I've known Zephyr since the middle of last year, when he first started going to West. He and his dad still lived on their boat, Nightwind, a 70-foot deep-ocean cruiser, when I first met them. I got to do a few sleepovers at Zephyr's "house," before they moved ashore, and he would come over to my place, too, where we could be wilder and use the pool. Z is a slender, good looking boy, almost 13 when I met him, very alert and quietly self assured. I guess "poised," is the best word to describe him. He has a wicked sense of humor that he suddenly lets loose with, when you aren't expecting it. Oh, and he can talk just like Ahh-nold, the Govanator. At school, everybody knows Zephyr. I'd call him one of the popular kids, except he seems to be oblivious to the whole thing. He's friendly with everyone -- a little shy around the girls -- but for some reason, he and I hit it off and became actual friends.

Aboard Nightwind, Z's cabin was no big deal to him, I'm sure, since he'd lived there half his life, but to me, it seemed like some really cool spaceship made of amber wood. He had plugs and switches and knobs and jacks and things on gimbals and all sorts of hidey holes and stash spots and a book shelf with bungee cords and a ceiling covered with black netting, where he stuffed his clothes. Up on the bridge, he had his school books piled on the navigation table, which was where he did his homework. That was odd and cool. Same books I had, but doing homework at the nav station sort of made the whole liveaboard life look stone cold awesome. We ran around Nightwind and fooled around up in the marina parking lot and at the neighboring yacht club, and then we'd run down to the little bait & tackle for some ice and soda, where the guy'd let him charge it to Nightwind's account.

My real name is Charles, which they abbreviate Chas. So, when the kids back in 4^th grade started calling me "Chazz," it didn't take long for it to turn into "Jazz," which I decided to spell "Jaz," with one "z," to make it unique. Most of my teachers were even calling me Jaz by the end of that year, which was a minor subversive victory, since it's, like, 1905 Black slang for "fuck."

And, yes, I do find Zephyr cute. And yes, I have seen him naked. And no, he has nothing to be ashamed of. And no, we haven't done anything. He knows I'll have sex with anyone who'll hold still long enough, but he simply seems disinterested in guys. He doesn't have any repugnance toward gays or gay sex, cuz I've discussed it with him, it just doesn't move his needle. He doesn't even seem to resist it. He just has as much interest in boys as... as dishwater does. But he's cool with me lusting after boys, or pianos, or sawhorses, for that matter. He said to me, "Just don't drag anything back here that shits in the boat, or you'll be cleaning up after it. And don't bring Becky Sumner here and pork her or I'll hovv to fahk you ohhp." Ahh-nold apparently has the hots foah Mizz Becky.

Next door to Nightwind, to the right as you face the water, was based an older wooden dive boat named Pacifica. Z and I watched the divers board one Saturday morning when I'd slept over, probably the one time we ever got up that early, and we got talking about how it would be nice to go out to Catalina aboard her. Nightwind, was so big -- and Zephyr and his dad had spent so many months at sea in the last few years -- that they never took her out on day trips. So Santa Catalina Island sat out there, a long dark silhouette 20 miles away, but pretty much out of reach for 2 kids. The ferry was over $50 round trip, and everything over there cost money, too, if you went there as a tourist. So I only got there every once in a while, when we had guests from out of town, and even then it was with a herd of adults. In hot weather, the cool island beckoned, 20 miles due south, across that 3,000 foot deep channel.

Pacifica was often used for training dives by local dive instructors and their students, and was also popular with former students and some old timers looking to do some low-key diving. The whole atmosphere was super friendly and I guess you could say it was sort of a family dive boat. It didn't hurt that a 3-dive day only cost about $80 with air and food: 10 paid trips and number 11 was free.

So it turns out that, after I left one Saturday, Zephyr waited for Pacifica to get back in and ran over to ask Captain Hans for a job as a deck hand. He's that way. By 12, Zephyr and his dad had sailed all over the South Pacific, including a bunch of those weeks-long stretches out of the sight of land, so he was a pretty self-sufficient and responsible guy. He'd had to stand night watches in big waves and bad weather while his dad got some rest. And that self-sufficiency carried over to other things. School was an easy routine for him that he just did: all A's and no drama. The other thing he brought back from sailing the vasty deep was that he was pretty fearless about a thing like asking for a job. I did ask him if it was scary to go ask the captain and he said, "My dad told me, He can't exactly fire you, can he? So what have you got to lose?"

Capt. Hans was a 35-ish middle school science teacher at a private school during the week. He only operated the boat on weekends. It sat idle during the week, mostly, except for some holidays. Hans took a look at Z, recognized him as the boat kid from next door -- he'd seen him up in the rigging with a paint brush -- and hired him on the spot, for an equal share of the tip jar, split with the other crew members. Do the math: 3 crew, 27 or 28 divers, times $80, times maybe 15% or 20% tip. Zephyr was coming home with over 200 bucks a weekend, during the summer dive season. I'll tell you: that's a job he took seriously! Hans also had a policy that he never hired kids from the school he taught at.

A few weeks later, Z started getting me a day's work here and there, when other hands couldn't make it. I jumped at the chance. I loved it: I got to work on my tan and the money was outstanding. Hans was used to teens our age and he didn't talk down to us at all. We all worked hard as a team, careful to make the trips pleasant and safe for the customers, and smooth for Capt. Hans, who was making this possible for us. He hardly ever had to act all "Captain-y" about things.

So, the drill was to get there about 5:30 in the morning (so we slept over on Zephyr's boat a lot of times), then open up Pacifica, start the coffee and hose off the black dust from the nearby coal pile, before anybody could walk on it and grind it in. Then we'd fill the fresh water tank from the dock hose, take off the window covers and get the diver sign-in stuff laid out: passenger manifest, release forms, pens, promotional flyers and the roll call board. Name tags, for some group trips. About then, Hans would show up to do his cap'n thing. He'd be up there on the radio, or his butt and legs would be sticking up out of the engine compartment. Then the cook would show up with the food and drinks and ice and we'd meet him with the two wheelbarrows and help him bring it all down and put it away. Once it was all stowed and the engine cover was back on, somebody would go up and hook the gate open at the top of the ramp, so passengers could start coming down. Since Nightwind shares the same little isolated section of the marina, we didn't even have to go up the ramp to go back and forth between Nightwind and Pacifica.

