Date: Sun, 15 May 2022 15:32:56 +1000 From: Cato Callahan Subject: Changing Tide (Chapter 1) (Adult Youth, High School, Gay) Thanks for clicking my humble story. Feel free to get in touch at: catocallahan@gmail.com I'm homeless right now so if you'd like to make a donation, I'd be eternally grateful. Nothing is a bigger turn on than a little generosity. My Bitcoin wallet code is 3Kx91bvpdoZoCAygqFRdfvzmhmVfYzSe8L ************************* Changing Tide (Chapter 1) by Cato Callahan She took the dog when she left. I can't pretend our love was one for the ages, but we'd settled into a rhythm and there was comfort in that. She used to take my little sister shopping, and when we visited home she brought mum gardenias and asked dad about the footy. Too often, I'd promised weekends of excitement (or at least quiet intimacy) and then found myself absorbed in the drudge of Year 9 lesson plans, or scaling a stack of senior essays. She didn't complain, but the tone she used to concede got flatter each time. There were no violent barks of insult or emotion when she left. I kissed her cheek, scratched Barney's chin, and waited for her to look back as she closed the door. There would've been a satisfying finality in that. She didn't, and I melted into the lounge with a beer. I finished five without thinking and what was left of yesterday's pizza, watched Melbourne Storm play the Bunnies then flicked over to `Fight Club' and dozed off before the end. I've seen it before, but I'd rather not talk about it. Sleep came fast, and it was probably more like six or seven if I'm honest, but the last few weren't cold. Then a heavy bang on the door and my name through the window. I blinked awake through the thud of bad choices behind my eyes. Morning, and a crick in my neck from half-upright sleep. Breath hoppy and full of pepperoni. "You've been warned, bud. I'm coming in now!" Jack knew where I hid the spare key. He'd been my best mate since school, and he let himself in when he puppy-sat or watered the plants. He did the same if he ran out of grog. "Make sure you're decent." He walked in with two coffees in a tray and a hand shielding his face in mock anticipation. "Can I open my eyes? Or are you paralysed from a night of angry wanking?" Then he moved his hand to check his joke hand landed and I gave him one breath of snicker out of obligation. "Probably better if you delete the messages you sent last night." Fuck. He laughed and passed me a coffee. "I wouldn't worry too much. I could hardly read most of them. She packed and gone then?" "She was packed when I got home. Gave herself away." "Shit, bro. Sorry." Jack and I had a friendship people didn't expect of two twenty-something Aussie beach rats. When we were kids, you rarely heard one name without the other. It was Max-and-Jack causing trouble. Or Jack-and-Max breaking hearts. And it was true we got up to the usual mischief - along with some unusual mischief that doesn't bear repeating. Under bravado though, there was a trust that was certain and unconditional. We were both the eldest in houses of women, with dads who had cut and run. We grew up in Nippers on the sand at Bronte, and were as good as brothers by the time we were surfing the Bondi headland. We loved each other, which might not be unusual, but sometimes after snorting fits of belly-laughs at something completely stupid, we told each other. I knew that was rare, and I was grateful for it. After a short post-mortem of the relationship, and the usual affirmations that she just wasn't the right girl, more fish in the sea, lucky to have you, and the rest, Jack slapped my bare stomach too bloody hard and shifted tone: "Righto mate. Plenty more time to be a mopey turd. Grab your board and let's surf it off." I half protested, but he didn't want a word. "What would you say if one of your students got dumped by his Mrs? You'd tell him to put his fucking chin up, and go back to living. Where's your wetsuit?" He was right, and I gave up resistance. "I'll get it. Just let me clear this shit up." I started bundling empty cans in a pizza box. "I'll do that. You get changed." He dropped a couple of cans, then slapped my arse bending to pick them up. We both laughed and I walked to the bathroom, trying and failing to maintain a melodramatic posture of heartbreak. We strolled to the beach barefoot, boards under arms, and by the third wave my thoughts rolled slower with the gentle swell beyond the break. It was the morning I needed without knowing as much. When we floated between sets, Jack would ask me how I was, or give a nod that asked for him. He'd smirk and go back to crude commentary on female lifeguards, most of which I knew he didn't believe. The water was warm near the surface, but the air had a sting. It was mid-March, and days had started to shrink. As cloud pushed ahead of sun, I looked over to mime another assurance, and the light caught Jack side-on. In a perfect second he could have been an advertisement for surfboards or sex-wax; sitting up, legs hanging either side of the board and fists pressed between them. He stared like he was seeing something beautiful for the first time, and I followed his gaze to see the stretch of coast we knew like family. When I turned back to him I couldn't tell if he was shaking his head in disbelief or awe, and maybe I did the same. Stifled sun cut across every curve of his wetsuit and jaw. He had nearly red hair long enough to flick from his cheeks, which were smattered with all shades of freckles. There was no bulk to him, but shape. Muscles hugged close to his frame and were longer than thick, like a spring that had been pulled from each end. His eyes were wide with green and excitement, except