Surfer Boys Page 3

  “Last time you almost hit your head,” he said. “This way you’ll be safer, and you won’t get separated from the board.”

  “I knew you’d take care of me,” I said, touching his cheek affectionately before I could stop myself. No one noticed, and he smiled and blushed.

  It was lucky Adriano got me the safer board, because I must have wiped out a million times before 8:00 A.M. He never laughed, and he told me I had done tons better than he had when he first began.

  “Tell me if your arms are sore from paddling and we’ll stop.”

  “Nah, I want to keep going,” I said. “Except for the damn seaweed that keeps getting in my face, this is hella fun.”

  Finally I slid down a wave on my feet for a full two seconds before I got excited and tumbled over. Under the water I had a sudden thought.

  My grad school is in California.

  Adriano rode his board over to me and dropped into the water to make sure I was all right. “That was excellent! You would have held on longer, but that wave fell apart on you.”

  “Hey, do they have surfing in Santa Cruz?”

  “Santa Cruz, California? Major surfing,” he said. “Ten times better than this. Heck, twenty times. Why?”

  I looked around for a second to be sure no one was close to where we were treading water. Then I kissed him. “Let’s talk,” I said.

  We went to a pancake house, and once again, Adriano ate like he’d never seen food. “How do you feel about monogamy?” I said, realizing that came out of the blue.

  His face fell. “What? I mean, it sounds nice, but I’m pretty sure I’d suck at it. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. That was a trick question. I’d never want monogamy either.”

  He laughed. “Okay then. It’s nice to meet someone who isn’t possessive,” he said, looking away shyly.

  I explained my idea, and his eyes lit up. “Really? You want me to come out there? I bet I could make money teaching surfing!” He frowned. “But come on, we hardly know each other.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “But if it doesn’t work or you don’t like it out there or whatever, I’ll make sure you can get back here safe and sound.” He considered this and gave me an uncertain nod.

  “You know, I planned on touring around for another month, but what if I just stayed at my hotel in Corpus Christi or someplace closer, so I can spend some time getting to know you?”

  He looked at me with surprise and gave me an excited smile. “I’d like that a lot. Then maybe I’ll be up for going out to Santa Cruz.” He took a bite of his pancakes. “You know, of all the guys who have found me on that damn website, you are the first one whose lines I actually believe.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why is that?”

  “You’re the only one who made the effort to surf.”

  “And now you have all summer to teach me,” I said, grabbing his hand under the table. “I’m yours for as long as you want, my Blue Star Boy.”

  WHEN WADE’S WOODY WAS RUNNING

  David Holly

  To my way of thinking, Gidget was the great film of 1959, so I went to the theater daily while it was playing. Unlike the thousands of American boys who lusted after Gidget, I had no interest in cuddling up to Sandra Dee—I wanted to be Gidget, so I could get a Moondoggie of my own. After blissfully watching the movie eight times in four days, I withdrew my total fifty dollar savings to buy a nine-foot-four-inch balsa wood surfboard, and nearly dislocated my shoulder trying to balance upon it on my bed. I believed that if I could only master the board, rise to my feet, and dance upon the waves, I would end up doing a wildly different dance with Moondoggie in the surf shack.

  Moondoggie and I would kiss romantically, which would inevitably lead to heavy petting. He would cup my ass with both hands, and whisper in my ear that I had a great butt. Then we would kiss more deeply. Moondoggie’s tongue would push into my mouth. He would be aggressive and urgent in his need to master me, and I would be happy to let him take me.

  “Oh, Tony,” Moondoggie would moan. “I have to fuck you now.”

  “Yes, Moondoggie, take me any way you want me.”

  As I reclined upon my bed, thinking of Moondoggie, my hand slipped beneath the waistband of my Jockey briefs. My other hand felt up my own ass. I pushed my underwear into my asscrack as I rubbed my dry cock. Meanwhile, I imagined Moondoggie pushing me down on his cot in the surf shack. His cock would be hard and thick when he pulled off his surf trunks.

