Date: Sat, 18 Oct 2014 18:56:14 +0400
From: Doctor Fox
Subject: Love in a Tropical Climate Part 1

Love in a Tropical Climate Part 1

By Doctor Fox

Shopping in Majestic City was usually a boring trot round Cargills for
groceries, a visit to the electrical goods shop for plugs or a DVD player,
a browse in the menswear stores for shirts or socks. Occasionally there was
talent to spot or boys to flirt with. Once or twice I had got lucky and
taken some college kid home for a bit of fun. This particular day I had
done quite a lot of shopping in Cargills and decided, for some reason, to
leave through the side door rather than the front and brave the half-dozen
hawkers with their fake Rolexes and even faker Samsung phones. I engaged in
the usual 'But I already have a watch' exchanges in the shade of the porch
then went down the steps into the blazing Sri Lankan sun.

'Hey, mister,' piped a voice. 'Mister. You want?'

It was a boy, small, slight, short, aged about fourteen, possibly fifteen,
not older. He was wearing a red T-shirt, a little faded, a little frayed,
and a little too tight. I could see his nipples poking through the
cloth. He was also wearing beige cotton shorts. They had once been trousers
and had been cut off above the knee by a pair of scissors, which meant the
hem was ragged. He was barefoot. His legs were long, smooth, dark brown and
hairless. His face was round and open but his skin was marked with a couple
of small dented scars, one on his forehead, one on his left cheek. His eyes
were very dark. His thick, black hair was cut short. He had a smile to die
for, perfect white teeth in a rich chocolate-coloured face.

'What?' I said.

He held out a small plastic bag containing round white mothballs.

Well, I didn't. Of course I didn't. What would I do with mothballs? But
when he smiled, dimples appeared in his cheeks. I bought two packets for
one hundred rupees and struck up a conversation.

His name was Dinez, he was fourteen and he lived on the beach in Panadura
with his fisherman father and sister. Every day he caught the 104 bus up
Galle Road to Colombo, or took the train to Bambalapitiya, the station at
the bottom of this very road, to sell mothballs. He had left school two
years ago when his mother fell sick. Now she was dead and his father was
ill, so he was trying to scrape together enough to keep his little sister
in school.

I kind of admired him, as I do most street-boys who use their initiative
and aren't afraid of hard work. I gave him another one hundred rupees and
hitched my shopping bags up off the dusty road.

'Sir,' croaked Dinez – his voice was still breaking - 'No shoes, sir.'

This was not a good place to walk barefoot. Broken glass, animal droppings,
litter, the discarded debris of life.

'You want?' I said.

He nodded.

'Fine.' I knew I could get some flimsy rubber flip-flops in Bata for about
five hundred rupees. Buying shoes for a beggar boy – What were five
hundred rupees to me? A couple of lunchtime beers whereas for Dinez they
would bring him both safety and dignity.

I returned a few minutes' later with a nice pair, orange soles with a black
zig-zag pattern to resemble tiger-skin, and black thongs. Four hundred and
fifty rupees.

'There you go,' I said, handing them over.

Dinez stared at me. His eyes were suddenly full of tears. He reached for my
hand, tried to kiss it, muttered 'Sank you, sank you.'

'OK,' I said, uncomfortable, especially when the Rolex seller and the
Samsung man nodded approval and clapped softly.

'You're welcome,' I said, retrieving my hand. 'Now, have a nice day.'

I picked up my shopping and wandered up the road. As I passed the Rolex man
called 'That was a good thing you did, mister, a really good thing.'

I strolled back along Galle Road to the junction at Bauddhaloka Mawatha. It
was a close, sultry day, and I was wearing sandals, black knee-length
shorts and a light white T-shirt. It was Sunday morning, the beginning of
my weekend, and I was looking forward to a bit of light gardening, some
movies, a lot of wine, good food, maybe some reading, perhaps a trip to the
plant sale in Victoria Park, maybe a swim and a massage at the TransAsia
Hotel or some browsing round Odels and Paradise Road – nothing too
strenuous. I had surfaced around ten, fed the cat, read The Island over
choc-au-pains and coffee on the veranda, walked on the beach– this was
the life. I was unpacking the groceries when the doorbell rang. It was
Dinez. He was apologetically scuffing tiny pebbles with the tip of one
dusty brown toe.

