Beach Boys (16 page)

I wanted to take that cock and make it hard, and then dash myself against it until one or other of us were destroyed completely, utterly.

“Well, I think I know what your first wish is going to be,” he said, staring at my crotch as his lips, those kissable lips of his, formed a moue of amusement.

“Yes,” I said, as there was no point denying it, not while the sign of my lust was so evident between my thighs.

“I guess I could suck it a little,” he said, “though I’m more into pussy. Would you like to make your other wishes now, before you get distracted?”

I didn’t have to give the question any thought. I knew exactly what I wanted, had always known.

“I want to be a famous film director,” I said, deviating slightly from the script of
The Genie With the Lump,
in which Phil had wanted to be a famous writer, but improvisation is good. “And I want to be so good looking that no man will be able to resist me.”

“The latter might be a little difficult.” said the genie, his voice as clear-cut as that of an announcer on the BBC’s World Service. “But I like a challenge. Now if we’re going to fuck, then you had better get out of those awful trunks. I thought gay men were supposed to have fashion sense.”

I laughed. The genie was ad libbing too, and it was just the sort of deprecatory remark that Gerry might have made. The reasoning part of my brain told me that, however fantastic, this had to be a trick of some kind, an attempt to make a fool of me. And yet there was another part of my brain that simply couldn’t explain how black smoke poured out of a bottle and took the shape of a man. In
The Genie With the Lump
, we’d had the smoke clear to reveal the actor who played the genie in all his glory, which was all the special effects budget would stretch to.

While I knew that what was happening was impossible, like the delicious David Duchovny in full Fox Mulder mode, I sooooo wanted to believe, and even more so I wanted to go down deep and dirty with that beautiful piece of man meat hanging between my genie’s legs. I might be about to make myself a laughingstock, but the gain was worth the pain, and so I quickly pulled off my trunks, acutely conscious that I did not measure up in any way to the Adonis who stood before me.

“Lie back and relax,” he said. “Close your eyes and pretend I’m your dream lover.”

’I did as he told me, and it was him that I thought about, his gorgeous body in all its masculine splendor. I could hear the waves and I could feel the sun on my skin, branding me with its rays, and the cool breeze from off the sea playing round my balls and upstanding cock, and the moment stretched and stretched, pregnant with anticipation. Then, when I had almost abandoned hope, when I was ready to dismiss it all as just a dream and open my eyes and go on with my life, I felt his hand laid flat in the centre of my chest, and my heart started to race.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he commanded. “Don’t move a muscle.”

His hands massaged me, starting in concert just below my navel and sweeping up over my torso, a tender friction where the palms pressed to my flesh, curving outwards across my chest, over my shoulders and down my sides in broad, flowing strokes, the action repeated over
and over again, like the dominant phrase in a piece of music, the central riff that sets the agenda and round which all the rest revolves.

I sighed and a hand moved to my face. I felt his fingertips move lightly over my features, as if a blind man was seeing me for the first time. He plucked at my lips and caressed my cheek with the back of his hand, the flesh warm and textured, a faint scent of vanilla wafting in my nostrils.

Suddenly the heat of the day was gone and I sensed he was leaning in close, his shadow blotting out the sun. His fingers tangled in my hair, and I felt his warm breath on my skin as he gently kissed my eyelids, ran his lips over my nose and pressed them to my own.

I opened myself to him, let him kiss me. Our lips and teeth mashed against each other, our tongues played and our saliva mingled, and he breathed into me, filled my mouth and throat with the essence of his life force, and I drank it down, wanting this moment of such perfect intimacy to never end.

He broke the contact, and I made to protest but he pressed a fingertip to my lips as a sign that I should remain silent.

“Trust me,” he said.

His hands ran down my body, then lay flat against my thighs, one either side of my penis, which I knew stood at full mast. I wanted him to touch me. I willed him to touch me.

And he did.