Up by the parking lot, there's a gate, then a too-skinny ramp down to a pretty big landing -- that's all still over dry land -- then you'd catch your breath and turn left and there's a comfortably wide ramp running down onto the floating dock. That bottom ramp gets pretty steep at low tide, I'll tell you. Diving gear is real heavy, so at the end of the day, we'd help the divers get all their stuff back up the ramps to their cars. By then, they were all pretty tired and grateful for the help, so that one gesture made a huge difference in the amount of money they put into our tip jar.

So, this one Saturday, I go up the ramp to unlock the gate and take a dump before we leave. As I'm coming back, the first passengers arrive. Actually, it was a passenger and his dad, who wasn't coming with. I'd say the passenger was 13. A boy. A really boyish looking boy, in heavy boy cargo shorts and a green boy sweatshirt that -- I kid you not -- said "Calculus Club" on it.

Chris... His name is Chris. Is it short for Christopher? I like that name: crisp and sweet. Chris... Chris of the smooth pale skin, of the full chestnut hair. Fair-face Chris. Sweet Chris. In my heart, I ravish him before we even really meet.

Where was I? Chris makes one trip aboard with his dad, to sign in and for Dad to sign the release, and then goes back up for his snorkeling stuff. I'm going up the lower ramp as Chris is coming back down, and I get a good look at his smooth, slender boy legs rising up to disappear into the big leg holes of those boy shorts. I need to follow them home. Legs? Mind if I walk you back to your place? My bone speaks to me in the Ancient Language: I need this boy. I look up at his face to make sure he didn't hasn't caught me perving on him.

Hmm, how to say it? Busted? Totally Busted? Busted as Fuck? Like one of those Nazi police sirens: Ho-Mo, Ho-Mo. The siren dwindles, pitch dropping, as the ho-mobile rushes past. Chris looks into my eyes and smiles. A genuine, boner-making, undie-ripping sweet boy smile, to make your pants too tight in a heartbeat. Sigh, it's gonna be a long day. A long, hard day. Hey Chris, do you like gladiator movies? Does he even know he's cute?

About 6 months ago, Dad decided that I was acting depressed. He basically made me come out to him, and then he kissed me and said "Chris, I love you, I'm proud of you, and everything is going to be fine." He made a couple of calls and, that Friday night, dragged me to a gay teen get-together at the Unitarian Center in Long Beach. I still feel a little emotional, sometimes, at the thought of it. All those other boys and you didn't have to worry what you said, or where you looked, or what they'd think. It was like somebody took some cutters and cut off these tight metal bands that were all over me and I could finally breathe. I could straighten up. I could push out my chest and look the other boy in the eye and smile and completely mean it. "Boy cute" was a good thing there, not an invitation to get bullied. I did meet Dean there, and we are friends, but not boyfriends. He's too much older and he has a regular boyfriend already, who's even older. But he was very nice to me, and spent a lot of time with me, and waited through my teary spells, and I could see Dad's gratitude and respect for him. I know Dad worries I'll get my heart broken. But doesn't that happen to everybody, anyway, at some point? Look at Dad, for that matter. He does good, for a single parent. Not his fault my mother left us when I was too young to remember.

My dad's... I'd like to say... very goal oriented. Once he was sure I was gay, then, by God he was gonna help me be the most "successful" gay boy on the block. Sheesh! I had to endure his asking me a lot of "squirm" questions. It was kinda fucked, but by the time he was done, he had a pretty good idea whether I was at the boy band poster stage or the... the I don't know what. I was more than ready to move on past the posters, at least to some tender trembly touching, but where's the Quick Start booklet? What do I want? Certainly not Fabulous Ruby Slippers. Not piercings and black nails. What page is sunlight thru his peach fuzz and the touch of his tender lips on?

Off we went to all the teen stores and we -- to be blunt -- got me a wardrobe of very boyish clothes with a definite homoerotic something extra. You know, sorta "accidentally" boy sexy? And, yes, I know that homoerotic is in the eye of the beholder. (Wait! I have something in my eye. Feels like a boulder. Feels like a fucking continent.) He had me get new underwear. He suggested these yellow Jockey Y-fronts with white piping. He threw those in the cart, while I quietly slipped in a couple of packs of soft knit trunks. Once they'd both been washed and worn, he had to admit that the trunks were cuter and more boyish and age-appropriately sexy. The Jockeys were fairly okay, but pretty anatomical. I felt weird, wearing them in front of my dad. I figured maybe, when they were a size too tight, I'd wear the Jockeys for my boyfriend and pose, making soft boy muscles for him. If I ever got a boyfriend. Or muscles.

So anyway, he asked around, and the same guy who told him about the teen group suggested that I check out his LGBT dive club and see what some actual functioning gay people were all about. So, I went to a meeting and they were all a million years too old and treated me like a little brother (which was fine), but they did convince me to come along on this trip as a snorkeler. Since I wasn't doing SCUBA, it only cost 50 bucks, with food and everything. I have to admit, they are a bunch of clever, funny people. And what else was I doing to further my Gay Agenda this weekend?

So, imagine when the first thing that happens is this hunky young surfer kid undresses me with his eyes and makes me feel all ravished. No way I could keep the smile off my face: I want this boy. Does he even know he's cute? I want to smell him and lick his dimples. Yeah, yeah, okay, some tender touching -- afterwards. Right now, I want to say, "Will you sweat on my back? Will you treasure my tender places? Make me yours? Will you feed me sweet things with your fingers and tell me you love me and that my nakedness is beautiful to you?" And kiss me softly: definitely that.

I said "Hi." But I think he knew what all I meant. I could hope.

The other passengers started arriving, and we started running wheelbarrow loads down to the boat. Eventually, it was getting to be time to leave. There was a last minute emergency, when some guy who had booked separately from the dive club showed up without a cylinder, because he thought the boat provided them. After he freaked for a couple of minutes, somebody offered to lend him their spare, and the two of them headed up to fetch it from the guy's truck. They came back laughing and talking. He was wearing the guy's spare weight belt, too. My str8-dar said this young stud was in for an education, today.

