Anton and Daniel 6

“Summer of 1998; I was sixteen.” Anton smiles at Fourteen where he sits in the cockpit. He is warming to his story, with half his mind constantly on the surge of Surocco on the swells and the set of his rigging. It does not need to be done, but he makes a small adjustment to the mainsail trim. Surocco is heeled over in the steady wind. “His cutter was 38 ft long. I remember it had this angular hull that banged in a moderate sea.” Anton laughed at the memory. “Thistle sounded like a maniacal oak barrel bouncing down a staircase. She was thirty years old that year and showed it.”

Anton sweeps his hand as if to stifle Fourteen’s incredulity. “His boat had a proper mainsail. She had a proper boom too. She hadn't been built with modern refinements in mast roofing or headsail roller reefing, instead she had an old fashioned reefpoint. It needed to be tied down by hand.”  Anton shakes his head at the memory. On a cold-wet North Atlantic night, it could be a treacherous task.

“Past the Grand Banks, the mainsail jammed. Summer, Jeremy, and my fingers were icicles. What did I know back then? I thought we were going to capsize in the rising gale. Only it wasn’t a gale, it was a swell like this!.”

Fourteen eyes the heavy seas about them. Anton sees the boy in a new light, less self-assured. Surocco rides easily on the turbulence. “This is nothing, kid.” Anton strokes the wheel. Surocco is his pride. Jared Hogan’s old Thistle could not hold a candle to Anton’s Super Maramu. 20 ft longer than Hogan’s old boat, but at sixteen, Anton thought Thistle was perfect. Not the gossamer-perfection of Surocco, he knows. Still, I thought she was a greyhound.

Anton finishes the water in his bottle. “More water? Something else?” Fourteen asks. The sun is past the mainmast now. Anton shakes his head. They are one day out from Topolobampo, with Puerto Vallarta less than a day away. Anton runs his eyes over the helm, then turns back to his story. Fourteen twists on the bench to look at the surrounding mountains of water.

“Something’s rattling in the stern. Go check it.” Fourteen nods, and starts for the stern lazaret. He has to be reminded to clip his line to the cable. Anton watches the grace of fifteen. The beautiful boy recalls his seminal trip across the Atlantic to Liverpool with Jarad Hogan.

Hogan was thirty-seven that year. That parallel is obvious. Fourteen stands at the stern, one hand on the solar array above the jerking zodiac. He grins his usual apology-gratitude for being allowed to remain on Anton’s ketch. There really was no question about that. Cut the underage boy loose in Mexico? Not a chance. Anton Zen’s into his sailboat while he waits for the boy to sort out the annoying clunks from the stern lazaret.

“You take the helm for a bit.” Anton commands when Fourteen returns.

Fourteen hesitates, scanning the ominous swells around the ketch. “You know,” he confesses to the man, “I think this is the first time I have not seen the shore. It was sort of comforting to always have it on my left shoulder. Like if something happened, I could just swim toward it.”

Anton nods his understanding. Nevertheless, he slips off the seat and steps aside. “You have the helm.”

“I have the helm.” Fourteen replies, as if this were navy. He sits nervously, but there is very little he must do, and Anton is close by.

“That first time sailing with Jared Hogan, I felt nervous like you are. It wasn’t until later I realized a bluewater passage is (usually) much easier than a long coastal cruise. The conditions in an offshore passage are minimal. Providing you’ve prepared your boat well, done your homework and are heading in the right direction at the right time of year, you shouldn’t get any nasty surprises along the way.”

Surocco’s auto pilot is not engaged. Fourteen keeps a firm hand on the wheel. He cannot quite believe the ketch can ride the huge swells up and down as easily as it does. Anton absorbs his sailboat’s performance through every different sense. Satisfied, he continues talking while he absorbs Fourteen’s young earnestness with nostalgic-erotic pleasure.

“Coastal cruising, on the other hand, can be a complicated business that places even greater demands on a skipper than going offshore. Tides and currents, local weather, constant shipping traffic. Jared and I just cruised the North Atlantic day after day. Here on the Pacific coast, I always have half my mind on the next marina, mooring or anchorage. That adds up to a surprisingly heavy planning load each night while you and Daniel relax. Fortunately, the challenge of it makes coastal cruising extremely satisfying.”

Anton scans the sky. He might go down to the chart station and check weather conditions again. The mainsail has been eased out too far. Anton can see that the tell tail on the inside of the mainsail is starting to flip up and down. “Look at your mainsail.” Fourteen looks up, then back at Anton. “Well, trim the sail, but make sure you stay on your present point.” Fourteen gingerly makes adjustments like he might flip the ketch with one misjudgement. He glances up at the mainsail. The tell-tail flows straight back. Anton does not comment on his success.

“I was sixteen and Jared Hogan was my George Cooney. George Clooney, ER star?” Fourteen nods his head, eyes on the forward looking sonar as if he was driving some Interstate and not the deep blue ocean. Anton knows the nod. Fourteen has no clue that ER refers to anything but a hospital emergency room. The nod is just an invitation to go on. The fifteen-year old is also fixated on the mainsail. “Only Jared looked and sounded something like Russell Crowe.”

“The guy from Road Warrior? He is fire.” Fourteen approves. Elvis Parker on the dusty Harley in the San Ysidro backyard. Fourteen all S&M-bondage, second-skin black-studded leather (like John’s belt) behind him on the bike. Fourteen’s tight crotch a constant masturbation like Cordell Faulkner loved to give him. Me dry humping a California-scorched gas tank while the sexy-biker fucks my ass like he did over the couch. Fun times, Fourteen imagines with a small bite of his lower lip.

“The guy from the movie Gladiator.” Anton corrects.

“Oh yeah, I saw that.” Fourteen swings toward Anton. “Old dude; Master,” he points at Anton, “and Commander.” He points at himself. “So Hogan was a mashup of Clooney and old Crowe.”

“You would have had to see him.” Anton decides.

“Bet! Hey, I don’t think old guys are cringy.” Fourteen looks meaningfully at Anton, who has been cold-shouldering his advances since Topolobampo and the whole statutory rape thing bugging the two men.

“You are a cold and heartless child.” Anton observes with dignity. Little minx, he sighs.

“Oh God, I was lit just thinking of Jared.” Anton remembers. “He was staying a month in New York, living off his boat. Nothing could be hotter, I thought. I had no idea why the man was in my mother’s life. Work, I suppose. She liked him. Everyone liked him. I’d flirt with him; hoped he would get drawn to the NSYNC, Timberlake thing I was back then.” Anton smiles fond-deprecation at the memory. “Then he was off to Liverpool and his next contract. I was devastated, I can tell you!”

“You ran away to sea with him?”

“So to speak; two friends agreed to join me on Thistle for the summer crossing. It was going to be a sailing camp. We had our parents all on side. Mother knew me very well by that point. My interests and my indiscretions were something of a trial to her. Jared was quite reliable and she imagined him immune to my advances. I think she thought three weeks in the middle of nowhere in a sailboat would give her a summer’s peace of mind.”

“She wasn’t worried you would drown?”

“Well she could hope.” Anton laughs. Suspended for sleeping with his science teacher in the last term. His truant spring of New York clubbing. Anton was Justin Taylor dancing shirtless in Queer as Folk before that first episode ever aired. Let’s hear it for the boy ….

“It was a ruse! My friends ditched the trip at the last minute for me. I was Leo on the Titanic as we sailed out of New York.”

“Titanic?”

“Oh don’t be like that! I’m king of the world! On the bow of the boat!”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen that meme. DiCaprio was cute.” Fourteen nods. “Mom likes that movie.”

Anton threw himself at Jared, and he was rewarded with three weeks of Jared’s hard use. “It took me two days to seduce Jared. My God! The passage to Liverpool was glorious after that.” Anton glows at the memory. My God my ass was sore. Young flesh heals quickly, Anton considers Fourteen’s sexy tangerine. “Dear boy,” Anton lays a hand on Fourteen’s bare thigh. “I could barely walk for a week!”

“He was DiCaprio and I was Kate Winslet. That scene where he draws her naked? I did that. He could not draw a stick figure.” Anton grins his delight. “Now, Daniel has a hand like Leonardo Da Vinci. He has this sketchbook,” But speaking of that was probably not appropriate. “What did I care? Jared’s eyes licked my entire body, though. God I was so happy!”

Anton’s passion for Jared Hogan faded quickly - not before they docked in Liverpool - but soon after. The sailing though, Jared taught Anton how to love sailing blue water. Anton’s passion for sailing of any kind never faded. The passion faded, but he never started a fresh voyage without the memory of Jared Hogan.

“How far can we get in a day?”

“You may as well ask about the length of a piece of three-strand line. We sail at over 6 knots with a fair wind and flat water. I could plan our passage times accordingly, right? That almost never works out. If you are on a sea coast you will always run foul of some contrary wind and current in the course of a full day of sailing. These will slow your speed more than you think. If the wind is blowing from your destination and you have to put in a few tacks, there’s another delaying factor. If both wind and tide are against us, we’re better off cutting our losses and either stay put out here or duck into a handy anchorage.”

“What does the barometer say?” Anton asks the boy.