'Yes, Dinez?' I said.

'My come?' he asked, pointing at the house. 'Say sank you?'

'Did you follow me?' I demanded.

'Yes,' he admitted, 'I want sank you.'

'Right. It's OK,' I said, remaining on the step in the doorframe. I didn't
really want to get involved with another street-boy. The last, a chippy
thirteen year old, had taken my mobile phone along with the three thousand
rupees he had demanded as payment for fucking me. 'No problem.'

I stepped back into the cool gloom of the house.

'No, sir,' said Dinez. 'My come?' He gestured towards me, then rubbed his
groin suggestively. Oh boy. He was seriously cute. 'You want?'

Hell, yes! He was fourteen, maybe? Bad skin showed a poor diet.

'No, mate. Take yourself off.'

'You no like me?' he asked, a shadow passing over his face.

What to say? Yes, I fancy the arse off you, but you're only a kid, or no, I
don't, and I'm lying to protect you from yourself and from me. On the other
hand, when you knock on the door of the local paedo, you've only got
yourself to blame for anything that transpires. It's no use blaming me. You
came to my house of your own free will, uninvited, knowing, surely, that
you are likely to get fucked... and if you don't want to get fucked, why
come round?

'You're cute,' I said, smiling, 'But too young for me.'

I shut the door, leaned my back against it and congratulated myself on my
strength of will. Not so long ago, I would have sold the cat for an
opportunity like this, a gorgeous young boy knocking on the door and
practically pleading for sex with me. But the look of hurt on his open
face, the sadness of rejection gleaming from his dark brown eyes haunted
me. The way he had dropped his shoulders dejectedly made me feel guilty for
telling him to get lost.

Maybe we did not have to have sex. Maybe we could just talk.

Fat chance. We did not speak the same language. His English was about the
same as my Sinhala, virtually non-existent. I could say my name, and ask
how old he was, and whether he liked fish, and that was about it. So much
for ten weeks of lessons.

Maybe we could just sit together. We didn't have to have sex.

But he was seriously cute and he had come to my house. Why?

He would have gone by now. Surely he would have gone, back to MC with his
mothballs. And his boy-balls. Feeling my cock harden slightly, I went into
the kitchen. He was still there, standing in the sand between the gate and
the wall of the Barefoot Café. I could see him through the window. He
looked upset.

Oh, fuck it. Not him. It. We didn't have to have sex.

'You want tea?' I asked, unlocking the metal gate.

With a smile so radiant it lit up his whole face, he kicked his sandals off
on the doorstep and pattered barefoot across the cool grey tiles as I
closed the heavy front door behind him. His eyes roamed hungrily round the
elegantly furnished living room with the lazily turning ceiling fan, racks
of DVDs and CDs, large television, aquarium, paintings, wall-hangings,
masks and pots I had amassed during this posting. It gave the impression of
a wealthy colonial tea-planter type. Man, he would assume I had piles of
money to spend on him.

'Sit,' I said, pointing at the sofa whilst I made two mugs of tea. 'Milk?
Sugar?'

'Yes,' he said nervously.

I put two teaspoons in and stirred it up. It was strong but he said he
liked it. He spotted the glass ash-tray on the coffee table and shyly
pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboro Red from his shorts pocket. 'Me smoke?'
Again, nervous, hesitant. He had probably never been in such a house
before.

'Sure,' I said, lighting my own Marlboro and passing him the Zippo.

'You wife?' he said, glancing around as though any minute now a fierce
middle-aged woman would appear to chase him away.

'No,' I said.

'Children?'

'No.'

And then the predictable question. 'Why no wife?'

I sipped my tea and drew on my cigarette. 'I am gay,' I said coolly. 'I
like boys.'

He smiled happily, almost triumphantly, as though he had won a bet.

'You like boy?' he asked.