His hand was slick with something, perhaps the lube Phil had left behind, as he wrapped it around the shaft of my cock and began to stroke me, gently at first and holding me lightly. His fingers and thumb formed a flange, a tunnel of sorts, and within its confines, he vibrated my manhood, the sensation of contact like an ever-mounting buzz, as if my whole being was drawn
down into my crotch. I sighed as his hand gripped harder and began to move faster. I could feel the spunk gathering in my balls, an explosion waiting to happen, a need that had to be fulfilled, and would be. His breath was suddenly hot on my crotch, stirring my pubic hair, then he gripped my cock tightly round the root while his open mouth slipped over the crown and the warm wetness of him enveloped me.

The genie’s tongue circled my glans in ever swifter motions, churning me towards a climax, while one hand held my cock firm and the fingers of the other played with my balls, rolling them about and feeling their fullness. Then he began sucking me with complete abandon, as if he wanted my innards to deliquesce and be drawn up through the shaft of my cock like a milkshake dragged through a straw, his head riding up and down on the length of me. I wanted to open my eyes and watch him fellate me, but I didn’t dare as a part of me thought this was all a dream and if so, then waking up was the last thing I wanted to do.

“I’m coming!” I shouted, breaking his embargo on speech, but unable to stop myself, just as I would be unable to stop the gathering climax.

I’d watched so many porn movies that I expected him to withdraw and allow me to ejaculate over his face, but this was life and not a movie: we were making love, not fucking for the camera. He kept his mouth wrapped around my cock, the lips an airtight seal as I pumped my seed into the welcoming orifice, spurting over and over again, my whole body trembling and my balls sore with the exertion. I kept my eyes closed, but in my mind I imagined him swallowing down my come, his Adam’s apple rising and falling in regular, rhythmic pulses that matched my discharges, and he was smiling, greedily sucking down all I had to give and ravenous for more.

Then the sensation was gone. My whole lower body felt numb and I ached all over, in every joint and tendon. I could feel the heat of the sun, but also a thin sheen of cooling sweat that
covered my skin. My mouth felt parched, and so I moved my tongue from side to side, working it to create saliva. I wanted to say something, to thank him for what he had done, but words were lost to me and all I could manage were a few incoherent grunts.

Finally I opened my eyes and, in the movie, this was the moment when Phil discovered he really was in a sauna, and surrounded by a gaggle of beautiful young men who wanted to fuck and be fucked by him.

Unfortunately for me, it was the moment when the world of the film and my personal reality chose to diverge.

And life is emphatically not like in the movies.

Standing there in a circle and looking down at me, studying my drooping cock, from which pale fluid still seeped with an almost clinical abstraction, were a group of elderly men and woman, half a dozen or more of them.

“We’ve called the police,” said one of them.

“You disgusting pervert!” said another, his face bright red with moral indignation.

“You’re the one who’s watching,” I said, which on reflection may have been an error of judgment on my part. I have a smart mouth, and on occasion it has been known to get me into trouble.

On this occasion, trouble turned out to be arrest as soon as two beefy policemen arrived to drag me off, followed by an appearance at magistrates’ court on a charge of public indecency.

I pled guilty, as there didn’t seem much option otherwise, given the number of witnesses to my act of public masturbation, some of whom had actually caught my moment of ejaculation on their mobile phones. Certainly nobody was going to believe my story of a horny genie administering blow jobs to die for, or that I was asleep and didn’t know what I was doing, and it
wouldn’t have made a whit of difference if they had. The judge was in the mood to make an example, and so I got sent down for six months, a sentence my lawyer insisted was as totally unexpected as it was wholly out of proportion to the offense.

The genie’s blow job was worth it though and ironically, my two other wishes have come true, though not quite how I imagined them. My career as a maker of gay porn movies came out during the court case, and for a brief while I was very much a hot item of news in a local paper trying to claim back the high moral ground from the
Daily Mail
. As for being irresistible to men, well, since I’ve been in jail, the Rude Boyz Mob who run this prison have singled me out as their Number-One bitch. It’s a position that has certain advantages, but is not for everyone.

