 

“Sort of.”

 

I turned around and looked, with Cole; at the parked cars – there were a lot of them – and a few shadowy figures, moving around in the gloom. Mostly headed to or from the trailhead on the other side of the lot, I knew.

 

“So . . . people are, like, getting together, and going off into the bushes and having sex?”

 

He said it softly, which really contrasted with the blunt words; and the hand holding mine gripped just a little tighter, and the pressure, where he leaned up against me, got a little warmer.

 

And the pressure below my waist began to build up, even more.

 

“Cole . . . ”

 

“Yeah?” That self-assured, gleeful smile, again.

 

“That wasn’t why I brought you here.” I groped for the words.

 

“I know.” And he leaned up, and nuzzled my neck, right below my ear. “You’re way too responsible, to do something like that.” Another soft nuzzle, and the feeling of his breath on my skin. “And way too mature.” And I felt his open mouth on my skin, wet. “We’ve really got to work on that.”

 

And I shivered.

 

“Ummmm . . . ” , I started, a little weakly. “I do have a confession.” And somehow, both my arms went around his shoulders, and he kind of fit his body more snugly against mine, like it belonged there, and then I was nuzzling him back, smelling the shampoo in his soft hair . . .

 

“Yeah?” It came out as a soft breath, in my ear.

 

“I DID kind of think . . . we might wind up, like,  . . . making out, here. A little. Maybe . . . ”

 

“Uh-huh.” And he twisted a little, in my arm; and his head came up, and his hand was on the back of my neck, and then his mouth was soft and wet and just a little open on mine, and it was that SHOCK again, just like at the pool, almost an electrical kind of shock, my heart rate pounding way up, again, all my hormones just sort of crashing through me, all at once, and his tongue was slick against mine, and I tightened  my arms around him . . .

 

And this time he was the one who pulled back first, clutching me tight, and fitting his chin over my left shoulder – he had to lift up on his toes, a little, to do it; I felt him. And we held each other tight, like that, just for a second. Then –

 

“Oh, look,” went Cole, in a fake-innocent tone. “I wonder where that trail leads?”

 

I didn’t look. “Cole . . . ”

 

“Shhhh.” He pressed one finger against my lips; the shock, again, but different, this was the taste of his dry skin. “I really like your lips.” He leaned up, again, and pecked me, just quickly. “They’re really beautiful.” Another quick peck. “Especially when they’re not moving.”

 

And then he was out of my arms, and his hand was gripping mine so firmly, and he was pulling me along the little sandy trail, through the head-high weeds and bushes, downhill a little and to the east –

 

It was just a small, little clearing in the dense brush. It was obvious, that it was heavily used; the grass was trampled down smooth, and a beer can glowed aluminum in the dusk at one end.

 

But that view towards the bridge was open, and the bushes around us were tall, and the sky overhead was deepening to purple, and here, away from the parking lot, we could hear the thunder of the waves on the beach and the rocks below . . .

 

It was perfect.

 

And in a flash he was in my arms, again, and I was craning my neck down to get his wet mouth on mine, again, and I felt a warm/cool flash as his hands went under my sweatshirt, and roamed over the bare skin of my back, and I shivered as I felt the press of his crotch against mine – he had to raise up, again, but he did it – and my hand went up, under his sweatshirt and t-shirt, running all over his smooth chest – that smooth chest I’d seen bare, and lusted for, just a little while ago – then back around, down, into the back of his pants, UNDER his pants and under his shorts, feeling the smoothness of his bare butt, and I pulled him closer to me, INTO me, my right hand all over his butt, trailing my middle finger down into his warm, moist crack, and he made a noise into my mouth as I did it . . .

 

And again, he broke off the kiss, looking at me up a little wild; his eyes big, not focused.

 

And I couldn’t help it, I hunched over a little, pressing into him, and moved my hand lower, and probed deeper with my finger into that beautiful, warm, fleshy place on him . . .