'Yes,' I said, knowing now where this was going to end up. It was out of my
hands now.

'You like zis boy?'

'Yes. You're very cute,' I said truthfully, sitting down beside him on the
sofa.

Beaming again, he buried his face in the mug of tea.

I put my hand on his knee, stroking the bare brown skin with my thumb. He
sipped his tea and smoked his cigarette, then, with neither announcement
nor request, set both down to strip off his faded red T-shirt.

'My hot,' he said, grinning.

You're not bloody wrong, I thought. His chest was utterly, beautifully
smooth, perhaps a 28, or a 30. Lovely clean shoulders and thin,
pipe-cleaner arms. Large dark brown nipples, with black centres, points
poking up from the chocolate skin like mounds in a field. His navel was a
deep, horizontal well. His bare, outstretched legs were long, thin, slim,
smooth, tapering to a pretty ankle. He really was a gorgeous boy.

'How old are you?' I gulped in Sinhala.

He could have been anywhere between twelve and sixteen. He said he was
fourteen, nearly fifteen.

What was the age of consent here?

There wasn't one. Homosexual acts were illegal period. Age was not a
consideration. You could be fourteen and forty, and equally jailable under
the law. But who cares about the law when you're in love?

God.

In love.

With a street-boy.

With a boy.

In love.

It was unthinkable.

A man in love with a boy? A boy in love with a man?

Unthinkable.



Dinez smiled at me. The dimples that appeared in his smooth, hairless
cheeks made my heart pump faster, especially when he snuggled
affectionately and rather sexily into the hollow of my shoulder. I had to
put my arm round him. It would have been rude not to.

His fingers walked up my thigh. I felt my penis beginning to swell. Gently
I kissed his full lips and my heart skipped as they parted to let my tongue
into his mouth. Shyly he twined his tongue round mine, and his hand started
massaging my rapidly stiffening cock. I moaned through my nose and dropped
my own hand onto his groin. He was already hard. Fumbling slightly at the
fly, I found the zipper conveniently broken and slipped my fingers through
the gaping opening. He wasn't wearing any pants. My fingers brushed his
hot, hard penis. Now it was his turn to moan, especially when I slowly
rolled the foreskin back from the head. So he wasn't
circumcised. Excellent!

He returned the gesture, kneading my cock in his palm, then I pulled away,
looking into his dark brown eyes. His cock was sticking out of that broken
fly, twitching and alert, a bead of pre-cum glistening temptingly on the
slit of the swaying brown bulb of the head. It was a creamy shade of milk
chocolate, some four inches long, and half an inch across, with a very
slight leftwards curve. Yum. Gripping the hot, rock-hard shaft again, I
masturbated him slowly, up, down, up, down, then sharply twice, hearing the
breath catch in his throat. His fingers fumbled desperately at my fly
buttons. I stuck my tongue into his mouth again, running the tip round his
front teeth and gums, upper, lower, twining round his tongue, tasting
garlic and smelling boy-sweat, running my free hand over his short, thick,
greasy hair. He opened my jeans and buried his hand inside, folding his
palm over the growing bulge in my underpants.

'Come,' he said, taking my hand.

He led me by the hand through my house to my bedroom, our cocks poking out,
our lips locked, our tongues entwined. We stopped in the doorway and
snogged a little more, then he stepped into the bedroom. This was the only
air-conditioned space in the house. The king-size bed was covered with just
a flat sheet. It was too hot for duvets, top sheets and that kind of
thing. There was also an en-suite bathroom. Dinez grinned.

'My shower,' he said. The beige cotton shorts slid over his creamy thighs
to his ankles. He kicked them away with a flick of his right foot, and
marched into the bathroom. This was tiled in red and white triangles and
had a black tiled floor. 'How work?' he said.

I tore my eyes away from his bottom, these two smooth half-globes of creamy
loveliness, and twisted the knob of the shower so a dozen needle-jets of
hot water gushed from the fat, stainless steel head. Dinez stepped into the
spray, and stretched his limbs lazily, luxuriously.