Anyway, Pacifica pulls out. It's cool and there's a low overcast and the light is shitty. Zephyr walks to the center of the stern and calls for attention. When things are reasonably quiet, he calls roll from a paper, checking off names. He hands me the list to copy onto the big white plastic slate and points out the two no-shows to leave off. Then he does the safety briefing: no smoking below, no drugs, once you drink alcohol you're done diving for the day, where the life jackets are, how to put one on, where the life rafts live, how to deploy them, don't forget to cut the painter before the boat sinks, where the escape hatch from the bunk room is. He announces breakfast in 15 minutes and suggests that people set up their gear while we are still inside the breakwater, where it's smooth. Then he explains how the air fills work and he's done.

Meanwhile, I number 1 to 14 in one column, and 15-28 in the other, and then start writing the last names in alphabetical order. The cook starts serving breakfast: bacon and sausage and eggs and toast that you make yourself, and coffee and tea. And yogurt and fruit if you want. We hit the open water and Hans throttles up the engines. I load a plate and take it outside to eat, while I finish copying the names. There's his name: Chris was Christopher Larkin. Sweet Christopher Larkin... Creamy young Christopher Larkin... his cuteness pains my heart.

"Jaz?" I jump. Yikes, it's him. I want to hold him. I want to pet him like a puppy. I want to undress him, tenderly, run my lips... I smile at him. He sees me. He sees I'll take care of him, he can feel it...

"Hi, Jaz." He's looking at me. He stops doing anything and locks eyes with me. The boat hits a wake and rolls a little. He's lost in my eyes and doesn't seem to notice. He starts to tilt over and I reach out and catch his arm through the sweatshirt. The sweatshirt is green and soft. The boy inside is pink and firm.

"Sorry," I laugh, "I was out to lunch. Uh, breakfast. What's up?"

"Me too," he said, "Do you know anything about how to set one of these?" he asks, showing me his dive watch.

"Some kinds. Tell you what. Do me a favor and put it back on your wrist, so it doesn't hit the deck and fly out one of the scuppers, and I'll help you with it when I finish this and all those people are done eating." I motion with my head: people are perched absolutely everywhere, holding their plates; there is no place to sit together.

He thanks me. It's just a glance. Just a glance, and then he turns away, fastening the watch. Vulnerable. So sweet and vulnerable. Wanting. Not a boy who's been abused. A sweet innocent, reaching, doubting... darling.

So there's this kid Zephyr. I'm pretty sure... (he's pretty; I'm sure) that he's straight. What a waste. But I'm pretty impressed. It's like an adult crewman in a 14 year old body. You can see that he's been on the water a lot. He talks to the divers, sounding like he's done it a few dozen times before. He's doing a lot of boat stuff, all at once. He gives a job to Jaz, copying something onto a plastic board and then starts giving me shit about my sweatshirt. He puts on this rapturous, breathy voice: "Oooh, you'll have to come to our next Calculus Club meeting! Timmy Jacobs is going to be calculating at the board! What brand of chalk do you suppose he uses?" He has stars in his eyes as the Ahh-nold voice says, "I'll bring da pop-cohn." I guess you had to be there, but I laughed like a fucking fool and we got along great.

Jaz is sitting there in a tee shirt and a zip-up sweatshirt. It's open, and I can see the inward curve of his fit belly, I can see his tee shirt, soft on his chest, loose across his hips. I can see the swell of his teen meat in those jeans. I must them get off of him or I'll scream.

It's a funny thing about being attracted to another boy. In person, I'm just sort of attracted to him all over, like I want to merge with him or something. When I'm by myself whacking off, that's when I think of specific sex things. But, in person, I just sort of want to... be with him.

So, Jaz is staring at the slate, as I walk up. I call his name and he's off somewhere, his mouth open a little, his lips soft. I want them. On my neck. On my chest. On every part of me. I need those eyes on me. I call his name again. The eyes look up at me: a light hazel, beautiful. I sort of fall into them and into the connection. Next thing I know, his hand is on my arm and he's steadying me, says something. I ask about the watch and we are going to do it later. I turn away, feeling soft and happily naked. Desire burns in me. I feel my balls pull up all fat. Desire is bigger and more real than mere external events. We will be together, some place in time; already are, somehow, just beyond reach.

Catalina rises long and blue in the distance. All the club members are milling around, catching up. I guess they didn't run into each other much, outside of the dive club. There's this hunky gym rat guy with incongruously femme mannerisms and a boyish, stubbly face.

"Did you hear?" he asks this 50-ish woman -- turns out she was a physicist -- "They traced all living lesbians back to a common ancestor." She's sort of standing at parade rest.

"Oh yeah?" she leers, knowing it's some bullshit.

"Yeah, they traced it back through the mitochondrial DNA or RNA, or whatever it is."

"Un hunh? And?"

"Well it goes back millions of years to this one dinosaur... " he paused for effect, "Lickalottapus."

She guffawed. "Well, I heard they'd finally conclusively confirmed the basis for male homosexuality."

"Yeah?" says Hunky Guy, "What's that?"

"They just love the dick," she cackled.

"Ohh!" says Hunky Guy, "That explains it." He smiles, roll his eyes rapturously, "I think they're onto something." He wiggles his whole body and looks over at me, to make sure he has an audience, "I know I wish I were. Onto some thing." Mega woman gets this pained look and then laughs with him. They wander off, talking about the Fiji trip.

Zephyr keeps me busy for most of an hour. When I have a chance, I find Chris. He's up in the galley, making cocoa. He fixes me one, too, and puts a marshmallow in it for me. We go out to the little table, just outside the galley. He slides in first, onto the bench, to sit by the wall. I sit next to him, on the outside. The bench is too small, thank God. We are all pressed up tight together. He's warm. He hands the watch to me. We bend together, to look at the watch. His cheek is next to mine, his heat; the sound of his breath, his lips, I can barely think, barely see past the pictures in my mind: turning to kiss him, holding his hands, him in my arms. In my mind he's pale all over, except his boy parts. Dusky. I want them soft and dusky. A little soft bush. Young teen boy sex of him.

I know he can tell. I know he wants... Do I? What do I really know? Is it wishful thinking? My desire for him is a sweet torment. When he drinks the cocoa, every time he sips it, he licks his lips. That little pink tongue licks out, taking familiar liberties with lips that by rights are mine to be tasting. I imagine the cocoa on his breath, but the wind whips it away. I eat my marshmallow, thinking of his tender bag.