  “Take me, Moondoggie,” I urged, spitting into my hand and flogging my cock wildly. Moondoggie needed no urging. He was horny as hell and ready to shoot his load into me. Thumbing the head of my dick, I tried to guess whether Moondoggie preferred my mouth or my ass. Sometimes I would blow him, and his imaginary cock would push through my lips and slide along my tongue. Other times he would prefer to fuck me, and I would lie on my stomach while Moondoggie parted the cheeks of my ass and pushed his thick surfer cock into me. My fantasies were sadly lacking in detail because, as yet, I had not even kissed or held hands with another boy, much less moved to the advanced stages of fucking or sucking. I knew about butt fucking and cocksucking, though, and I tried to flesh out my fantasy life while I furiously pounded my cock.

  My fantasies lapsed while I surfed the wild waves of orgasm that began as minute ripples in the head of my cock but churned with potent rollers that overwhelmed my senses. Explosions of light and color blasted, my breath came in heavy rasps, and my heart raced. My lips quivered, my nipples crinkled, and my eyelids fluttered. My cum drenched the front of my briefs and scented the air with the smell of spilled semen. Then I lay in a half-awakened state, revisiting the shreds of my boy-Gidget fantasy and staring dreamily at the movie poster thumbtacked to my bedroom wall. After a while, I got up and stepped into the shower, cleaning my crotch and soaping and rinsing my underpants lest Mom should discover the evidence of my secret joy.

  In Southern California, summer is Gidget time. Summer is when the Moondoggie college boys come out to play. Five weeks before I was due to graduate high school, I bought a new cabana set, a red and yellow jacket with matching swim trunks, and hit the beach at Malibu—by getting my mom to drop me off with my surfboard. Life at Malibu Point was not as I had envisioned it. First, there was nobody making and selling boards on the beach, nor were there a bunch of hungry boys living in a surf shack. Lifeguards along the beach made certain nobody violated ordinances, lit bonfires, built shacks, or threw alcohol-fueled luaus.

  The beach was so crowded that I couldn’t believe my eyes. Even worse, there must have been about a hundred boys (and a significant number of females) trying to ride surfboards. The movie had attracted every college coed, her sister, brother, boyfriend, and father to Malibu. Still, those sun-struck fellows looked good to me. I spotted one with real Moondoggie potential, sidled up to him, and struck up a conversation.

  “Bitchin’ surf,” I said.

  He looked at me as though I were some weird squishy sea creature and said nothing.

  “Nice combers,” I tried again, trying to conceal my budding erection by shifting my board to my other arm, but dropping it on his toe instead. He let out a howl that brought stares up and down the beach. “Do you want me to stop annoying you?” I asked ruefully.

  “I want your heart to stop beating,” he said.

  I decided that I would have better luck with these boys after I showed off my potential. After all, I was a member of my high school swim team—how hard could surfing be? Surfing had looked easy in the movie. I soon discovered that I had no more idea how to surf than a jackass does. I could hardly paddle the board, and ended up gripping my rails as the waves washed me backward toward the beach. I consoled myself that I was riding a surfboard, even though I was lying down. No sooner had I congratulated myself for that small victory, than I wiped out—meaning I rolled off my board, lost it in the surf, and flailed back to the beach. I looked more like a drowning sailor than a skilled swimmer.

  Coughing, wheezing, spitti
ng, and gasping, I continued cutting a poor figure on shore. I figured that I would earn the nickname Wipeout at best, but I wasn’t good enough for the real surfers to notice. They ignored my pathetic attempts. Nor did any of them call each other by fancy surfer names—not within my hearing. There was no Kahuna (where was Cliff Robertson when I needed him?), only Bill, Biff, Chuck, Dave, Mike, Sam, Tom, and Wade.

  I decided that my failure had to be rooted in the cabana set. I tossed the jacket and wore the trunks but I still couldn’t catch a wave, much less paddle out to one, and the other surfers yelled at me to get out of the ocean. I called my mom from a pay phone and went home tired, waterlogged, miserable, and blaming my condition on the cabana set. With the right clothes, I would succeed where I had failed before.

  On the way home I made Mom stop at a store so I could buy a pair of trunks in a classic Hawaiian print. The next morning, she drove me back to Malibu. I paddled out and watched what the other surfers did. They turned their boards and climbed onto their knees. To my horror, even climbing to my knees was too much for me. I slipped off my board and didn’t see it again until I washed up on the beach.

  I ended up sitting about forty yards from the Pit, with a group of wannabe surfers, smoking cigarettes, and telling about how we’d be riding the tube except for the war wound that crippled us. One of the real surfers walked by, looked us over, and mouthed, “Faggots.” I jumped to my feet, grabbed my board, and headed for the water, passing the surfer on the way. “The next time you call me a faggot,” I said to him, “you better have your cock out.”