I undressed quickly, tearing my T-shirt over my head, dropping my jeans,
slipping off my underpants so I stood naked, fiercely, desperately erect,
needing him now, needing to hold him against me. I followed him into the
shower and embraced him, chest against chest, my chin on the top of his
head.

Taking the lemon-scented soap, I washed him, stroking the yellow bar up and
down his body, over his skin, over his buttocks, into his crack. He moaned
softly as I carefully pushed the tip of my forefinger into his tightly
puckered anus, then I took the bottle of shampoo, squirted some of the
thick white viscous liquid into my palm and massaged it gently into his
hair. The thick white suds cascaded down over his dark brown skin. He
buried his face in his palms. His erection had subsided a little. I soaped
round his testicles, snug in their bag. They were fairly small, like
shelled walnuts, and I rolled them gently between finger and thumb. He had
a little black, wiry pubic hair, a ring round the base of his cock and a
seaweed-soft tuft on either side. As he rubbed his eyes against the
shampoo, I couldn't help myself. I sank to my knees in the shower and
slipped his cock between my lips, inside my mouth, and ran my tongue round
the rim of the head. He moaned again, more forcefully this time, dug his
fingers into my hair and rocked his hips rhythmically towards my face,
thrusting his penis deeper into my warm, wet, accommodating mouth. I licked
the leaking pre-cum off his slit. Yum. He was so sweet. Then, grinning and
very much in control, he pulled himself away from me, wagging his finger,
and, stepping out of the shower, reached for the bath-towel. We dried each
other almost ceremonially, caringly, caressingly, already moving from
fuckers to lovers.

He smiled up at me shyly, and, curling his fingers round mine, led me naked
to my bed.

Oh boy. What can I tell you about the next hour of my life? This beautiful
brown-skinned fourteen year old boy with the super-hard four-inch cock lay
back on my pillows with a contented sigh and let me kiss, lick and suck
every inch of his boy-body, from his little toe through his middle three to
his big toe (running my tongue round the nail), over his slim, slender
feet, up his muscled calves and hollows in the backs of his knees, up the
insides of his thighs, which made his whole body quiver, to the apex of the
arch between leg and perineum, then up over stomach, licking his skin,
digging into his navel, up over his fluttering stomach to his nipples,
first the right, sucked, licked, lapped, till it was as hard as his cock,
then the left, circling the base of the mound with my tongue-tip, then
drawing it in between my lips, sucking it, sucking it... Dinez sighed. His
head rolled on the pillow. Then I flipped him so I could run my tongue down
the length of his spine, kissing every vertebra, and over and down his
crack, into his crack, so I could rim him. Oh God. I thought I might die. I
lapped at that tiny, puckered, virgin starfish, pushed my tongue inside it,
flickering, darting, probing, and revelling in the way he rolled and sighed
and pushed back when I dragged my tongue up and down his anus, loving that
sweet taste of soap and sweat and boy. And finally the prize, falling on
that rock-hard lighthouse, that stiff, strong organ, rolling my tongue-tip
round that fat cock-head, over the slit, into the slit, plunging downwards,
drawing slowly upwards, sucking him, sucking him, sucking his boy-cock,
trying to draw his boy-spunk up from those beautiful boy-balls, the walnut
halves I rolled round my tongue and hearing him moan, hearing him groan,
enjoying his sighed, longed-for ecstasy.

He came in my mouth. I felt his cock-head harden, and his whole penis
stiffen again, then it jerked twice against my lips. With his fingers
twisting in my hair, and a muttered, murmured, drawn-out 'uuuuhhhh', his
sperm erupted onto my tongue, filling my willing, happy mouth with his
thick, fluid sweetness. I gulped it down, once, twice, three times while
his cock pulsed against my lips, pulsing, throbbing, pulsing, shooting,
shooting... his sperm... his life-fluid... his life-fluid... his
babies... his boy-juice, spilled in my mouth, swallowed into my stomach,
spilled, and swallowed, and tasted, sweet fish. Oh Dinez. I love you.