At last -- alas -- the watch is good. Zephyr's motioning. I stand and stretch, thinking it's cool that this is a gay dive club, so maybe I don't need to be so paranoid.

He stands up, leaving my right side all cold and missing him. He stretches, long teen, hunky. Makes that stretching noise "D-inhh!" I think he has a partial boner. Either that, or it's just big and lovely and fat. My eyes feel heavy with the thought of his meat against my lips. I sit for a minute, then head down to the deck. Then down below to my bunk for a minute. The way the boat jumps around, it's a lot of work, just sitting and talking. I go below and put on my sweatpants. I'm a little cold. I climb into my bunk. It's nice, lying down, lying against the hull, hearing the water slap, wedged in between a couple of pillows. Warm. Just for a minute. I hope. I hope I'm pretty to him. I hope my boyishness pleases him.

I lie chained to the stone slab, my little feet on the worn stone shelf, my little brown boy body naked, exposed. My little uncut penis juts into view. (Uncut? And such dark skin...) A boy appears, teen face puffy, furtive, looking mostly at his feet. He has on a toga kind of thing, from the waist down. He has pudgy nipples and he stands there, awkward. I hear a voice, my voice, boyishly high, reciting in some foreign language, melodic: "Are you here to share my body, young supplicant?" He ducks his head and nods. "Will you touch me, softly? Will you have me in a sacred way?" My penis comes alive, as his cool, trembling hand comes to rest, cupping my hairless boy balls. The sweetness of my arousal winds higher, as his panting turns to moans, as he...

"DOLPHINS!" somebody shouts at the bunk room door, "Thousands of them!"

Abandoning the boy -- and my boner -- at the Cretan temple, I struggle to the dive deck and squint into the glare. The sun's coming out now and the waves are too bright to look at. The water on both sides is alive with hundreds of sleek leaping shapes. Hans comes on the speaker and says they are pacific common dolphins, two large pods. I shamble to the rail, still half out of it, part of me still in Crete, as two shapes peel off the pack and come shooting at the boat like torpedoes. They curve toward the bow and take up positions where the bow enters the water, and maybe 5 feet down. They stop swimming and start surfing the underwater bow wave. They are short, maybe 5 feet long.

"Cool, look at that!" people are yelling. There's a dozen cameras out and I'm waking up. Another small dolphin whacks into the surfing one, sending him spinning out of position. The new guy takes his place. They have this smile, dolphins do. He looks sorta pleased with himself. Soon, he's challenged, knocked out of the sweet spot by another. They are obviously having a hell of a good time. Hans reduces speed, as we cut through the pod on our left. Eventually the dolphin-kids head back to their families, and we continue on our way to the island.

The deck is littered with inert bodies. Most of the ones who got up for the dolphins are already passing out again. I ask Jaz what the deal is and he tells me they've taken Dramamine and it knocks most people out. Z comes by and tells me we are 40 minutes out. He says Hans is going to give a 30 minute warning and the heads (bathrooms) will get busy. He suggests doing my bathroom thing and securing my stuff in the bunk, and then changing into a bathing suit before the shit hits the fan. I go forward and pass Jaz just returning, presumably from the same errand. He's in just a board shorts style suit and barefoot. Z heads around to the other head on the opposite side. I go below and get into my swimsuit. It's old and soft, a short boxer style and reasonably modest. I have a boner for Jaz, and I have to tuck things in. I pull my dick to one side and feel the sharp pleasure, my hips thrusting involuntarily, as I stretch in a full-body mini cum. I need him. My body needs him.

The island is green now. We are close enough to see individual trees. The sun is fully out. Hans makes the 30-minute call and suddenly bodies are rising from the dead and an instructor is talking to her students about staging a fake rescue and 8 pairs of dive buddies are yelling back and forth to each other at the same time, and wet suits are being struggled into, and gear messed with. The divers are laughing and joking and helping each other.

We are right up against the island. The boat comes to a halt and the anchor chain is rattling and we back up in reverse for a ways, and the engine stops. It's restful, with just the breeze and the waves slapping, except for all the people still yammering. You can see down into the kelp, beams of sunlight spearing down, down. The peace with the engine off is palpable.

Zephyr goes back over the air-fill procedure and asks if anyone needs a top-off. There are a couple of takers. Zephyr hands off to Capt. Hans and goes to start the compressors. Hans thanks him, talks about diving safety and the rescue skiff, and the underwater recall siren. The compressors fire up and he has to raise his voice. He goes on about what to do if you hear the recall siren, and what to do if a current comes up and the best way to get back aboard. Then he describes the dive site. He says the visibility is outstanding at the moment and says it might be a chance to get some good pictures of giant bass. He announces that the port side gate will be open. Jaz opens it and latches it back, taking up a position next to it, with the big white slate.

"Gates are open," says Hans, "Try to get in the water in the next 30 minutes."

The non-student divers are bailing in pairs, at this point, putting their fins on at the gate, identifying themselves: "Number 14 Johnson; Number 22, Sirricca," etc., as Jaz checks them off the white plastic slate, checks their air valves and says "You're good, have a nice dive. Bob: good, nice dive. Sandra, your fin strap came loose: here. There, nice dive." All the while, putting a downward slash next to each diver as they go in. There are bubbling noises and folks are disappearing. The students take a lot longer. There's so much stuff to check and mess with. Pretty soon, though, it's down to the five of us: Zephyr, Jaz, the cook, Hans and me, plus one woman who's feeling a little bad and can't seem to pop her right ear. She shrugs, smiles and gets out her book, sipping her tea. It is a beautiful day, the breeze is pleasant, the air is clear, the sun is out, it's peaceful. I can see why people come out here. It's not just for the boys.

A giant fish head appears. Just a head, about 3 feet tall. If the whole fish was there, it'd have to be 15 feet long, but it's just a big fish head. It has one little fin wiggling at the top and one little fin wiggling at the bottom. It doesn't look like it's dead.

"What the fuck is that?" I ask Zephyr.

"Mola-mola," he says, "Ocean sunfish. That's a pretty big one for this area."