“Umm, 28.5?” Fourteen peers.

“It’s dropping. We’ll have rain.”

“Is it going to get bad?

“No, it’s going down slowly. I’ve been watching it. We are coming through before the wet season.” Anton looks at Surocco’s wake. “What is our speed?”

“5.4,” Fourteen replies.

“The wind is good. I work to a 5-knot average speed. We have been keeping daily runs of 20 to 30 miles—four to six hours. Given a seven-day time span, and depending on where and how we sail, Surocco should be able to cover 100 to 110 miles a day without much trouble, sailing only during daylight hours. It is just under 400 nautical miles to Puerto Vallarta.”

“We sailed through the night.” Fourteen observes.

“We will again tonight.” Anton nods agreement. “Our extra trip through Copper Canyon and your nonsense in Topolobampo put me behind schedule.”

“We are on a schedule?”

“We are meeting friends in Puerto Vallarta.” Anton explains. He reaches past Fourteen and sets the autopilot.“I’m leaving you at the helm, Fourteen. I’ll just lie here and catnap. Are you good?”

“I’m good.” Fourteen answers with far more confidence than he feels.

Anton stretches out in the cockpit behind Fourteen, well content. Sleeping under these conditions means he will doze for twenty minutes at a time. He will likely barely rouse himself to check on the boy and the boat. Anton’s body will sense anything alarming. He smiles content. Jared Hogan did this with Anton in 1998. Anton manned Thistle while the man slept half an eye open. It’s not something you forget, Anton smiles.

Fourteen is good, all things considered. Despite his poor judgement with Rafael, the revelation that he lied to Anton, he is still on Anton’s ketch. We’ll decide in Puerto Vallarta, Anton qualified so long ago in San Diego. Fourteen puts that uncertain after aside. Now, Fourteen is piloting 50,000 pounds of ocean going machine. This would make a truly epic SnapChat for his friends.

Bare chested (no Daniel-dark hairs yet), San Diego sunglasses, salt-stained Padres cap, frazzled hair framing his tanned face, Fourteen grins tangerine. He has not struck out yet! Take a picture, he knows Surocco’s ways well enough. On autopilot, Fourteen could duck down to the salon and grab his phone. Just a few shots of me at the helm, he assures himself. He could only share it with Sophie. She would appreciate his joy. Very tempting, but Anton has given him his first solo sea watch. Nothing will drive him from Surocco’s helm.

Anton does not rouse himself until the rain shower starts to drench him in the open cockpit. It is almost welcome. The ocean-salt desiccation dries his skin out. The chronometer says three hours. Fourteen stirred twice. Once to piss into the ketch’s wake, and another to stretch his legs in the cockpit. Anton was roused by each interlude, but he chose to let the boy think he slept.

“I’m sailing through the night.” Anton tells Daniel in the salon a few minutes later. “The traffic isn’t heavy, but I’d rather not heave to. Some sleepy container ship would run us down.” Anton kisses his partner. There are fresh sketches annotated with scribbles by the laptop. Also, Daniel’s sketchbook lies face down on the table. It is tempting to see if there is something new. Daniel nods and submerges into his plans as Anton fetches foul weather gear. “I could use the company.”

“Sure,” Daniel replies. He remembers to add a smile.

Still grumpy, Anton sighs. He notices Fourteen’s Galaxy on the galley counter. The boy locks it with his fingerprint. Still secrets, but all three do this. It is only sensible. Anton picks the smartphone up.

“Unlock it, kid.” Fourteen’s eyes are hidden by the cheap dark glasses. “You’ll want a picture to remember.” Anton snaps off a series of Fourteen at his ketch’s helm. Then he adds a short video. “Here,” the phone returns to its owner. “Something to remind you. I have the helm.”

“You have the helm,” and Fourteen snaps off a salute with one finger.

Daniel knows Fourteen is in the galley behind his back. The silence is a thing between them now. Silences are normal on the ketch. Three men in 40 feet, silence is welcome. This thing between them is silence with a difference. Before long, Daniel smells the coffee.

Fourteen sits across from Daniel, watching him through the eyelashes of the young. He whiles away his time looking at the pictures Anton took of him smirking at the helm. There was something like parental pride in the way Anton captured this moment.

He can write an email, compose a text message. He could ask Anton for the satellite phone. It has become habitual to let the world contract to Surocco’s horizon when they are on passage. The essential conundrum, reconciling Jeremy Gates’ closet before to this self-affirming now, and the Chillicothe honest-after he still wants. Sending snippets of his life to Sophie cracks the stone of his silence with his parents.

It is down to Sophie Wright. With distance from the Pueblo, Keon seems too young-straight to meet his mind. The flash of violence in San Ysidro cleaves the threads between them. Then too, Keon has not answered his single email from La Paz. Fourteen imagines Keon and Vondell are still roaming the Arizona box canyon bereft of the things of all things on the Internet. The phone in Fourteen’s hand is nearly useless between ports. His now-contacts are so limited.

Daniel shifts some papers between them. Before Topolobampo, the young man would gladly satisfy Fourteen’s curiosity. Daniel and Fourteen always found something to talk about. The constructions out at the Pueblo piqued the architect in him. Samuel Faulkner’s mashup of discarded things caught Daniel’s imagination. He made Fourteen sketch the round house. The young man will not even look up to acknowledge his presence. Fourteen puts down his phone.

Fourteen can hardly say a thing to Cameron Krueger in North Platte. It has to be assumed that what he says will be passed on to law enforcement. Cameron is a burned bridge to the Levi-before. Both Cameron and Keon are minutes-wasted moments on the final burner phone he snatched from the kitchen in San Ysidro. Messages to Cameron have to be more than opaque. Their Alburquerque-Flagstaff aimless chatter was broken by the Pueblo isolation. Anyway, Fourteen was reduced to responses to Cameron’s prosaic high school existence. It was painful.

After Fourteen’s Tuan-like bomb exploded in Surocco’s salon, Jeremy Gates confessed (nearly) everything. Daniel’s damn laptop fact-checked him throughout the painful process. Fourteen was on trial. Blindingly obvious that this would be the after-Chillicothe iteration. Explain yourself, really means who do you think you are? Fourteen edits the ugly for acceptance. There are things he just cannot share with Anton and Daniel.

Fourteen reaches over for a piece of paper. The taking shifts some order Daniel has imposed on his array. Daniel fusses with the dislocation without comment. Fourteen takes some Sharpies without asking. The result is something of a ruby daisy. Daniel is watching him furtively. When Fourteen is done, he cuts it out. The paper snips are sharp and rise above the ever-present conversation between Surocco and the sea. Snip, snip snip, the deliberateness of Fourteen’s determination to be heard does not escape Daniel’s notice.

Fourteen leaves the saloon and galley for the gangway to the master stateroom. Daniel ignores-attends to the teenager’s movements behind his back. He is not really thinking about the sketches arrayed around him. While Anton dozed in the cockpit and Fourteen conned the ketch, Daniel Looked at his sketches of the cabin boy. Daniel keeps his deliberate silence.

Fourteen returns naked with the paper Ruby Scotch-taped to his chest. He drapes himself across the far bench in a seductive pose. Sensuous skin-curves floating on the ever shifting boat. A shift of bare thigh sends Fourteen’s heavy junk into a feel-my-significance offering. Daniel can measure the incandescent heat of the sultry gaze burning his way.

Finally, Daniel cannot pretend to work. He tries to meet Fourteen’s Kate-Winslet-Titanic offering with a stony adult-reproving stony-stare of indifference. Not easy, the full force of age-transcending tangerine assaults Daniel’s defences. Still, Daniel persists in his silent reproaches.

Fourteen persists with his Kate Winslet pose on the bench while Daniel  returns to ignoring him. “Have you forgiven me yet?” Just an answering rejection from Daniel. “You know, there are worse ways to betray someone than lying about your age.”

Getting a sense of how he looks is difficult in the unforgiving spaces of the Super Maramu 2000. Anton’s monumental vanity runs counter to the realities of a sailor. On Surocco, the sailor commands. Anton’s vanity makes due with the admiration he sees reflected in Daniel and Fourteen’s eyes; and so must Fourteen make due with Anton’s.

Fourteen’s lips twitch into the side smile that always earns forgiveness. It is maturing to his father’s smile; kryptonite to Remy Gates’ Super Mom powers. There are subtle variations in the smirk’s message, as someone might say the word okay to message many things. Fourteen’s now half-smile messages uncertainty, perhaps a little hope. He studies the fresh crew cut.

Fourteen liked the Samson-strong lion’s mane that was so much like Daniel Ayer’s. Levi Fisher took Fourteen for a crew cut long ago in Detroit, while they were hunting for a guy, who knows a guy, who can hook you up with a new identity (nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more). Fourteen looked like a naval seaman recruit driving towards Lake Michigan. Anton Schroeder’s vision is far more stylish. There is more height, but Fourteen’s ears are once more prominent.

The admiration in Anton’s eyes replies to the concerned smile Fourteen casts his way. “Stunning, Jeremy,” Anton praises his own creation. “The black stud and the antique silver. You look snatched.”