When he had finished, when I had drunk the last drops of him, of Dinez, of
my beautiful boy, I raised my head from his softening cock, grinned and
kissed his lips. Lazily he rolled onto his side, his back to my chest, and
nestled into me, pushing his buttocks up against my cock. I was really
hard, desperately hard, like some fucking tree. He reached behind and
settled me between his thighs. So I rocked, pushing my penis, holding him,
wrapping my arms round his chest, burying my face in his still-wet hair,
smelling shampoo, and thrusting, thrusting, rocking, rocking... he squeezed
his thighs together, pushed his lower back into my stomach...

'Doctor Fox,' he sighed, 'I love you.'

He rolled around and took my cock in his hand, masturbating me rapidly so I
was on the edge of an orgasm, then, blinking and uncertain, he lowered his
face and took me into his mouth. It was so warm. He moved up and down,
sucking a little but mainly using his tongue to pleasure my head. He lapped
over my slit, flickering, fully, flickering, darting, right round the head,
then he sat away and licked my shaft like an ice cream, up, down, up, down,
curl round the head, flicker over the slit... up, down, up, down, curl
round the head, flicker over the slit... encompass within the dark, warm
cavern, suck, suck, suck... I uttered a moan, drawn, sucked from the depths
of my very soul, thrust my hips, not wanting to choke him, of course, but
wanting to be so fully inside him... he sucked so hard, then he turned to
my nipples, first the right, then the left, teasing them with his tongue,
playing them, flicking them, driving them into hard, rock-hard points,
sucking them till I thought they would burst, then he drew his lips down my
ribcage and over my stomach, buried his face between my thighs, licking the
insides, making me flutter and jump, licking the groove between my legs and
my ball-sac, flicking his tongue over my ball-sac, taking my left testicle
into his mouth, drawing my ball between his lips, flicking the tongue-tip
over my ball, holding the whole in his warm, wet cave... my body arced. A
deeply buried, long-concealed moan of sheer joy swelled through me, out
through my nose as the boy moved to the right, then back to my nipples and
then to my desperate, straining, searching penis, engulfing it once more in
the warmth and the wet, running his young tongue round the rim, once,
twice, three times. My swollen, aching balls tingled as I felt the movement
of semen inside them, felt him summoning my spunk by the power of his
mouth, felt my juices rising... he slid his lips slowly up and down my
penis-shaft. I gripped his shoulders fiercely.

'I'm gonna cum,' I whispered throatily. 'I'm gonna cum.'

His fingers dug deeply into my thighs. His lips tightened. He sucked
harder. I erupted wildly, my entire body quivering and juddering as I shot
into the fourteen year old's virgin mouth, my sperm against his gums, my
spunk against the insides of his cheeks, my juice onto his tongue, my semen
onto his teeth, shooting and spurting and spraying and spouting my
life-fluid, hot and thick from my balls, up through my penis and into his
mouth.

I think he swallowed the first teaspoonful, then he pulled away with a
grimace, and spat the second spoonful across the bed. It spattered on the
sheet as he sat up on his haunches and watched my fire-hose spurting the
rest of the spunk onto my stomach and onto the sheet while I lay on the
pillow laughing at his expression, mingling joy and disgust at what he had
achieved; he had made a white man ejaculate with his mouth.

'Oh, boy,' I laughed, 'you swallow and spit. God, you're brilliant,
brilliant, Dinez!' I reached up and hugged him, while my cock was still
leaking, and said those three fatal words: 'I love you.'

A lazy smile broke over his face. He licked my sperm off his lips, leaned
forward and, kissing me, answered 'I love you too.'

We lay together for ages, just holding each other, totally relaxed, utterly
peaceful, calm and serene. I stroked his back gently. The smile on my face
was huge, the smile on his huger. He sighed happily, gently kissed my right
nipple, cuddled into my chest and slept.