I’ve already made a pitch to a producer, and the day after I get out of here shooting starts on
Big Boyz Behind Bars
. I’d wanted to call it
The Prisoner of Priapus
, but the producer had thought that a bit highbrow, and sometimes we artists have to make compromises.

by Derek Clendening

Dave slumped before the microfilm machine, his hand supporting his chin, and, chilled by the air conditioning, he fought his tears. Convinced this wasn’t bad news, he chose to search for something positive in this mess.

The middle-aged man behind the information desk would glare at him soon, he knew, and he snapped the microfilm back and tucked the reel back in the box. The machine’s buzz silenced when he switched it off, but he hardly noticed. That he even knew where he was seemed like a small miracle.

What he knew for sure was that he’d found something amazing, lost it, and that he would give his life to have it back. Except that some things were never meant to be found. These things uncover themselves, by free will or by accident, when the time is right. No one would believe his story, he knew, but he insisted that someone hear it.

And it goes something like this.

* * * *

Vacation spots like New York, Vegas and Fort Lauderdale were an easy hop on Jet Blue, but David decided to drive over the Peace Bridge, and take advantage of his aunt and uncle’s Crystal Beach cottage which sat empty most of the year. Relaxation was key, but quiet and privacy was paramount.

Old things caught Dave’s fancy. Past artifacts tell their own story, he decided. Searching the remnants of what once was, or examining what was left behind, and filling in the blanks, fascinated him just the same.

When he stood in the sand prints at Crystal Beach, waves from Lake Erie rolled in, and he imagined the feet of amusement park goers standing in those pits. Buildings with chipped paint and wooden signs still stood, but Dave thought they’d lost the dignity they would’ve had. More than anything, the beach promised to be quiet, so he could be alone, and be free.

His towel stretched out in the sand, Dave sat, hugged his knees, and felt the sun on his shoulders. He lowered his shades, stretched back on the towel, and parted his legs. Squeezing a dollop of oil onto his palm, he spread it across his chest, his abs, then down to his waist.

His fingers crawled beneath his shorts, and he peeled them down to let the sun glisten on his bare cock and balls. Eyes shut, he felt the sun warm his pubic hair. No one was around to see him, but he imagined a full beach with crowds strolling by that could see all his nakedness. As he dreamed, he heard The Comet roar, and its passengers screaming during each twist and loop. The smell of popcorn and cotton candy filled his nostrils.

Cock in hand, the oil greased his shaft, and let him glide up and down until he was hard. His head rolled back and forth, as his knob tingled, and he groaned.

“You keep doing that and you’re gonna get thrown in jail for indecent exposure, Mister.”

Dave’s eyes snapped open and he checked his surroundings, but he saw no one. Purely imagination, he supposed, and closed his eyes.

“Suppose the children see you with your willy flopped out like that.” The voice sounded closer and stronger than before. Dave threw his hand out and grabbed hold of a hairy leg.

Before him was a man of about twenty-five, but he didn’t look like anyone he’d gone to school with. His brown hair was parted to the left, with a curl on the right, and his chestnut eyes permeated him. He was shirtless, Dave admired his cut pecs and abs, but he knew he wouldn’t
have sculpted that by doing Tae Bo or living in the gym. His burgundy bathing suit was his only detraction. No hot young guy should wear anything that ass ugly, Dave thought.

Still, this man had his charms. That he didn’t have the city boy metrosexual look didn’t have to be a distraction, he decided. Small-town country boys had a unique sexiness in their eyes. Wholesome faces and manners, solid bodies and dirty come-spank-me minds drove him wild.

Had the man grown a lean chinstrap, or styled his hair into a faux-hawk, he couldn’t have made himself sexier. Dave realized how nicely this look worked for him. The shorts were an eyesore, but he doubted the man would be wearing them much longer.