Fourteen touches the Vietnamese not-bomb reflexively. “The clasp is ruined.” He told Anton when the man first gushed over it enthusiastically. Anton’s money made that right while they were shopping for new clothes. “You need to be presentable.” Wearing the silver necklace is bitter-sweet. Fourteen could smash the SmartWatch into splinters, but when the necklace came off with Roman Montreal’s help, he simply tucked it away. You can hate something and cherish it too. You can choose to put a symbol on and take it off.

Fourteen’s earlobe is a dull ache from the fresh piercing. It is a circumcision-echo that unsettles him, like putting the silver necklace back around his neck. Groin, neck, earlobe, perhaps this is all too like the QR code tattoo Cordell Faulkner promised Fourteen would get in San Diego. He barely thinks of the cock mutilation, and he likes the look of the jewelry.

Anticipation helps diffuse the apprehension, my first gay gathering. Fourteen smooths the stomach flutters as he smooths the linen of his new guayabera shirt. More bleached white over a spandex-tight muscle shirt. The slacks might be tailored to his hips. The ocher loafers complement the darker tones of the slacks. Lynx rufus, the grey-winter aspect of Michigan to Arizona gives way to the deep reddish-browns of summer. The bright August-tangerine is muted into the rust of his new undershirt. Jeremy Gates is still camouflaged. The tangerine is in his father’s small smile and the ever-twinkle in his mother’s eyes.

Deep down, Fourteen knows this is just another costume. He has been Levi’s echo of Nguyen Huu Tuan, Cordell’s hooker self reflection, now he is dressed up for Anton. All things considered, Fourteen likes this summer-look better. He slides the new Oakley sunglasses on his face and tries a Terminator look. Anton approves.

Anton looks the boy over critically. He might pass for eighteen now that I’ve scrubbed the beach boy out of him. Fourteen only needs to move unobtrusively through the age-restricted Casa Velas Ocean Club Anton’s friends have occupied. Fourteen can be the underage sailing student for his friends once they get there. First of three, Anton and Daniel agree. With forged documents, the partners think they can pass through the coming ports without much notice. Two more young men perhaps for better cover, that thought has not been shared with Daniel yet.

The nasty boy maintains his deadpan expression behind the Oakley glasses. Fourteen slowly unbuttons the guayabera shirt, revealing the tight rust-undershirt. The pants and silky briefs come open next, soft petals blossoming. The pestle-pollen offering exposed for Anton’s hungry bee. Just a twitch of masterful finger beststows permission. Anton steps forward and drops to his knees. Anton’s gratitude is immense.

Climbing up the gangway, Anton runs an appreciative hand down Fourteen’s flank. It is the only gesture he allows himself after the pleasure of submission. He is master and commander of Surocco. The boy moving up ahead of him knows this. Interludes like what preceded in the Master Stateroom do not change that. The boy zipped up his fly with an adolescent grin that celebrated their shared game. Then the roles changed once again. Anton likes his cabin boy for that.

Fourteen looks about the packed Marina Vallarta while Anton secures the ketch. Anton, cool cucumber, inched Surocco between the endless seagoing opulence. The older ketch fetched few looks from the new neighbors. Puerto Vallarta, Jeremy Gates whispers wistfully from the before memory.

“You know, we could do Puerto Vallarta over the spring break. If we pull Jem out of school. We could avoid the crush and higher rates.” Nine-year old Jeremy perks up from his long division. He would love to join the elite who have vacation bragging rights during Show and Share. “Maybe five thousand, honey.” Greyson jiggles the bright lure. Fourteen remembers Jeremy’s spark of excitement. Dad-daydreams, it sparked a hopeful conversation throughout a Chillicothe evening.

Jeremy totally expected the winter surprise trip. That is what parents do. Keep it a secret till you come home from school and drop it on you like a present, your bags packed already. Jeremy totally expected that vacation. There never were any Mexican vacations. Instead, they were off once more to Florida to see his Aunt Anita in Key Biscayne. Anaheim again, Disney World had bragging rights at least.

Anton conned Surocco through the Pacific night. First Fourteen, and then Daniel kept him company. He even took the wheel while Anton cat napped. Fourteen woke past dawn and brought Anton a coffee. Illusive Puerto Vallarta lay before them. “Wow!” Fourteen admired Anton’s navigation. “Right on the money!”

“We could hardly miss, with all this.” Anton waved at the helm’s array of instruments with the travel mug.

That morning, Fourteen walked to the prow where he could watch the city. Morning-empty stretch of sand beyond the ribbons of white-wave crests. Tropical palms shield the predominantly canary-yellow and white of the low-rise shorefront commerce. Fourteen scanned the condo blocks and towers stepping back up the tropical camouflage of steep mountains. It was all utterly unlike the parched rocks of Baja.

The impulse to snap a picture is too great. Fourteen caught the view on his phone as they sailed closer. Like a heroin junkie, he needed to share it with his parents. It’s what you thought it would be like dad, Hawaii in North America. That thought reminds Fourteen of Sophie sailing into Hawaii somewhere West, Far East. “Puerto Vallarta is like Hawaii, Remy.” Greyson teased Jeremy’s mother. “Same latitude.” Like a recovering heroin addict, Fourteen decides to send the image to Sophie since he cannot share it with his dad (yet). Sophie is his emotional-belonging methadone.

The memory of coming into Puerto Vallarta passes as Anton allows himself a final smack of Fourteen’s pert ass. “You look really good, Jeremy. We can walk to Casa Velas from here.” Anton’s mind is already on the coming meeting. He has been jumpy and Daniel’s desertion unsettles him.

“You’re not going to pull a fucking Jardine on me, are you?” Fourteen is looking clinically at Anton.

“What are you talking about?” Anton asks.

“Never mind,” Fourteen replies. He sailed in as Kale Euler. Documents were checked at the dock. As usual, money talks. It is a cursory inspection. Fourteen is Kale Euler until the next country. Then he can finally be Jeremy Gates, troubled sailing student. Troubled always plays a part in Fourteen’s story.

The marina zone is nice. Fourteen comments on this to Anton. “This is more Disneyland than Mexico.” Anton replies. “Portofino,” he adds. “Tyrone is considering taking a condo here. I don’t know much about Puerto Vallarta,”

Fourteen grins impishly behind his new Oakleys as if to say, you’d admit that? Anton gets the message, “Oh behave!”

“As I was saying, I don’t know much about Puerto Vallarta, but if it was me, I’d be looking for something boutique in the Old Town. The Romantic Zone, somewhere decidedly friendly to expats and Queers. I’ll show it to you before your carriage turns back into a pumpkin and you go back to your underage cinders in the fireplace.” Anton looks reproachfully at the boy walking beside him. “Yeet! Why couldn’t you really be eighteen?”

“Estoy aquí por el color local.” Fourteen smiles at an attractive young woman checking him out. Perhaps she thinks he is too young for this adults-eighteen-and-over complex. “I’m working on it, give me a few years.” He tried the, I’m just a kid! Argument in the Ohio barn with Patrick and John. He tried it again in the freezing Luxor Winnebago in North Platte. Adults never seemed to notice. Daniel Ayers can stuff his moral indignation. Anton can shelve the faux concern.

Fourteen cannot help feeling just a kid as they approach the gay-gathering. His stomach is starting to flutter like he felt stepping into Elvis Parker’s place in San Ysidro. Turn around, little boy, someone whispers. Best to shake it off; this is just the jitters of Wade’s Seven-Minutes-In-Heaven game. If any fifteen-year old has this covered, Fourteen does.

Past the bastion of the Portofino Luxury Condos there is a trinity of swimming pools. The modern mass gives way to colonial-style architecture resembling some  metastasizing old hacienda. Fourteen takes in the lush privacy of intimate gardens and outdoor terraces. A grass-roofed cabana perches rustic beside yet another pool. Beyond all this is the private beach and ocean. All this, and not a happy child’s voice amongst the blossom-white flowering of umbrellas and empty loungers.

Anton sees it all through the eyes of jaded wealth. He does not know what draws Tyrone Casey to Puerto Vallarta. Anton owns one modest property in Seattle and Surocco. If he needs another home, he visits his mother. Valerie Avakian keeps the Summer Palace in New Jersey and a penthouse in LA. Anton is content to live aboard his old ketch, check his Seattle Condo, mooch off mom. Oddly, he thinks Valerie Avakian approves. Anton lives within his means. He supposes if he had Tyrone Casey’s greater success, he might sprinkle business-friendly properties around the world.

“It’s like everyone is buying timeshares to gift each other.” Anton remarks to Fourteen. The boy chameleon-like tries to change his coloration. When Fourteen is with Daniel, the midwestern-middle-class is too obvious. Just a boy riding a mountain bike down some insular suburban biosphere. Trading video games like my friends trade their casual acquisitions. Anton tries to remember the directions, plucks Fourteen’s shirt sleeve and takes a turn. Maui is so overrun. You should just take my place on Lani, use the boat. 

“Tyrone settled into some Shadow Bank, Credit Hedge Fund. Nothing illegal, just uninsured deposits,” Anton assures Fourteen. “Money rolls in. He has done well for himself.” Anton can say this without jealousy. If that had been the life he was suited for, his mother would not have eased his way out of management of Mirage Property Advisors. Surocco and Daniel Ayer’s is the life Anton Schroeder was suited for. He has told Valerie Avakian that often enough.