"What do they eat?"

"Oh, they live off of fish tails," says Jaz.

Zephyr snorts, "That's fucked up," and starts picking up dropped clothing and dive gear and putting in a pile. Jaz leers at me.

"Good one," I say, "You had me there for a second."

It's still morning. It's warmer, but I'm not quite ready to get wet. Zephyr advises me to get some sunscreen on.

"You, too," he tells Jaz, "You're gonna be in the sun for two days."

I start below, to get my lotion and my towel. Jaz asked me to grab his sunscreen, while I'm down there. I go down, find my tube of suntan cream, and then get down on my knees to reach the bottom bunk, where Jaz has his stuff. I didn't mean to, really. Not at first. But his underwear was right there begging me. I picked them up and laid them flat. The impression was there, calling to me, the soft cotton stretched where his big teen dick and balls had been until a few minutes ago. I felt a little guilty -- a lot, actually -- but my hand just reached out and grabbed them and carried them to my face where it bunched them up and my nose took a big whiff and the essence of him came upon me with a deep thrill and a sharp need. I need this boy. I need the teen sex of him, his heat, his sweat. Oh, God. My heart wanted to stay, but I needed to get him his suntan lotion. Besides, maybe...

I hunted around, found a bottle of that Hawaiian Tropic Deep Tanning stuff. I threw his undies back with his pants, trying to wrinkle away the worship marks, and headed up.

Maybe...

"Ca..." I start to ask.

"You want me to do your back?" Jaz asks. Yessssssssss!

"Sure," I smile, handing him the tube. Baby, I've smelled your balls. Oh, God, I need you.

His hands are on me, spreading the cream, gentle, stroking me softly.

"You must be cold," he says, glancing at my goosebumps. My skin crawls with pleasure. Who knew that getting suntan lotion put on me would be a sexual act? I look at my arms, at my nipples crunched up to little nubs.

What the fuck."Not really," I said, honestly, looking into his eyes, "It just feels good."

He made a sassy little 'ooo' sound, and kept putting the lotion on. "Close your eyes," he said, and gently applied the cream to my face. His tenderness, his nearness, make me weak. His hands run down my neck, along my shoulders, the top of my chest. He stops.

"Good?" he asks. I realize my mouth is hanging open.

"Yeah," I sigh. "As long as the sun doesn't, you know, get inside my suit. To the neglected spots."

Jaz actually laughed at that. "Here, will you do me?" turning his back.

"I thought you'd never ask," I said, feeling a little bold. I started with his shoulders and back, and partway down his arms, feeling the smoothness and the warmth of him. I reached up under his arms and up to the top of his chest, gently spreading the oil down, across his collar bones, across his pecs, across his soft nipples, down his sides. He turned toward me, his nipples now hard. "Close your eyes," I told him, stepping close to do his face. I look at his lips and imagine them on my own, on my cheek, on my neck, on my... He ducks his head while I run my hands down the back and sides of his neck. I can tell he's enjoying the contact. I'm looking at his scalp. "You have a little freckle," I observe, "on your scalp." It was sort of cute, for some reason, perhaps the imperfection of it.

"I have a freckle, too... " I found myself starting to say. "I... I better stop," I blurted. His eyes opened. He knew. There were no secrets here. "Or we'll get arrested." I said the words of the little quip, but my eyes were serious. So were his.

"Thanks," he said, moving on before the audience started paying attention, "I think I can reach the rest myself. I'll just have to hope the sun doesn't... you know, get in and burn the neglected spots." His eyes lingered on me, 'till he jerked them away, smiled, and busied himself doing his legs and belly. I turn away, thinking of his dick, remembering his smell. I'm watery inside, at the thought of being naked with him.

The divers started coming back. Jaz met them on the dive step and helped take their fins. They came up onto the dive deck, one by one, shedding water and gear as they lumbered to their stations. Zephyr crossed them off the slate as they came on deck. They seemed happy to get the heavy tanks off. The lesbian physicist and her dive buddy (wife?) came up smiling and saying how good it felt to be back in the water. This one diver pulls off his mask and hood. I hadn't recognized him in all his gear: Hunky Guy.

Bart, the dive club leader, steps to the stern and yells for attention: "Ladies, gentlemen... ehhh, undecided." There's a titter of laughter. "We can stay here for another dive, or we can move. How many want to do another dive at this site?" A couple of hands went up. "Move?" All the rest of the hands went up along with calls of "Move! Move!"

"Move it is. There are snacks in the galley. We're gonna check out Bird Rock, so it'll be about 55 minutes or so. That should give you a decent surface interval."

Zephyr takes his place. "Anyone who still needs a fill, get your regulators off and put a red tag on your tank valve."

Wetsuits come off, anchors come up, Pacifica gets underway. Sweatshirt time, again. There are fresh hot chocolate chip cookies in the galley.

Jaz finishes up the air fills and comes to sit with me. His nearness makes me fluttery. I want to put my head in his lap. The thought wakes me up. We tell jokes for a few minutes. Zephyr comes over. He looks good with his shirt off. Looks fully dressed, in some odd way. "How are you two doing?"

You two. Was it so obvious? Did it matter on a gay charter?

"We're good," says Jaz. We: I'm startled, find myself smiling. I'm so horny for him.

We get to Bird Rock. Unfortunately, we pass downwind for a couple of minutes. Birds eat fish. Birds poop on rock and make it all white. Rock stinks big time. We go around to the other side. Hans backs the boat up real close to the rock, then pulls away and drops the anchor, then lets out the rope, till we are close to the rock again. Engines off. People are anxious to get in, talking about "the wall" and the "eel grass shallows."

Hans does another briefing. He says there is a very slight current and goes over precautions and procedures. There will be a current line out. It looks like a lane marker for a swimming pool, with floats and a big white ball at the end. This time everybody but me and the crew gets in: that lady's ear apparently improved. I get my wetsuit. Hans asks me if I'm going in, and tells me where to go. He points out how the kelp sits bunched at the surface. He says if it lies down, that means the current has come up and warns me to stay to the right if that happens, so I don't get swept around to the other side. Says not to fight the current, just swim perpendicular to the current, straight to the current line and pull myself back to the boat, if I need to. He sees that I have a disposable waterproof camera and has me advance the film so it's ready for the first shot. When he turns away, I take a picture of Jaz's butt dimples and wind the camera again.