 

“Fuck!” He almost pushed me away, and I pulled my hand out.

 

“What?”

 

But Cole was already tearing off his sweatshirt, almost frantic, and then his ALCATRAZ FEDERAL PENITENTIARY SWIM TEAM t-shirt, and then he grabbed my shoulder with one hand while, hopping, awkward, he stripped off one shoe, and then the sock. He put his bare foot down and stopped for a second, to glare at me.

 

“I am NOT doing this with my clothes on. I’m just not.” Then he changed hands, and began unlacing his other shoe; and he looked up at me again. “And neither are you! Get naked, right now!” The second sock came off, and he fumbled for his pants button.

 

And even at that moment, hormone-drenched and almost out of control as I was –

 

Yeah. Out of control. Have you ever had a beautiful, very, very sexual sixteen-year-old boy demand – DEMAND – that you get naked? Knowing how much he meant it? Knowing that he wanted, really, really badly, to DO IT with you, make you come, get you all wet with his semen - ?

 

Yeah.

 

But.

 

Even as almost out of control as I was – I actually, astonishingly, managed to see a second of humor in it.

 

“Yesss, Boss,” I said – mimicking one of the lines from Sasha, the Russian bartender in ‘Casablanca’ – and I began stripping for Cole . . .

 

 

And yes, this was another time when I should have known better. I know that, now; I knew it then. I don’t recommend anybody else do it – get naked and make love in a national park, unless you’re WAY more private, more secure, than we were.

 

But we were still screened. And it was coming on night.

 

And Cole was right. It was so, SO much better, without our clothes . . .

 

Just the feel of him, under my hands; the smooth and warm of his skin; the feeling of soft flesh, with his moving, living muscles underneath, as I ran my hands over his back, his arms, his chest, his shoulders, and all over and in his beautiful butt . . .

 

The feel of his hands, on me. His bare, warm body pressed on mine, both our dicks pointing up and so sensitive, pressed between us, as we moved . . .

 

And the feel of the cool sea breeze over both of us – I swear, being naked outdoors makes sex about a hundred times more sensual, more sexual, than anything that can happen in a bedroom; the sounds, the smells, the feeling of the air –

 

We pressed against each other, rubbed against each other, making out, as we stood on our warm clothes – there wasn’t nearly enough space to lie down – and as we moved, I really, really wanted to drop down and suck him, take him into my mouth –

 

But I kept kissing him, instead. Because that kiss, that mouth on mine, that tongue moving and probing against mine, was so, so EROTIC, was such a CONNECTION, and I knew we were going to come soon – from the way Cole was whimpering, from the way he was moving against me, and the sweat between us, where our skin met –

 

And I broke off the kiss, and hunched over him more, and started licking and mouthing on his neck as I went deeper into his butt with my hand, with my middle finger, and I found his smooth anus, and as he shuddered against me, and MOVED against me, jerking, I felt my balls begin to lift up, and I got closer, and I was still so OBSESSED with his butt and I moved the tip of my finger into him, INSIDE him –

 

And he came, I felt him spasm around my fingertip, and I felt the gush of his semen, warm against my stomach, my lower chest, and I felt him go stiff as he spasmed and jerked and shuddered and spasmed, his mouth wet under my mouth, and then with all the wetness and the smell and his semen-wet skin sliding against my cock I just came too, all over us, and he was holding me tighter as I made noises, and I felt the semen so, so wet between us, covering us, dripping down into our pubes, and I felt cool/warm drips of it falling down onto my bare foot as we held each other up, still moving against each other, still making little noises, as we began coming down from the high . . .

 

And we didn’t let go.

 

I pulled up, a little, and his mouth was on mine, again, and he held me tight, tight, as we stayed there, swaying, connected, wet and beautifully slimy and naked together, with the ocean and the bridge and the fog below us, and the breeze blowing over us . . . and we just went on making out. Softer, now, and more gently; but on and on and on . . .

 

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