“Here we are!” Anton inspects his youngest protege one last time. He criticizes his circle for their casual dispensations. It is all about acquiring great face, Anton understands. If he flipped John Mark’s Porsche 968, John Mark’s pocket book would quiver. John Mark will toss his keys to Anton anyway. Anton inspects his cabin boy, unconscious of his own tendency to hand the keys of his current-partner-collection to a friend. You should take Fourteen …. Anton loved the being given when he was a teenager. He cannot imagine Daniel or Fourteen objecting. His friends will drive Fourteen carefully like Anton drove John Mark’s Porsche 968.

Tyrone Casey meets them at the door. He takes in Fourteen at a glance and draws Anton into a warm hug. Old friends, old campaigners from prep school days. The stories Tyrone could tell, and probably will.

“A shame about Daniel.”

“Hmmm, yes.” Anton’s smile is practiced. “He called from Mexico City. He is totally fixated on some gleaming Mexican tower. I’m quite out of his mind.”

“Of course he is,” Tyrone commiserated. “But I thought you said he went there to see some clever building, not study the local’s architecture.”

“You awful cow,” Anton smiles delighted.

Tyrone turns toward Fourteen. “You must be Kale Euler.”

“I must be,” Fourteen grins. Tyrone is of an age with Anton. There is something patrician in his demeanour. Old New Orleans French Quarter decadent, Fourteen thinks he could like the slender man.

“He hates his name with a passion.” Anton confides.

“Don’t we all?” Tyrone laughs. “Mothers! What can we do?”

“Call him Fourteen.”

“Oh dear!” Tyrone dramatically slides his eyes to Fourteen’s groin. His eyes return to Fourteen’s burning cheeks. Tyrone has a friendly smile. Not the TWINK’s age I hope, Tyrone Casey reassures himself. It is not Anton’s thing to suffer competition in a room, but underage boys.

“It’s an old nickname,” Fourteen explains helplessly. This gathering of Anton’s friends feels like a junior high party to him. Suddenly he is tripping over double entendres in mixed company. “I’ve had lots of them. Pequeño gallo,” Fourteen stops at that. Pretty Boy, and all of Patrick’s bile can be forgotten. The Chillicothe-rest belongs to Jeremy Gates protected before.

“Petit coq,” of course, Tyrone adds to himself. The young man is intriguing. “Salut, petit coq.” He kisses Fourteen on both cheeks in the continental way, and feels the boy’s blush-burn against his lips. “I’ve company more your age on the patio. Why don’t you introduce yourself while Anton and I catch up. He can tell me all about you!”

“That’s easy enough. Yes, I’ve realized I’m gay. Things are rough at home. School is not going well, so my parents insisted on drafting me into Anton’s navy till the Fall term when I am expected to settle down.” Fourteen offers glibly.

“Blue Water Sailing School,” Anton mumbles. This is the story he planned to use with Tyrone and Beckett.

“None better to teach you.” Tyrone accepts the idea easily. It is a given there is more to it than that. “Beckett is not here yet. You’ll be alright?”

Anton sighs dramatically. “Just hide the sharp knives.” He really is over the man. He wanted Daniel here to prove it. Fourteen is walking slowly towards the private patio looking around as if he had never seen a $900 suite before. Poor boy, I’ve thrown him in with the sharks and baited the water with chum.

It’s like a small house, not a hotel room, Fourteen decides. The white Italian marble juxtaposes with obligatory Mexican decor. The kitchen counter is a wet bar at the moment, and the dining table is heavy with salsas and finger food to graze on. Fourteen’s adolescent-raptor swoops down on a slider that turns out to be black bean. He eyes the lime wedges beside the Don Julio. I’ve company your age on the Patio, Tyrone warned Fourteen. He discards half the slider in the trash and takes an unfamiliar shot of tequila before he treads his way down to Wade’s basement (as it were) to face more unfamiliar expectations.

There is an outdoor dining table in the private garden. It is doing nothing more than hosting schooners of local craft beer and a edifice of towels. Age appropriate company is in the garden’s immersion pool. Can’t even, I can’t pull these guys, Fourteen is dismayed-turned-on. Shut up, you can do this! “Hola chicos, soy Jeremy.  Tyrone dijo que me presentara.  Así que sí.” Fourteen left his cover story in the dustbin with the half-slider.

“No hables mexicano, lo siento.” Comes the halting reply. Gareon Brantley gives the cute cheer queer the once over. Tyrone Casey never mentioned distributing party favours.

“Hey, yeah sorry little bro.” Malachi Hooker adds. Tyrone Casey’s interest-intentions-expectations were written all over the football scholarships in invisible rainbow ink. Both freshmen understand the terms. Malachi flashes his pearls at the Twink, undecided if the boy is a holla back girl or another Vine-celebrity like Jacob Sartorius.

Sweet mountains of man-flesh! Fourteen’s supercharged libido gibbers. “It’s all good!” Jeremy Gates clears his throat nervously, then lets Fourteen continue. “I said my name is … hey, just call me Fourteen (awkward pause). Just a nickname, not ….” And this fumbling was exactly how Jeremy Gates always knew it was going to go at the football parties.

Holla back girl, Malachi decides. The little dude is waiting to be told to duck under the water to suck his dick. Still, the boy by the soaking pool has a Vine-celebrity aura. It is like Malachi knows this face from somewhere.

Gareon is not so sure. The youth standing over them ends all this awkwardness with a sassy bobcat-grin. Gareon is thinking Rudy, maybe. Head cheerleader, material, anyway. “Join us,” he suggests. Just for a second, you can see the jackrabbit in the cheer queer’s eyes, then the sassy bobcat pops back in. “I’m Gareon, twenty-one, so they call me Blackjack. He’s Malachi.”

“Sixty-nine,” Malachi puts in. This is a challenge or a promise, depending on who he says it to. Nobody laughs at Malachi’s 245 pounds.

Where is it? Fourteen asked Elvis Parker in San Ysidro. Stupid question then, the beer was in the fridge. I don’t have a swim suit, first Jeremy Gates’ thought. Gareon and Malachi definitely don’t have suits. Fourteen is going to have to skinny dip his skinny ass into this pool party. Orgy ready for this? Own it, don’t flaunt it, Ed-Harris-Levi reminds him from Nirvana. You can take them, Dr.-Levi-Evil adds lasciviously.

Jeremy Gates folds his clothes not too prissy. Someone has come through the front door. The chorus of older male voices echoes out to the patio. Fourteen is just a little excited-eager to join the young men in the water. In the water, on the lawn, possibilities endless, yeah the cock is awake. Own it, Levi whispers. Fourteen pauses by the table to crack a Club Soda and pour the coolness down his throat; pretty fly (for a white guy).

“You live here in Puerto Vallarta?” Gareon asks.

“Nope,” Fourteen lets the water boye him up. “I’m crewing for Anton and Daniel. It’s a fifty-foot ketch. I’m from Ohio.” The young men have him dizzy. The whole (probably) orgy-party has Fourteen ramped up beyond his Jeremy Gates’ high school wildest wet-dream. Best case there was shame-sucking the quarterback’s dick in the busy bathroom. The Ohio, just slips out unnoticed.

“Malachi is from Cleveland. I’m from Toronto. We’re at LSU.” What each of them is doing at Casa Velas in Puerto Vallarta goes without saying. They all have private arrangements and obligations. “You've been here long?”

“Sailed in this morning. Shopped around,” Fourteen shrugs.

“How old are you, boy?” Malachi asks. Fourteen ducks his head below the water. His crew cut comes up flat until he brushes a hand over his scalp.

“Eighteen.”

Yeah, maybe, the young men decide. Nobody is going to card the fresh meat at this party. Fourteen is not the first High School Junior to slip into an after game party at the university. Wet to get tapped by the team … girls mostly ….

Podiatrist, Anton lets the latest name slip into oblivion. Not my type, Anton calculates, though not my type is a tiny demographic. Anton finds a drink and takes a moment to appreciate Fourteen disrobing on the patio. He is curious to see which way his cabin boy swings at his coming out party. Anton feels a pleasant wave of nostalgia.

“You're in construction?” The podiatrist asks to be polite.

I’m in sailboats, Anton reacts, but best confess. “Yes, we’re concentrated in the rust belt. Opportunities for cost effective redevelopment. Mirage has tentacles everywhere now.” That prompts more questions, so Anton puts his corporate hat on, shares the company prospectus. Dear God, it’s already degenerated into a business meeting!

Tyrone rescues Anton with a handsome Dane. The Viking has ten years on Anton and thirty pounds. The evil Fourteen with his wicked henchman Daniel have contrived-conspired to torture Anton back to fitness. He feels positively winsome batting his lashes at the Dane. “You have an old Super Maramu, I hear.”

“You say that like it’s a greasy old fishing trawler.” Anton flirts.

The Viking has an Xp 44 in the marina. Like Anton, he would rather live aboard than own some seldom used condo. “You sailed from Copenhagen?” Anton asks. But no, the X-Yacht was brought over by a delivery crew. The podiatrist is forgotten as they argue the merits of their different boats. Anton considers the merits of stor pik up his mest begavede. “You must come by before we sail.”