When he woke, it was nearly three. I hadn't slept. I had held him. I had
felt the warmth of his boy-body. I had savoured the contact of skin. I had
marvelled at the fact of the boy in my bed, of the boy in my arms, of the
sex we had had, of the joy we had shared. My beautiful Dinez. My lovely
fourteen year old Dinez, whom I had bought a pair of cheap plastic
flip-flops, who had trailed me home and knocked on my door, who had entered
my house and entered my bed, and willingly, happily, joyfully given his
body to me, sucking me off and being sucked off by me.

There is, let me tell you, nothing quite like the mutual spilling of sperm
to bond a couple.

I was falling in love with him, with this slim, short, dark-haired,
dark-eyed, dark-skinned Sri Lankan beauty who sold mothballs for a living
outside Majestic City.

I made more tea. He was sitting naked on the gold-threaded sofa in the
grey-tiled living room, smoking a Marlboro Red, watching the first
Spiderman DVD and playing with the cat, who had come grumpily through the
open French windows with the frowned condemnation cats are so good at of
'who the hell is this one?' He normally scowled scratchily at
strangers. With Dinez he had rolled on his back for a tummy-tickle. He
never did that, even for me.

'I like cat,' Dinez said merrily, flicking ash from his cigarette into the
saucer on the coffee table.

Sure, he was a particularly handsome tabby I had rescued from a lifetime of
digging through bins in the Colombo streets, but he was quite neurotic and
highly strung – 'yes, he should be,' my boss had quipped when he joined
the club of half a dozen others who had been mauled by the beast. But
Dinez... I don't know. The cat seemed to love him.

I sat beside them, lit a cigarette, drew a hand through my short dark hair
and, through the Green Goblin's insane ravings, established that Dinez
lived in the coastal village of Panadura, a half-hour bus ride away down
the A2 Galle Road. His father had been a fisherman, till an accident had
put him out of action. Now he sat around their hut, angry, bitter and
broke, yelling at Dinez to earn some money. His mother was dead. She had
died of dengue fever when Dinez was eight. Dinez did not go to
school. School did not earn money. There was a six year old sister and an
elderly grandmother, all in the same hut, and all needing food. That was
why Dinez was selling mothballs outside Majestic City, to buy rice for his
family.

'I man,' he said proudly, 'I man. I eat nana and papa and baby.'

I studied him carefully, his round, open face, his thick, bushy brows, the
short fringe of his thick black hair, the pock-marks on his cheeks, the
brown eyes with the whites tinged yellow by some vitamin deficiency, the
slim body and narrow, sloping shoulders, the chocolate-coloured skin... he
was utterly, awesomely beautiful, and he was mine. He had been mine. I had
swallowed his sperm, every last little wriggly baby-making tadpole of
sperm, and he had swallowed mine. We belonged to each other.

Spiderman swooshed across an alley and beat up some guys. I looped my arm
round Dinez's naked shoulders and drew him closer. His left cheek sank onto
my right shoulder, and I turned so I could kiss the top of his head.

We finished our cigarettes and stubbed them out, drained our tea and set
the cups on the table.

Spiderman fired a web at a building and took off.

Dinez ran his hand up the inside of my thigh to my penis, which twitched.

'Me go,' he murmured. 'Tomorrow? Me come?'

'Sure,' I answered. I wanted to give him money, but I didn't want him to be
a prostitute. Three thousand rupees was the going rate for a boy. I had it,
I could afford it, I wanted him to have it, but I didn't want him to be my
whore. I wanted him to be my boyfriend.

I tried to explain.

'I love you,' I said. 'You and me, together. Come tomorrow. Come live with
me. Live here. This your home. This your house. Please. Come. Live with
me. I your wife. Your wife.' I held his hands in mine and pleaded with my
eyes. 'I am your wife, Dinez, my love. I love you.' I kissed the back of
his hand, kissed his knuckles. 'I love you.'

He kissed me, then got off the sofa to dress in those beige cotton shorts
and that faded red T-shirt and those battered flaking thongs. He went to
the door as Spiderman was battered by the Green Goblin, and said slowly and
solemnly 'I love you, Fox. I love you. My come tomorrow?'

So what if he was fourteen? Or sixteen? Or twelve? I had fallen in love.

'Yes,' I said, and opened the door.