I climb down the ladder and sit on the dive platform to put my fins on. When I'm all set, Jaz jumps in with me. He's not wearing fins or a mask, just swimming. I look at him underwater, but there's nothing special to see: his suit moves loosely over all the good parts. I swim toward the island, dodging kelp. The bottom rises toward me. Eventually, I'm in only 10 feet of water. I try to dive to touch the bottom, but it is impossible to stay down, wearing the wetsuit. I take a dozen pictures: sunbeams through golden kelp, divers down in the blue, with columns of bubbles rising. I putter back and forth along the shore, going left, 'till I hit what must be the eel grass shallows. It's a saddle connecting Bird Rock to the main island. It's warm and the light is good, a friendly place. Eventually, I feel a little current, flowing away from the boat, and decide it would be a good idea to head back.

I get back to the point where I first reached the rock. I hear Jaz yelling to somebody on the boat. He's standing right at the shore of the island, trying not to lose his balance and fall backwards and have to put his hand on the stinky fish birdshit. He yells something back to Zephyr, sort of laughing. I have water in my ears, so I don't catch what he's saying. I watch, under the water, as he dives in and swims back to the boat. He's a really strong swimmer and the board shorts are slipping down, so I can see the nice curve of his butt and his taut male belly.

More divers are appearing below me, headed toward the boat. I decide to beat them there, and head to the dive platform, slip off my fins. Nobody's there, but I can see a pair of feet sticking out over the transom. Jaz? I climb the ladder, still wearing my mask. I start to hear talking. As I come up the ladder, it is Jazz, he's lying back on some kind of padded seat, fingers laced behind his head. His belly is crunched and the board shorts are still slipped down. Coming up the ladder, I am close to him. The effect of the oil and the sunlight on boyflesh is like a microscope. Lean belly skin, oily, beaded with water droplets, glaring in the sunlight. He's smooth: not even a hint of hair between the shorts and his belly button. So young and smooth. The texture of him is so shockingly sexual that I am literally taken aback. How could anyone this sexual be interested in me? He is an object and I am disconcerted. Nonetheless, I point the mask down and look sideways at him, my eyes hidden by the mask skirt, for as long as I can, before being forced to tear my eyes away or get caught perving majorly in front of everybody.

I take off my wetsuit and rinse off. I grab my towel and go sit at the bow with a sick feeling of dashed expectations. About the time I've settled out a little, Jaz comes up. He looks at me and I look at him and he sits down next to me, sort of gently.

"Hey, how you doin'? You don't look like... yourself."

I shrugged. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, and pulled us together, me in my towel. "Wanna tell me?" he asked. I could feel his cheek against the top of my head. I leaned into him, seeking contact. Hope was rising and sinking at the same time. I decided to be straight with him.

"I'm so... I got some stupid idea that you were attracted to me. But now I realize... " I ran out of steam as a cold, shrinking feeling came upon me. He dropped his arm from my shoulder, put it on my leg and levered himself over in front of me, crouched on the deck so I was looking into his face.

"I uh... Chris, I want you so bad it hurts. All day, I've either been looking at you or... or dreaming of... doing things with you. Touching you. You're so beautiful it hurts. I am definitely attracted, if you'll have me."

I couldn't believe my ears. Something -- some kind of barrier in the space between us -- was dissipating. A hole opened between our faces. The blockage between our bodies was still partially there. I didn't dare trust, yet. I looked at him, at his lips, at his eyes. Something big and strong and smart pushed me forward into his arms.

We didn't kiss long, but it was a kiss that changed my world, that changed the possibilities, that empowered my heart. We ended up with our foreheads touching, blending our two brands of sunscreen.

"I have an idea," he said...

The rest of the day was... different. That longing, that hoping, helpless, wanting to reach but afraid to; that was replaced with a solid hope, with excruciating anticipation. It was an unscratchable itch inside, but one that made me smile quietly to myself, made me burst into a big smile every time I saw Jaz. A couple of times I just hugged myself in excitement and hope.

We had a nice lunch with a strawberry salad and chicken and garlic toast and I had to stop myself from overdoing it, because I intended to get back in the water for the last dive. I was feeling frisky and strong and alive and full of hope.

By the time the gates were open, a current had come up. It was Zephyr's idea: rather than just jump in and worry about the current, that I grab onto the current line and just let the current carry me away from the boat to a good place to see things and then just relax and hang onto the line. It was pretty. The kelp laid down and the water turned milky as the plankton came up. It was like flying weightless in the mists of an alien planet. I hung out until I got cold, and then hauled myself back. It was easy and mellow.

Back aboard, I thanked Zephyr for the suggestion. I asked him if people do that much. He just said, "Now I know one people who do."

I took a hot shower, got into dry clothes. I hoped he'd like my boy body. I hoped these soft blue-striped trunks would be sexy to him. I went up on deck and got the same bench where we set my watch. I made a cup of tea and relaxed with my book. I didn't say I read it. I held it and I stared at it and I thought about Jaz. Or I held it and looked down at Jaz on the dive deck. Or I held it and tried to recall the smell of Jaz. I realize I was majorly out of it, but I did have the presence of mind to turn the book right side up, at some point. Zephyr happened to be watching and saw me do that and laughed out loud. Or it looked like it, anyway: I couldn't hear over the boat noise. I knew he wasn't laughing derisively. There was a joy and understanding about the way he did it. Did most things, actually. Besides, he'd been looking kindly at me all afternoon.

"About when we get to the breakwater, you ought to have some bars," Jaz told me. "Call your dad and ask him is you can sleep over on Zephyr's boat. It's the big one next door. We're going back out tomorrow, so we were staying there tonight anyway."

"Oh, cool!" I cried, feeling joy and dread and anticipation.

"Umm, if I paid for my food, do you suppose maybe I could be volunteer crew tomorrow?"

Jaz gave me a big smile, "I'll go ask Hans." He went into the galley.

He was gone a lot longer than I'd expected. I was getting sorta nail-bitey, when he appeared from a different direction. Turns out, he'd climbed out the window of the wheelhouse to clean something for Hans, and then he just climbed down to the bow and came around the side.