when he was in the kind of peace he'd found that morning. He pushed his hair and looked past me to ocean. "Having a good stare, perv?" I didn't flinch. "Just wondering how a blood-nut like you hasn't shriveled up in the daylight." "No wonder you can't keep a bird." And he was still chuckling when he pushed off into the break. We'd been at it for more than an hour, and the shallows were becoming a soup of tourists. Across the concourse, cafes had filled and traffic was humming the suburb away from its coastal idyll. Jack whistled from the beach to catch my attention, pointed at his wrist and gave a thumbs up. I signalled I'd wait for one more, and he lifted another thumb before pacing the sand. The clubhouse wasn't officially open but it was unlocked for clubbies like us to dump our gear while we surfed. Aside from training, events, and some messy Christmas parties, the concrete monolith was a cool reprieve from the chaos outside. Plus, the showers were usually empty and there was a pool table you didn't have to pay for. Jack walked out after less than a minute, partly dressed, and gave an animated goodbye as he took off up Bondi Road. I can't have been floating for long but my thoughts elbowed for recognition. I was far enough out that the foaming crack of water swallowed other sound into a meditative buzz. I'd imagined a future with Kate and I looked over it with fresh hindsight to wonder if it was mine. I loved her, and I could see marriage and kids and an entire life, but I'd watched our relationship from an absent distance. Like I'd been a spectator to my own happiness. Then autumn kicked air from behind and shattered retrospection. The best waves were done, so I flattened on the board to ride in. "Calling it a day, sir? Surf's meant to be better tomorrow." A spindly bunch of limbs and blond paddled closer with teenage energy. I'd seen the mop spiral past me in acrobatic barrels, but didn't realise it was one of my Year 10s. "Might catch you tomorrow then." "Reckon you should wait for a decent one to ride in though." "I've had a big morning already, cheers Caleb." "Girlfriend tugging your chain is she, sir? I get it." He sucked on a smile and waited for a reaction. He was a cheeky bugger in class, and I could see he wanted to test our teacher/student dynamics away from the threat of demerits and detention. "What kind of jar does she keep your balls in?" My face was like thunder. "A big one." And when I broke, he took it as permission to do the same. He glanced over his shoulder at a gathering peak. "Wanna?" There was assurance in his tone. He was the same at school; at fifteen, already imperious. He moved like he belonged to his body, lean and angular. He could roughhouse boys and charm girls with equal dexterity, but never erred far into arrogance. For a kid who spent so much of his day in the hallway or writing lines, he was astoundingly well liked. Even teachers who were goaded to anger by his sarcasm would laugh about it later in the staffroom. "You're not a pussy are you sir?" I took a backwards glance then held my expression tight. The pause widened and the wave built. I gave no warning. "GO!" Waves split us and I swallowed a gutful but by the time I hit sand I was tearing apart with roars. In a juvenile race I'd thrashed to a strange catharsis and I could have cried. I bent and spluttered saltwater through fits and breath. Caleb drifted just after like he was skimming on a millpond. "You made that look hard, sir. Well done." He slid to his feet and patted me on the back with firm-handed concern. "I'm fine," I spat out a few times between air until I could stand straight again. "I'm fine." My chest was heaving but my limbs softened. I could feel Caleb's palm on my back, but it was still; just comfort until I collected breath. There was a wire pulling my voice. "I won't bore you with the details mate, but I needed that." I shook the boy's hand. "No worries, sir. Good race." I could see he didn't understand, and he shouldn't; not at fifteen. I smacked him on the side before he jogged over the shallows. "You'll get faster when those arms thicken up a bit." He spun so twists of hair smacked his skin, and grinned wide between crooked dimples when he flipped me the finger and kept jogging. I turned from the ocean in a living daydream. The casual unpredictability of the day was coloured with strange serendipity, and in that mood the sharp wind felt otherworldly. I was myself. Five years ago myself like I was sure of things, and I sat on a wooden bench in the clubhouse, chipped paint and graffiti end to end, and exhaled. I unzipped my wetsuit and peeled to the waist, then leaned forward, head slumped, and let the water run off. There was a hollow echo as bustle from outside rippled through concrete emptiness. It was still but not quiet. The floor was loose grit, and the place smelled of salt and zinc. Comfort in the familiar. I pushed the wetsuit off and slung it on a wooden peg. The change-room was just mine so I kicked off my toggs too, hung them on the next peg and walked to the line of open showers. There were five showerheads above a pattern of sand pointing to a single drain. Directly opposite was a long, trough sink with five taps and a wide mirror across all of them. From the showers, you could see yourself from neck to knees, and on training days blokes would flex slyly as they washed to catch a glimpse of themselves. Always in Speedos or boardies, but playful and loud with machismo. I was never the smooth, sinewy, surfer type. My dad's an old beach bum, but my mum is Lebanese, so I had fuzz on my chest by middle school. My skin is olive, made darker by the end of every summer, with tan lines from weeks and