Then, of course, Beckett Calibaba and Ishmael Austin arrive. Anton has drawn his Dane to the kitchen-bar for a more intimate atmosphere blended-primed with red wine. Tyrone is suavely ushering in the couple. So many introductions to make, Anton is determined they will come to him.

Anton needs Daniel’s calm smile to steady him. It’s just a squall, he reminds himself. The X-man touches Anton’s fingers on the counter. Tyrone’s wine clears his throat. It’s all good. He focuses on the Dane.

“I picked her up in Panama City. I took her to the Pearl Islands. Have you been there?” The Dane is almost holding Anton’s hand. “She is just a joy to sail, very close-winded. Real craftsmanship, the X-Yacht. So many lille things. For instance, the wiring, hand-solder the solid copper bus links between the switches. Alle the labor-intensive stuff you just don’t see on most boats. It cost $740,000, which is nothing to laugh at.”

He goes on about the indestructible keel and the ease with which the boat came out of the water in Copenhagen. Anton smiles, not entirely disinterested in the Danish boat, but mostly wanting this large Dane to fuck him silly. “It sounds fantastic. I’m wept with jealousy.” The words of praise seem just the right moment to lean forward to kiss a cheek. The Dane gets the hint and lips lock.

This is perfect, because Tyrone is walking Beckett over as they kiss. Tyrone cannot tolerate ex partner drama on his vacation. Taking sides, Tyrone and Anton never lived like that. We move on, Tyrone believes. Anton obviously has. Daniel Ayers, MIA, is Anton’s new thing. Then there is Anton’s troubled child in the soaker pool with this season’s scholarship recipients. Tyrone is determined to keep things civilized between the ex partners.

Anton breaks the kiss and asks the Dane about his work in Brussels. Then so casually, he can turn delighted to see Beckett and accept his ex partner’s hug. There is this lingering pressure on Anton’s shoulder blade as they part. Establishing dominance, Anton understands. Beckett and Fourteen, they both understand body language better than Daniel Ayers.

The Dane still has a hand on Anton’s arm, but Anton invites no further intimacy while Beckett stands watching him. No reason to seem needy. Tyrone makes the introductions. Tyrone explains Daniel Ayers’ absence, manages the conversation. We’re all adults here.

The damn art gallery, hell will freeze over before Anton asks about it. The Dane is interested. Anton takes the moment to search out Ishmael Austin. Tyrone sent him off to play with the boys. Ish is a bit too fragile for Anton. That is saying a lot, and this is not some ex boyfriend jealousy surfacing. Beckett wanted someone younger, he wanted a total submissive. We never quite suited each other. It was not enough to top, Beckett liked a committed sub 24-7. Daniel really was more suited to Anton. Anton feels a flood of warmth at this realization.

“You’re looking good, Anton. The sea life seems to suit you.”

“I save all this rich food for the beach.” Bless Fourteen and his constant mothering about my middle age spread. “And I’m on the beach now,” Anton lears at Beckett. The Dane gets it. “It’s always good to see you. You mentioned free trade negotiations with the European Union,” Anton turns the conversation back on the Dane. Pharmaceuticals get brought up and Tyrone waves a few more into the conversation.

Times change, Anton smiles to himself. Foreplay is intertwined with our business interests. My people will talk to your people. My, your portfolio is impressive. Perhaps that is why he has come to prefer the simple-complexity of Daniel and Fourteen on Surocco. The Pearl Islands, the Dane is right. They need to languish there for a time.

“I’m Ish.”

It takes a moment. Ishmael, Fourteen makes the connection. Anton and Daniel have spoken of the other couple. The stay in Puerto Vallarta is about their host Tyrone and a passing visit with a complication named Beckett and Ishmael. Daniel does not get along with Beckett. “You’re trying too hard to be friends.” Daniel comments on Anton’s friendship with his former boyfriend. Fourteen considers the young man introducing himself as Ish.

The svelte bobcat-cheer-queer slid between the teammates, much to Malachi’s amusement. The pretext was a moment when an old dinge queen sat on the edge to quiz-leer the young men about their 5-7, 3-5 season. Gareon and Malachi are freshman rookies, so they hardly have interesting stories to share. They hardly know the varsity players the dinge queen asks about. Fourteen ducked under the water when the man stroked his head. He surfaced between the friends.

“Join us Ish,” Gareon suggests. Fourteen’s pale bum is Gouda-firm between pumpernickel hips.

Malachi gave their names. The man paddling his legs in the soaking pool offers his, and Malachi finishes with, “This is Fourteen, only he isn’t.” A huge hand drops on Fourteen’s thigh beneath the water and tests the muscle tone. Fingers brush his gravity-free groin. Someone needs to be the kicker at this old-man party. Fourteen is momentarily sacked by the lineman. “Fourteen, you the quarterback or a wide receiver?”

“I’m a utility player.” Fourteen replies. His attention is split between Malachi’s adductor-massage, Gareon stroking his back, and Ishmael disrobing shyly by the stack of fluffy towels. He is not aware of the young men wishboning his attention in a friendly rivalry.

“Not good enough to specialize.” Gareon teases. The back-hand is suddenly useful. Gareon cups the back of the queer-cheer’s neck and steals the first kiss and Malachi grabs Fourteen’s balls.

Bobcat has scrambled box canyon cliffs before. Mount Malachi is a foothold to lift him up to Gareon’s lips. He can slip an arm across the cliff of slick shoulder muscle so he can press his face into the young man. Malachi’s hand is pushed off Fourteen’s groin and onto his chest.

“I specialize at the game.”

Holy shit! Fourteen’s inner Jeremy blurts silently. Ishmael is turning from the table and the man on the edge is just smiling like nothing happened. Seven Minutes in Heaven sends libido-virgin shockwaves through an adolescent basement. “It’s just a small party to meet some people.” Anton breezed as he fussed over Fourteen’s new clothes. The submarine earthquake is hardly a tsunami about the private patio. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

The pool action assignation lures Ishmael into the soaker pool and the Dane joins the other man on the edge of the pool. Malachi and Gareon might be running plays like friends playing pickup in the park. The ball rests between them contemplating Ishmael.

Beckett’s Ishmael is Lord of the Rings fairy-beautiful with iceberg-blue-white hair falling-framing artfully to his high cheekbones. Swear-to-God, the stylist matched Ishmael’s eyes. Pretty Boy, Cordell’s voice rasps in Fourteen’s inner-ear. There are qualities of Anton in the Stateroom in the young man’s coy demeanour.

Rub-a-dub-(cock)-dub, three men in a tub; Fourteen and the young men split their attention. Always own it, Levi Fisher advised. Fourteen owns the great reveal like a proud bobcat, gracefully-gathering energy for the claw-raking pounce. Ishmael is a shy-vulnerable Venis-virgin rising from the pool. Fourteen forgot the men mingling about the patio, pausing to watch youth’s beauty with possessive eyes. Fourteen’s prey was in the pool. Ishmael’s ice-blue eyes encompass every face in a brazen, What you see is what you’re going to get.

Ishmael Austin dismisses no cock lightly. Fourteen, between the real players, is all American Boy. Malachi’s impressive bulk is perhaps be careful what you wish for. Gareon’s slighter strength evokes Beckett’s discipline. Ishmael sits on the edge where he can signal, someone please consume my cock. “Gareon?” He asks with a calculated toss of his glacier hair. It is an I-choose-you (first) question, followed by a light kiss on Gareon’s amused lips.

Seven Minutes in Heaven in a soaker pool; of the four of them, only three are clear about expectations. Multiform possibilities for any party, but this is Tyrone’s Party, and Tyrone Casey and Anton Schroeder are particular personal friends from way back. This is not a closet-bedroom awkward experiment in Chillicothe. This is a Roman bacchanal. They did that by the way. Young men exploring flesh in the Santa Maria Maggiore, Esquilino.

Fourteen is uncertain about expectations. Hungry eyes everywhere about the patio. Malachi makes it easier. He sweeps his preferred queer-cheer onto his lap. The Ice-Queen-Fairy is clearly a holla back girl. Malachi is more interested in the fangs and claws Fourteen bares without much thought. Fourteen settles with his back to the crowd, eyes on the play. The boy is just so god-damn-Rudy.

“Hasta la vista baby.” Fourteen can’t believe he is going to climb this cliff without a rope. He takes a cue from Ishmael, who is artfully letting Gareon rape his face. He flings his erection onto Malachi’s six-pack-pecks and kisses the strong young face. The lineman’s hands cup and weigh Fourteen’s tight-end potential. Malachi is every man he has already had on steroids (not so). It is sort of easy to forget the four Gen-Z’s in the pool are co-starring in an orgy for the surrounding Millennials. Fourteen thoughtlessly cums his excitement on the young man’s belly.