"You have a shitty poker face," I told him, and he broke into a grin, "You're on. If it works out, you might even get some future work days out of the deal."

I was jubilant, as you might imagine. I called Dad, and he was fine with it.

"So? You're not going to tell me, are you?" his voice said.

"Oh, Daddy," I giggled, "I just Looove snorkeling."

"Well, don't forget to 'come up for air' every once in awhile. And be safe. I love you. My little boy's growing up." I could hear the tears in his voice, and a kind of chuckle-cry noise.

"I love you, Daddy, and everything will be fine."

"Okay, son. I love you. Bye." His voice was thick.

After the last passengers had left and Pacifica was ready for tomorrow, Jaz and I headed around the bow of Nightwind and onto her dock finger. We rounded the corner and stopped to wait for Zephyr to get there and unlock Nightwind. I was all pumped up with excitement and fear. This seemed unreal. I anticipated... something... with such intensity, it was almost dread. Something unnamed. My nuts were scrunched up and I felt like I was floating. Jaz bent to kiss me and I got lost in his lips and our breath on each other. I was trembling and realized that his lips were trembling on mine. We heard the sound of Zephyr's flip-flops coming around the corner, but couldn't seem to break the kiss. He went around us, climbed the boarding steps, and started opening up Nightwind.

"I want you so bad," whispered Jaz. I just let out a tiny groan.

I started to say something like "Take me," but it seemed ridiculous and I ended up giggling: "I want to show you my freckle." He just kissed me again.

We snapped out of it and followed Zephyr.

"Umm, I'm gonna go get a shower and some ice. I'll start the charcoal in about an hour," said Zephyr. "We'll have da homm-buh-guhs," Chef Ahh-nold announced. Zephyr took a deep breath and blew it out between his pursed lips. "Why don't you guys go below and uhh, get acquainted. You could cut the air around here with a knife."

Jaz gave him a look of pure trust and love: "Thanks, Z." Then he took my hand and led me below.

"Here, I use this one when I stay over," he said, opening the first door on the left. It was mostly bunk, with a ledge around the outside and some shelves. There was some stuff already in there: Jaz had stayed over last night, too. He hopped up on the bunk.

"Close the door and kick off your shorts and come on up here," he said, kicking off his flip-flops and stretching out. I pulled off my water shoes and crawled up alongside him in just my tee shirt and undies. I was in bed with another boy -- with a lover -- for the first time in my life. With the intention of having sex. I felt young and vulnerable. I pressed my face to his chest, drowsy with the warmth and nearness of him, drowsy with the teen hunkiness of him. He was still faintly slick with the coconut oil. My face slid over his soft nipple.

"Here," he said, "let's get this off," and helped me with my tee shirt. He looked at my body, looked at my nipples, let out a shaky little sigh: "Ohhhh..." He laid me back and bent to kiss me, kiss my neck, kiss my boy tits, lick them. I felt my boyness reaching out for him, felt him wanting me, wanting my smoothness and the boyness of me. My bag pulled away from my thighs and burned a tiny bit as it scrunched with my need. He kissed lower, kissed below my belly button. Rose onto his knees to crawl back, to kiss the inside of my thigh, kiss the other, kissing higher, kissing higher, slipping his lips along the smoothness of me. He reached my package and hummed there, breathed his heat and warmth through the soft knit undies. His fingers touched at my waist. He tenderly grasped my waistband and I knew my time was at hand. Fear and delight rose in my chest, as I raised my hips to allow him to pull down my boy trunks, exposing myself to him. The fabric pulled away, gently liberating my balls and my urgent boner. My bag drew up tight as I spread my legs and his lips made contact. Oh, I hoped I was boy-cute to him.

"Awwww," he groaned, lying back down, taking in the boyness of me, "Oh, you're beautiful." My heart leapt to hear him, I felt myself melting, somehow, felt my boyness blossoming for him.

"Take me," I murmurred, enraptured, as I gave him my sweet virgin boyness. He is here with me: the one I've been saving myself for. He buried his face in the sweetness of my nuts, nuzzling, kissing behind, then kissing up along my boner to near the tip, back down to the base, and burrowed between my bag and my thigh, moaning and snuffling, then the other side. His tongue was on me, in the groove next to my bag, then on the other side. His lips pulling softly at my boy bag. I cast myself loose and floated on his taking of me, taking of my virgin bag, humming into my boyness. My mouth hung slack as I gave my softness to him. "Take me."

The lips wandered back up, back to my tip, and it was time for him to take my virgin penis. His lips slid over my virginity, filling me with pure sweetness, sweetness so deep it was an ache of pleasure. I slid to be in him, slid to give myself, slid to catch up with his retreating lips and abide in the sweetness there. My dick pulsed, pulsed again, a mini-cum that took the edge off, a little. He licked my bag again, pulling the skin with his lips, and then crawled up to kiss each of my nipples, slowly, before returning home to my lips. His tongue took me. My soul had its legs spread for him and he took me strongly, tenderly with his tongue. Who knew a kiss could be so sexual. Who knew it could be... intercourse? He fucked me sweetly with his tongue. I sucked it, my heart in my throat, and my boy boner pulsed for the joy of it.

The bigness of his body loomed over me, the heat of him. I had to have my hands on him, my lips. I had to have something big and nameless, had to get nearer to him, had to crawl into the delight of him. I ran my hands down his back, stopped to tug at his waistband. He got his knees under him, and I peeled the board shorts down, tugged them out from between his legs. I craned to see his nakedness, as it was revealed. His big teen cock pointed straight down, hard and broad, as the shorts slid downward, toward his knees. The broad hardness of it, the brown line, the ruddy skin behind the head. The last inch or so, and it dragged up my body on its way up to smack his belly, leaving a cool line of his clear juice on the smoothness of me. Heat emanated from his body. He lay on me, kissing me. I felt his lips, felt his tongue, felt the almost unbearable tickle of his tongue. My lips made an 'O' around his tongue, to feel it fucking my head. My focus was soon drawn lower, to the heat and size of the hot teen cock pressing against me. Something took control of me. I made him lie down and crawled down to lie between his legs, to gaze upon the wonder of him, the big teen sex of him. To inhale him.