months fucking about on the beach. I got sick of being called short so I lived at the gym until my mates had something better to talk about. In the mirror, I could see the outline of abs under black fur, softened by a layer of meat. My chest was a beefy canvas for some black and grey tattoos that seemed like a good idea during uni. I turned to let hot water rinse salt from my hair then looked over my shoulder to see my arse reflected, muscular and chunky, exaggerated further by dark borders. I gave a little jump to watch it shake, and giggled at the shamelessness. The squealing noise off the beach was getting louder and seemed to creak in the walls, but I was dislocated from that whole world. I turned back to face the mirror. Whatever insecurities I might've had, my cock wasn't one. It hung heavy and wet from a dense thatch of pubes. It was wrapped in veins with uniform girth from the base to the circumcised head. I wriggled my hip and it swung with lazy momentum that fought the movement of my body. When it thickened to that size in my early teens I was embarrassed beyond speech. I hid at the corner of every shower and stood with hands clutched to cover the bulge. But before long, rumours had become playground mythos and the swell of my pride caught up to my dick. When Kate first saw it, she swore. I rubbed the length with suds and rinsed, then rubbed again. Quickly distracted by myself and eyeing the reflection as my cock grew away from my body. I stroked it harder and tugged on my balls, hanging slack in the warm shower; a weighty handful of fur. Lust and instinct took me by the throat. Alone, there was bestial freedom in the choking steam. I smacked my cock hard with grit teeth, grunted. It bounced then steeled. At full length, it had an upward curve that I slammed with brutal precision when I fucked. Pussies would be warm and slick when I squeezed my arse to find their real depth. I closed my eyes to imagine Kate, inhaling suddenly with pupils rolled back. The steam shortened my breath still more, hands slow on my cock, stopping just to smack it under animal grunts. I could picture her cunt, wet with both of us, as I folded her to another position, teased her flaps with fingers and leaking head, and pushed the whole thing in again while she whimpered and gave in. I soaped my cock and quickened, the other hand running through the hair of my stomach and chest to my nipples. They were my secret weakness, and my dick twitched from its core when I tugged one. I opened to the mirror again. Front on, legs shoulder width and bent at the knees. I pinched both fleshy tits at once and watched the rigid bounce underneath. Threw my head back and pulled as much as I could stand, twisted, and pulled harder again. My jaw was a growling knot, and I let go of one nipple to whack my cock like I hated it, then savaged my tits again. I was a drooling fucking monkey to my own throbbing flesh. Every coherent thought ran with sand down the drain. Words weren't in me; just the pig groans of a brainless slut to my own body. I shifted faster between nipples and cock, sometimes watching my reflection, other times swimming in memories of bare, dripping cunt. Twice I got close to exploding and slapped my dick, tugged my tits, squeezed aching balls and held everything together. Time was irrelevant. Sound dissolved to hissing pipes. Eventually, I couldn't stand more. There was electricity in my spine and every muscle gripped bone in fading violence. I closed my eyes a last time. Pictured a string of precum from the tip of my dick to Kate's slippery pussy. Remembered the squeak of my girth inside her, and the clap of my balls on her skin. A heat came to my chest and I moved my arm faster, base to end, squeezing, teeth together and thighs quivering in tremorous jolts. My arse clenched and a wave rocked my body entirely. On edge and fighting between tension and everything else. But I had to give in. My head fell back in braindead moans. A palm behind me steadied me against wall as all of my fibre shook past the edge. I held my cock with white knuckles. Faster again. And I jerked beyond what my body could control. Howling like a boar when it came. Tension fell, and my cock shot rope after rope of cum across the shower floor. Eyes open then, and I saw the last hit the concrete at least three steps away. In a daze until reality found me. And the last thick strings dribbled out and stuck in the tangle of black down my thigh. My heartbeat ebbed and fell out of my ears. Breath steadied. I turned to face the stream but there was no worry left to wash away. I flicked cum from my leg with a thumb and licked it clean, then stood under the showerhead while the room grew back from the smoke of my consciousness. I could leave the past there. The morning was entirely one of letting go, and the last of my stress circled the drain with globs of white and disappeared. Time and place were solid again. I splashed my face a last time and turned to the door. "Fuck." His smirk was broad and shaking, and he let the silence sweat. I became the boy in the corner again, hands over a bulge too big to be hidden. "Well sir..." Caleb made the words hang. His wetsuit was rolled to his waist, and his teenage body was lithe and hairless. Fine muscles were packed with tight shadows but every line of him was long. "You said you didn't want to bore me, but this might be taking things a bit far." His dimples quaked, and his grin was a knife he knew had landed. Speech only came in spitting bursts and I apologised and asked for a minute. My frame bent inwards but the worst was done, and I had no idea how long he'd been standing in the doorway. "A minute? I can give you more than that, sir."