There are resonances developing between Ishmael and Fourteen. Ishmael thinks the All American boy (slut) is enthusiastic. The sexy Twink’s masterbation against his partner’s huge muscles, while the paired tongues dance is inspirational. The kid claws at Malachi’s tight scalp, fondles the ears, orgasms over the hands massaging his back. All this resonates with Gareon’s firm control on Ishmael’s own pliant body. To Ishmael, the boys are choreographed together. Dancing partners, or dance-off competitors, Ishmael could not say. Perhaps they are just dueling banjos in the young men’s hands. Sometimes, Ishmael squeals like a pig.

It’s usually girls, but Malachi is not particular. His particular arrangement with Tyrone Casey made Cincinnati and Toronto friends. Malachi is in Business Administration, Gareon is Pre-Med, both nineteen and willing to leverage their assets into a bright-dream future. Gareon still dreams of playing in the NFL or CFL back in Canada. Maybe, Malachi concedes. Malachi loves the game, but he intends to personally assist Tyrone Casey’s ass into a good Finance job. Football or his cock, whatever paves the way up the ladder. It’s usually girls, cheer-queers like this are worth a fuck. Malachi likes the pussy-cat stropping his chest. Damn, this boy’s mouth is eager!

Not to be outdone, Ishmael submerges to swallow Gareon’s cock. Fourteen is not much interested in snorkeling. While Ishmael is holding his breath, Fourteen closes the gap and captures Gareon’s face. It is just an, I’ve not forgotten you impulse. Stolen kiss completed, he rides back on Malachi’s thighs wondering if the water-magnified cock he is fondling is as big as it seems.

Ishmael comes up for air and finds Malachi has boosted himself onto the edge of the soaker pool. Fourteen’s crew cut is brushing the young man’s iron sternum, bobbing down the athletic treasure trail. Okay, Ishmael giggles. The Gen-Z partners have attracted a Millennial crowd. Ishmael takes this in, sensing the competition. Ishmael knows this pool-party is the overture to a Guys and Dolls Broadway musical where Ishmael is the doll. Gareon is willing to oblige. It is usually Coeds, but neither player is that particular. Gareon does not get off on the audience the way this bottom-boy does, but Toronto-Blackjack and Cincinnati-69 like to share these moments together. Teammates, getting laid together is a kick.

Beckett and Anton are quite sanguine about their boy’s pool play. Things to be expected, they tell each other with sophisticated smiles. They could not help but notice the center of gravity shift to the pool. Watching men kiss each other. The Dane is quite taken with the byplay between the couples. Anton and Beckett find a Lagrange Point between the kitchen-bar and the dolphin show in the pool. They resume their amicable detente and also appreciate the young men they have both brought to the party.

Tyrone drifts close to Anton, sensitive to everyone’s mood. “Who will win, I wonder?” This is directed at Anton. There is this stellar moment in Akita Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai where two swordsmen face off. A veteran samurai watches from the side. Who will win? An excited novice asks. It’s obvious, replies the veteran. It is obvious-inevitable to Tyrone. Tyrone has sucked both magnificent cocks. He will again. He knows a master when he sees one.

“Ish is a pro, you won’t believe it, dear.” Beckett still calls Anton dear, despite walking out on him. “Look at …” the name escapes him.

“Gareon,” Tyrone supplies, assessing the expression on his young protege’s face.

“He’s about to cum. Ish deep throats like nobody I know. Well, you of course, Anton.” Beckett concedes magnanimously. He does have fond memories of Anton choking on his manhood. Beckett watches the familiar progression in Gareon’s face. It ends with the animal triumph of male domination. That testosterone-groan when you have bred someone weaker than you are. Ishmael lifts proudly off the cock with his signature hair flip.

“You have no idea.” Anton begins with the certainty of a connoisseur. “The evil little bitch, that delightful spawn of Satan, Fourteen is playing a different game.” Anton doubles down on his ex partner. “Tyrone, your glass is empty. Can I get you something?”

“You’re not going to watch?” Tyrone asks, understanding.

“Plenty of time.” Anton breezes “Watch and learn, child.”

It is enough to make the Dane and his pool partner cum together. Tyrone pets Beckett softly, recalling times when he and Anton traded partners. The Puerto Vallarta beach party is a success. Parties are like a good curry, you need the right spices. Later, Tyrone will steal Beckett from his diaphanous toy. The little slut looks like he is ready to entertain the troops. The young people are stirring Tyrone’s pot nicely.

Anton pours two fresh Gimlets over crushed ice. An unfamiliar couple are fucking on the couch. Anton nibbles a chicken wing and eye-flirts with some cute local help brought in to tidy up. “Can I help you sir?” He can. Anton drops to his knees and tries a local salsa.

“I thought we lost you to the buffet.”

“You did.” Anton hands Tyrone his drink. There is some sympathetic foreplay happening now. Men being boys with each other, here and there. Malachi is flinching a little. He looks uncomfortable in that perfect way. “He won’t deep throat.” Anton confides to his best friend. The football player’s cock is a bit ridiculous anyway. Malachi’s casual pose is fractured by a sudden flinch of his right hand. Fourteen pulls off and turns to Gareon’s ready cock. Sometimes you have to let the meat rest. 

“Fuck this!” Malachi growls. He reaches down and one arm scoops Fourteen out of the pool. Fourteen comes up fighting, claws retracted. He is at the young man’s mouth again, both hands drawing it to his lips. Malachi impales him on his angry-hungry cock. The action is so violent, men wince. The football player’s orgasm is immediate. The audience can see the man’s length invading-expanding Fourteen’s spread anus.

Malachi bench presses a modest 290. Fourteen’s adolescent 120 is nothing to Malachi 245 pounds. The boy's legs wrapped around his waist before he was dropped onto the shaft. Fourteen’s fingers are locked behind Malachi’s bull neck. Malachi’s splayed fingers contrast with the healthy cream of Fourteen’s hips. “Gonna fuck me now, or should I fuck you?” The grin he gives Malachi is feral. Cum lubricates Fourteen’s anus.     As he rides up the buried cock.

Perfect! Tyrone tells himself as Malachi stalks to the bedroom with Anton’s young man artfully pierced on his beautiful tool. To be so young again! Fourteen is harassing Malachi with his hands and the young man needs one hand to bat those hands away. He pauses in the doorway to grip Fourteen’s throat. The boy’s busy hands fall away and he hangs compliant for a moment. As they move on, Fourteen’s fingers wrap around Malachi’s bull neck, experimentally.

Gareon has a giggling rag doll draped over his shoulder. He follows his friend into the bedroom with Ishmael. “Are you going to watch?” Tyrone asks Anton.

“Not now,” Anton murmurs. The Dane caught Anton’s eye and the Viking tossed his head towards a patch of lawn beside a fragrant bush. Satyrs and nymphs, Anton likes this game.

First cum, first served; Casa Velas’ Grand Class Plus is as Latino-opulent as the rest. There are two men exchanging flirtations and advice about the Romantic Zone near the on-suite. He who hesitates is lost. The flirtation is paused as Malachi stalks three stiff legs into the bedroom.

It is easy for Malachi to shove Fourteen off his cock and onto the king-sized bed. The two men watch as the young man ignores Fourteen. Of course, Tyrone Casey has left conveniences about the room (entire property). Fourteen crawls his pert ass across the bed to where Malachi is slathering choice lube about his cock. Bull riding, Fourteen’s rectum still (Biblically) knows the shock of that first impalement. Malachi bats Fourteen’s busy hands away and pushes him back onto the bed.

Fourteen’s legs start walking up the length of Malachi’s chest. His first foot tickles Malachi’s ear before one vast arm brushes both Fourteen’s legs off his chest. Malachi wants him from behind. Cheer-queer is a tight-end but he is wide open for Malachi’s next pass. The lineman likes the way Fourteen nips his hand after his shaft has sunk in again.

No way can Fourteen bench press the extra hundred plus pounds pressing down-in to him. He feels like he is merging with the mattress. His head is trapped in some sort of headlock. This is a nineteen-year old stallion on his back. More weight, libido whispers. Despite the futility of it all, the men beginning to masturbate each other can see the young bottom squirming under the wrestling pins. Malachi begins his usual reps.

Gareon politely fucks the pliant Fleshlight from the pool. Ishmael bites his lips between high-flung legs. The iceman is not fragile. Gareon can feel his sensuous strength everywhere. It is all used to draw Gareon deeper into his body. There is heavy breathing and mingled sweat and chlorine beside them. Gareon gets pretty half-hurt grunts and dramatic-genuine moans from his supine partner. Ishmael is all I can’t even! And Fourteen is all bear-baiting like some frisky bulldog … or a cornered bobcat.

Ishmael’s pussy consumes the dark young Canadian. This is the pleasure Beckett gives him. Being taken, knowing the penetration will generate an orgasm deep inside. Knowing he is wanted and that his young body can always offer more. Ishmael smiles when the All American Boy beside him bites the massive forearm choking his neck. Fourteen earns a cuff against the side of his head. He bites the hand that feeds him once again. The strong arm moves down Fourteen’s chest.

Ishmael looks around for Beckett. He wants his partner, his masterful boyfriend to appreciate how well he is letting himself be used. Sadly, there are only the two voyeurs watching by the bed. Ishmael reaches a hand in supplication to the younger of the pair. He has a pretty cock in his partner’s hand. The invitation is understood. The man straddles Ishmael’s face and guides his cock down Ishmael’s throat.