His cock looked so friendly, somehow: familiar, festive. My face was drawn to press into the fatness of him. He was hot and moist and tender. I pressed my nose and lips to his underside, grazing on the teen hugeness of him, taking in the faint clean musk of him. My hand slid down, to collect his big soft sack, to appreciate its tenderness, to surround it, to make it contract: slowly, then faster, eventually fat and round, each orb distinct in the male fullness of him. My nose and lips pressing into their fragrant fullness. Having this! Finally having this!

My dick buzzed and tingled, as my tongue reached out to trace the outline of his head, to lick the valley and to slide in the groove around each side, around in the groove to the top., enjoying his shape. My lips reached the tip of him, the clear stuff of him. My mouth opened and slipped around his teen cock, headed for the base, dragging me with it in helpless worship. His bigness arrived, filling me, blessing me with the glory of fat teen dick. I was filled with adoration, as I opened for him, slid on him, as I took him, in a delirium of having, a delirium of finally having...

His moans were music to my ears, his gentle thrusts, his hands tender in my hair. I pulled his cock down, away from his belly, so I could suck, enjoying how it how it tried to pull back, to stand up tight to his body. I pulled it to one side, and he yelped and pulsed. I smiled: now I knew my first sex trick! I settled into gentle licking and sucking, bathed in the sweet, intimate beauty of this act, in the beauty of his big teenness, in the honesty of sucking him. I felt clean and new. This act was the whole of my world, as I felt the rigid tenderness of him fill my mouth again and again, as I gave my everything to our connection and to serving him sexually.

He pulled me back up to his chest, "Turn around," he murmured.

Turn around. Turn around: an invitation to heaven, to sweet oblivion in the mutuality of giving pleasure. I swung around, planted my knees up on the sloping sides of the bunk, and presented my boyness to his lips, as I took his teenness back into my mouth, feeling my self eclipsed once again by the realness of the dick I was impaling myself upon, its bigness, its texture, the purification of this act.

Funny, how the outside world goes away, his lips on the boyness of me, his glorious fat teen meat in the center of my head. We sucked for eternity, or was it just for a brief flash of time? I sucked to paradise and back, he sucked me to the finality of an orgasm so intense that I lost all sense of my identity, riding out the ecstasy as I moaned around the phallus of him, impaling my soul. His cream came to me as my own peak passed. I felt it strike, felt its volume, the texture, felt myself receiving him. I ate it in exultation: I'd made him do this. I'd elicited this prize from my lover. From my first lover, from the glorious male organ of him, pulsing in my mouth, young and ancient and fresh. The joy and promise of his youth; an act older than forever. His maleness pulsed and fed and marked me, feeding me what I had dreamed of receiving. I had no idea what it tasted like; it just meant something.

There was silence after the end of the world. Silence and fading pulses, and a deep joy and gratitude that I had had this with him. I crawled back around, to be taken into his arms. He kissed the top of my head, "I found your freckle," he murmured, as I slipped into sweet slumber.

I think it was good for him. His smooth boy skin raised me to a keening, shrill level of arousal. His smooth inner thighs and tender dusky boy bag fed and soothed and quenched something that had burned inside me since I met him on the ramp, nourishing me, healing me. The sucking was lovely and gentle and completing. He drew up and got harder and harder and started moving jerky. He took my dick to the base and froze, then let out a full-throated cry of arrival around my dick, the muffled scream coming out his nose as plain as day. It sure sounded good. I know I sure came good. He was asleep before I could ask.

Zephyr tapped lightly at the door. It was almost dark. He'd had to put in a fresh batch of charcoal, and it was ready again. The burgers were going on. I told him we'd be right there and woke Chris with a kiss by his mouth. He came softly awake and stretched all trembly. His eyes opened and he... inspected me. A smile spread across his face and he hugged himself to me.

"Hey, cute guy. Whatcha doin' later?" I don't know who said that.

Dinner was nice. Zephyr was decent. He looked a little lonely to me, but I didn't push Chris away when he sat next to me and leaned back onto me. I kissed him when I didn't think Z was looking. I had a boner again and the need burned in me. I had my boy right here, warm against me. So it was urgent, but not an emergency, if you know what I mean.

We stayed up a couple hours after the sun went down. Being right at the edge of LA, not a lot of stars were bright enough to be visible, but the moon was up and my boy was warm against me. Zephyr had gone in to watch a DVD. We decided to go up and get a shower before bed. We were the only ones there. Chris is cute when he's naked and wet. And has a boner. We didn't do much more than grab and tease each other. My own dick looked big and rude to me, next to Chris' otter-like sleekness. He kept looking at it and giving me a big leering smile, though. I'm glad that's what he likes.

Walking back, Chris took my hand. The tenderness made my cream quiver and boil inside me. He was so sweet and I wanted to be so gentle with him, and at the same time, I wanted to devour him and stand over him, gulping down great bloody chunks of his cute sweetness and howling with ancient lust. I compromised, stopping on the landing for a kiss. It started tender and ended with us clashing teeth and growling. I could see the light on in Zephyr's porthole. Giggling, we headed down into the shadows, holding hands, and rounded the prow of Nightwind. The moon was bright on the dock finger. I stacked the chairs and we headed aboard and down to our cabin. I helped Chris disrobe and watched in silent adoration as he crawled up onto the bunk, away from me, soft boy balls between his creamy thighs. I scrambled to join him, my bone huge and desperate, searingly urgent when he grasped it to welcome me into contact with him.

He insisted on sucking me, moaning as he did so. Were the urgent sounds coming from him or from me? Climax came upon me deep and complete. Coming between his boy lips was a consecration. He made me wait, enveloped in his mouth, as I finished pulsing for him. He let me go when I was fully soft. The parting was tender, regretful. He lay upon me and I nuzzled in his hair.

I was still gentle, drowsy with the tenderness he had given me, as I nuzzled and sucked him. I felt his tenderness turn to need, and need turn to pounding demand. His soft cool balls were mashing beside my mouth, into my chin. I let him ride my face relentlessly, with his sweet young shaft between my lips until, into his closed mouth, he let out a long cry of gratitude and release.

I held Chris' sleeping form in my arms. If Zephyr hadn't heard that, he'd surely felt Nightwind rocking in her moorings. She tossed her mane and galloped silky off into the setting moon.