Anton and Beckett have their petty rivalry. Lovers spurned-scorned, they keep it civilized. Ishmael perceives the lingering tension-attraction between them. He is younger-prettier, but Anton is the measure of all things to Ishmael’s boyfriend. Ishmael measures too. Beckett and Daniel Ayers; Ishmael has not had Daniel yet. He will have him when he can. Beckett will want him to have Anton’s Daniel. Beckett likes him slutty. You can have such passing thoughts with a cock choking your throat.

Gareon pulls out of the Ice-Queen. Ishmael’s moan catches disappointment. Gareon invites the remaining man to take his place. When he returns from the on-suite, the two men have his former partner rearranged. Ishmael is cow-cat on the bed, heavy udder swaying back and forth between the cocks. Tyrone has come to watch with a man Gareon thinks is the Holla Girl’s boyfriend.

Gareon takes his clean, unexpired cock over to the other end of the bed. Fourteen looks more fun. The Ice-Queen is no Valkyrie. Fourteen is what he is; a cross between a cat in heat and a bobcat cornered by a bear. The sweat is on both partners and Gareon wants to sweat too. At the moment, Fourteen and Malachi are having some slow conversation with their bodies.

The poolside entertainment interested Gareon. He kneels on the bed near the boy’s head. Just a touch on Malachi’s greasy shoulder. Without a word, his friend drags Fourteen back to the edge of the bed. Fourteen seems so small between them. Gareon slides his legs on either side of Fourteen’s head.

Fourteen is pinned against the flexing edge of the bed. Malachi is content to lean into the cheer-queer’s open ass. Some stranger wants to feel Malachi’s strength. The lineman ignores the hand praising his back and tensed thighs. He is focused on his pace and the burning life he feels in Fourteen’s hips and back. Fourteen is now bent over Gareon’s splayed legs, nuzzling the soft cock and nosing Gareon’s heavy treasure trail. Gareon rests easy on his elbows watching Fourteen work. Someone wants Gareon to kiss his offered cock. Like his friend, Gareon ignores the distraction. The hands touching his chest do not matter. The friends are only interested in Fourteen between them.

“I’m going to fuck you next,” Gareon informs the cheer-queer. Fourteen bites his scrotum between sharp teeth. Gareon is not really a cat person. He ruffles Fourteen’s new crew cut anyway and grins at Malachi. Dangerous as their agreement is with Tyrone, it has been worth it. No way, could the poor boys score a Mexican vacation if it was not for Tyrone Casey. Fourteen stops working on Gareon’s swelling cock and smashes his face into Gareon’s groin. It is an epileptic fit of some sort. “Fuck, yeah!” Gareon murmurs as he watches Fourteen’s orgasmic palsied wave overcome his friend in a final frenzy of cock slamming thrusts into Fourteen’s parted ass.

Slow and easy, Gareon knows the night is not even night yet. There is a train growing at the other end of the king sized bed. The Ice-Queen is the current party favorite. The two young athletes and their little partner are just performance art. They are some mood-action to amuse the gathering around the fuck-fest at the other end of the bed. Some mix of 80’s and 90’s music drifts in from the living-dining space. Gareon is content to undulate into Fourteen’s Malachi-loosed ass. It is hot to see the boy’s lips flex around his cock.

There is just this cock moving along his sphincter, the drip of fresh lube sliding towards Fourteen’s tailbone, the smell of salted shit and vanilla-semin on his body. Malichi is back from washing up. Levi would scold him for not using condoms. There is only so much all Dr. Fisher’s vaccinations can accomplish. “We good?” Malachi asked him at one point. Fourteen can only hope everyone is good. Sometimes a person doesn’t stop to think, Fourteen admits. Levi would love this, he adds to himself with a feral smile.

“I know you!”

Malachi is lying on the bed so that their heads are close. He could dip his head and kiss Fourteen. Fourteen’s inner jackrabbit pricks up its ears.

“You’re that white boy that got snatched down south. Man, your face was national. Don’t shake your head at me, I know what I know. Crazy shit about you trucking all over the country. People offering big money to find you. Chillicothe Jeremy, that’s who you are. Here you are in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. This is some crazy shit!”

“You can’t say anything!” Fourteen replies quickly. Funny how things can distract you from getting fucked.

“Shoot, you caused a lot of trouble in my house. My momma locked down my little brother, tight! She was sure he was going to go off on some craziness like you did.”

“Malachi, you can’t say anything!”

“Jeremy Gates!” Malachi shakes his head in amusement. “Now what are Gareon and I going to say? How are we going to explain all this to the athletic association, us and Tyrone? Oh, we found your Jeremy boy down in Mexico. What were you doing down in Mexico?” Malachi shakes his head. “We all gotta do what we gotta do to get ahead.”

“So you won’t say anything?”

“You look like you’re going to bust a nut again.” Malachi studies Fourteen’s slack face. “Oh yeah, there you go.” He considers the young boy. “We know what we are doing with Tyrone. Are you in some white slavery shit here?” He has to wait while Fourteen finishes his fish-out-of-water imitation, which Fourteen being Fourteen takes an impressive amount of time. Maybe I should let someone put it up my ass sometime, Malachi muses. Something to think about.

“No, I just found some trouble back in the States.” Fourteen chokes out. Gareon is finally cumming in his ass. The involuntary jolts are still hitting him hard.

“On the run, I get that.” Malachi commiserates. “Your mamma knows where you are?”

“Oh, sure!” Oh fuck! The long cock sliding out across his prostate is starting a final orgasm. Not even with Levi has he felt the exquisiteness of two loads slipping past his open anus. Patrick and John, the ugly thought drives him off the bed and onto Malachi’s surprised lips. It is a brief kiss. Just long enough to drive the memory of the two rapists from his mind.

“You hungry little Bro?”

Fourteen cannot decide if there is a crowd at Tyrone’s party or if the same men keep shifting about with multiple partners. The spacious shower is occupied. He cleans up at the sink, tossing the soiled hand cloth onto a growing pile on the floor. Fourteen is fastidious. Malachi’s chlorinated girth was a sharp pain by the soaking pool. There is a blush of pink mingled with the rest. Staunch the flow, give it a shrug and get back on the skateboard. Fourteen’s on the rag. Patrick Hunter’s voice is mocking. The white-noise cascade of water coming from the shower propels Fourteen to the memory-now of the log cabin motel room. Four years, sharing a shower like this, wondering which watching boy was going to fuck me next. Patrick Hunter is malicious-stuck there in his head. Should I grab you by the chain and drag you to the bed?

Patrick, Patrick … Say his name three times and he will appear like Beetlejuice to mind-fuck you. Ishmael’s face echoes the handsome rapist from the king sized bed. Perhaps that’s all it is, Fourteen decides.

Levi’s Vietnamese antique seems right around his neck. Anton’s choice of stud still throbs his lobe. His anus throbs. Gareon comes up behind him. They share an ebony-ivory TicTok in the mirror. Number 21 slides a hand around and lightly pinches Fourteen’s nipple. They exchange grins. Fourteen lays his cards on the counter with the glow of tangerine, Blackjack, and Patrick Hunter’s ghost evaporates.

Beckett is serving up his partner to another naked man as Fourteen walks past. He sits on the bed behind Ishmael, an arm wrapped around the young man’s torso just like Gareon just did in the on suite. Ishmael lounges Roman-Banquet suckling the offered cock. Ishmael, center of attention, as he loves to be. Ishmael dished out to the surrounding men because the boyfriends like to think this is his place in their relationship. Fourteen spares a glance as he pushes past the gathered men, ignoring the steady pinches and probes.

Fourteen comes in on little cat feet. He stands looking over the room and patio on silent lubricated haunches and then moves on. The buffet on the table draws Fourteen’s raptor interest more than anonymous men about the room. He passes on to the patio. Here a man, there a man, everywhere a man, man. Fourteen has this bachinal-Tyrone-function down now. When in Rome, Anton would insist. The sun has set and artful lights enchant the garden. Male sex-scent hardly keeps the flies away. Beyond the soaker pool, Anton continues his game of Nymphs and Satyrs, perhaps with a new partner.

The men in the on suite shower would have scrubbed Fourteen down for a favour. He prefers moving about Tyrone Casey’s party unnoticed for a while. Ishmael is best in breed now. More Patrick Hunter-isms, Fourteen is content to let that be. He smiles at the memory of wrestling Malachi’s iron strength as he steps into the empty soaker pool.

With his pants slipped back on, Fourteen thinks about his hunger. Malachi and Gareon have found the food table and some drinks. The pair of privateers boarded his slim-ship, Arg ye maties, raped and pillaged him, and now they look like ordinary teenagers Hoovering the table. Fourteen plucks another slider from a fresh plate discretely dropped by the cute Mexican waiter. Fourteen listens to the university students talk. Malachi is at Pontchartrain Halls, while Gareon shares a Katrina-soaked house with three students on the cheap. Fourteen listens to their chatter, chewing sriracha, black bean and sweet potato.

“Are you going to university?” Gareon asks. Fourteen exchanges a look with Malachi.

“He’s on his gap year.” Malachi supplies. The private moment on the bed remains between them. Malachi scans the room over Jeremy Gates’ bare shoulder. Everyone is very busy with the consensual now. Maybe after someone here will recall a young stranger with a news-familiar face; maybe not. Malachi guesses this group will forget the cheer-queer. What happens in Puerto Vallarta, stays in Puerto Vallarta. Tyrone Casey told them that when he met them at the airport. The thirsty Holla Girl getting fucked six ways to Sunday is making a bigger memory-splash.

“No cap,” Fourteen adds after a huge swallow. “Seriously, my ‘rents probably have me pre-registered at Ohio State University, dorm reserved.”

“Brutus Buckeye?” Malachi laughs incredulously. “I figured you for a Bobcat.”

The three of them graze across the table, exchanging harmless tidbits about their lives. Gareon is Canadian, the differences in football are an amusing argument amongst them. They almost might be older classmates filling the gaps in a small town boy’s understanding. It should be like this, Fourteen reminds himself.

“Smells like teen spirit,” Beckett has come up behind Fourteen. He slips his hands over the narrow waist below the strong-back wedge of building shoulders. His fingers splay out across the youthful promise of a six pack and tip-tickle the waistband below the cute innie belly button. The double-mass of young manhood across the buffet doesn't challenge him at all.

The threesome on the bed was hot. Anton and Tyrone could always be counted on to salt the usual bland meat at a party. Anton’s cabin boy smells like pool chlorine and hotel soap. Beckett bites a tempting shoulder to taste Anton’s salt pork. Fourteen left the bed too quickly while Beckett was watching Ishmael. Ishmael, Tyrone, Anton, all three like to be watched. Beckett likes to be watched too. He is like Gareon and Malachi, proud to top.

Three men in a boat under the Pacific sun, that is definitely Anton’s style. It is more than that tonight. Beckett knows his former lover planned to swan in with two men on his arm; both younger than Beckett. Just as in their subtle competition, Beckett brought Ishmael. Anton is challenging Beckett with this curious young newcomer. The young man moves between his arms, inviting a soft cock-pressure on his pussy-ass. Something sensual about the way he snaps off a bite of vegan hamburger.

The man is mauling him. Roll with it, Fourteen shrugs. The movie parties sometimes seem like this. Folks groping drunkenly at each other. Malachi and Gareon talk on as if there is nothing remarkable about shirtless Jeremy Gates getting propositioned. Fourteen’s heart sings the way it did with Cordell. He is completely unashamed by this male desire.

“I’m thinking science.” Fourteen answers Pre Med Gareon. “Dad’s a civil engineer and mom is a pharmacist.” There is shrimp and mango. It reminds Fourteen of the lazy Baja weeks. He takes a skewer line of Tiger Shrimp. “I could do that.” If I graduate from high school, Fourteen adds to himself.

He does not mind being handled by the man. The man is very Daniel; not the cliff he climbed with Malachi. Fire! Malachi is sipping something sweet in nothing but a pair of spandex boxer briefs. The man touching him is more like Gareon watching the foreplay in loose shorts. Jeremy Gates stands about the adolescent parties wondering, Who’s like me? Who vibrates like I do? So lonely in his particular skin. Levi only talked about this. Anton has invited him into his now. Dorthy is in Oz.

Beckett stops holding the young man. He steps beside him, letting his hardening cock brush a flank that he hopes to have wrapped around his waist. He selects a line of shrimp to match the one in Fourteen’s hand. Slide the first one off the stick and listen to the football players chatter their adolescence with the Sub beside him. So pliant, such a little terror too. Anton’s cabin boy needs taming. Ishmael captured Beckett instantly. Sub in bed, but always subservient to Beckett’s will. Anton could never give him that. Anton likes a Service Top. That is what Daniel Ayers is, a Service Top for Anton to ride. The little bitch has sharp claws to tame. The little animal bites the hands that fed him, Beckett recalls.

Beckett slides his hand down onto the firmness of the cabin boy’s tight end, just to get his attention away from the other young men. He leans in closer to whisper sweet nothings in Fourteen’s ear. Lover’s secret thoughts that will inflame Fourteen before he taps the sexy slut’s ass like Tyrone’s pets did. “You’re such a cock-whore. You can’t wait for the next man to tap your pussy-bitch cunt. It drives you wild, doesn’t it?” His hand cups one of Fourteen’s cheeks as if to pry his anus open with his fingers.

Fourteen’s skewer wavers before his lips, uncertainly.

Feeling bolder, Beckett smiles companionably at the two young men who just fucked the slender boy beside him. “Look at this fresh little bitch.” Anton would laugh at these words, delighted with Beckett’s invention. Ishmael always wilts in such a satisfying way. Ishmael loves to be Beckett’s little bitch. Ishmael comes off some man’s spent cock and glances Beckett’s way, just to see if he has done well.

“Hey little bitch boy,” this is playful, not malicious. Game play is Beckett’s thing. “I want you so much, you’re going to be so good, aren’t you?” His partners love the praise and promise. “You are golden, pretty boy.”

Fourteen drops the skewer.

“And he punched Beckett?” Anton is pacing about the kitchen in his underwear. “Damn! I missed that!”

Tyrone is watching Anton pace with half his mind on the heavyset potential neighbour in the condo he is considering. Everything about the man might be called heavy set from what Tyrone has discovered. “Yes, I missed that too! You mustn’t gloat. We have both seen enough passion in our time.”

Anton checks his nervous walk. “You say that as if we were a pair of old queens! I’m only thirty-six by god! Damn, damn, damn, she’s laughing at me Tyrone. Somewhere, she is sipping her herbal tea and giving me the Iron Lady stare.”

“Who?”

“My mother, of course! Now you know my grief!” Anton notices someone’s half empty glass and finishes whatever it was.

“Panties twisted in knots, dear. Vanishing in Charleston with the concierge.”

Anton rolls his eyes at the reference. “The airport cab.”

“Venice Beach.” Tyrone antes up.

“Derek, bloody Morgan!” Anton goes all in.

“Well, you can hardly fault me for trying.” Tyrone shrugs. In a phrase, the friends can fling their history of youthful indiscretions back and forth. It has been a parade. “It was nothing Anton. Beckett just laughed. I think he was surprised, but he knows when the blood is up, these things happen. You need to let it go.”

“So Fourteen just left!” Anton fumbles for his phone as Tyrone watches.

“You need to relax.” Tyrone advises.

“He isn’t answering his phone. This is so bad.” Anton types out a message to Fourteen.

Tyrone’s dance partner comes up to give him a hug from behind. “How bad can it be?” Tyrone dismisses the problem.

“You were not in Topolobampo!” No more guns, thank god. Anton is not stupid. It is like Daniel argued. Someone is going to find out someday that Anton had Jeremy Gates on Surocco. Then the SPLAT of shit hitting the fan!

“Relax, dear. Your young Apollo probably just went back to your sailboat for a shower. He was well and truly fucked. What more could he want?” The gentleman kisses Tyrone on the neck.

Anton just stares steadily at his best friend. Tyrone meets his eyes as fifteen years of history passes between them.

“Oh, the penny drops, he is just like you.”

“Pot calling ….” Anton admonishes Tyrone.

“You awful slut, you went there!” Tyrone gasps. “Now I’m offended.”

“As if!”

The hearty gentleman wants to draw Tyrone away. “It’s only 9:30. Beckett was impulsive. He is off petting Ishmael as we speak. Fourteen probably just went down to the beach to enjoy the last glow of sunset. He will be back, or answer his phone.” With that, Tyrone turned his full attention to his amorous gentleman.

The pleasant young man fussing about the kitchen-bar had vanished along with Fourteen. Perhaps that is all it is, Anton took a deep breath. More messy sheets in the V-berth, or more likely Anton”s bigger Stateroom. Another condom to find behind the toilet. Anton checks his phone, “Thank you Judy!”

Anton leans on the counter and sighs. He ought to go after Fourteen. The boy is fifteen, he reminds himself. Fourteen is a year shy of Anton’s impulsive insanity of jumping on a sailboat to seduce a virtual stranger. He taps the edge of the phone on the counter. Anton looks back at his phone, thinking to add a comment. God’s teeth, I’m trying to give him a curfew.

Tyrone’s shirtless football friends are leaning on the opposite side of the kitchen counter watching him. Anton looks thoughtfully at them. “Why did Fourteen punch Beckett?”

“Whispering cringy shit in Jeremy’s ear.” Malachi suggests.

“The boy wasn’t vibing.” Gareon adds. “The boy’s got a bite.”

“Beckett likes to talk.” Anton explains. “Fourteen does not like to talk and he does like to bite” The two young men stand looking at Anton fussing with his phone. Finally, Anton notices their predatory stare. “What?” He asks.

“Tyrone says you need to relax.” Malachi replies calmly.

“You need to chill.” Gareon adds.

Anton looks back and forth between the young men and his phone. Finally, he drops the phone with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, I see.” He begins heavily. “Well,” he concedes, “If needs must!” Anton is fond of the spot of grass behind the soaking pool.

“Jeremy teach you how to suck dick?” Malachi asks.

“What an insult!”