  His eyebrows raised and his eyes popped. I kept stalking toward the never-ending surf, but he caught me, grabbed my shoulder, and swung me around. Having learned one lesson, I kept a tight grip on my surfboard so I didn’t drop it on his toe.

  “You really want to learn how to surf?” he asked. Something electric passed between us, something that was more than the touch of his hand on my shoulder. I felt an explosion deep down, and I knew that this surfer boy was destined to be my Moondoggie. His was the face that launched longboards for me.

  “Yeah,” I said. It was true. I had to ride the board. Riding the board, dancing on the wave, and walking on the froth were the keys to everything I thought I wanted. Skill on the rolling sea would lead to romance and pleasure. “Yes.” I said. “I have to do this.”

  “Lay your stick down,” he insisted. “Wait here.” He ran off, and in a minute, he was back with a board without a fin. He laid it on the sand and told me to kneel on it.

  “I’m Wade Walker,” he said. “Sometimes called Waterwalker.”

  “I’m Tony,” I told him, relieved to hear surfers really bestowed nicknames on each other. The movie wasn’t entirely fiction.

  “Okay, Tony,” he said with a generous smile. “There’s a few basics you gotta learn—like paddling, duck diving or turtle rolling, catching a wave, popping up, and positioning.”

  My heart would have sunk, but Wade was looking yummier by the second. “That’s a lot,” I admitted, almost breathing into his ear.

  “The hardest is popping up, so I’m gonna teach you that first. Lie down on your stomach.”

  Now that order sounded encouraging. However, I realized that he meant I was supposed to lie on the surfboard, so I assumed the position. Then Wade took me through the steps of rising to my knees and then popping up onto my feet so that I was standing sideways on the board. After an hour, my arms were throbbing with the effort. “Boy, oh, boy,” I said. “I’m a competition swimmer. I thought my arms and chest were stronger.”

  With a laugh, Wade swatted my ass. “You’re doing great. You’re using your muscles differently, but you’ll get used to it. Let’s get wet.”

  After returning the borrowed board, Wade taught me paddling and positioning my body on the board. Of course, as a swimmer, paddling came naturally to me. Still, by the end of the day, I didn’t feel that I had improved much, but Wade said that I had great potential.

  “You’re gonna be a fine surfer, Tony.”

  I brightened, and my exhaustion slipped away.

  “Are you free tomorrow?” he asked, as we stood in the waist-deep water.

  “Sure.” I was in love. Never before had any boy paid so much attention to me.

  “In the morning I’ll teach you how to get through the waves so they don’t push you back.” I was holding on to my own surfboard and nodding my head when I felt Wade press his palm against my outer thigh. It was no accident. He didn’t pull it away, but moved it around so that his hand slipped between my legs. My cock stiffened, and after a surprised hesitation, I reached for his.

  “Aren’t you the boy who called me a faggot?” I asked, feeling the outline of his cock through the cotton fabric.

  Wade grinned, but he glanced around rather apprehensively. “That was just trash talk,” he said. A couple of swimmers were paddling our direction, so Wade stepped back. “Do you have your car here?”

  “Oh, I caught a lift,” I breezed, not wanting to admit that I’d been getting my mom to drive me to the beach.

  Wade brightened. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.” We let our erections deflate before we left the water. Wade picked up his board and led me to a 1938 Pontiac station wagon. Though Wade had painted the hood and fenders red—with a paintbrush—wood covered most of the body. “Here’s my Woody,” Wade offered, lifting up the back door and sliding in our surfboards. Mine slipped sideways.

  “Damn,” he said. “We don’t want to ding it.” Jumping into the back, Wade realigned our boards. His butt stuck out, and I could not resist the rounded mounds. I climbed in and ran my hands over his taut surfer’s ass.

  “Oh, boy,” he said. He shivered with pleasure at my intimate caress. I let my hand glide down his asscrack and push between his legs. I felt the hot underside of his balls through the cotton. Wade’s crotch pulsed and quivered beneath my probing fingers. Then I again explored the generous mounds of his butt until he twisted and wriggled into my arms.

  “Are you okay with kissing me?” he asked hesitantly.

  My fingers combed his sun-bleached hair as our lips pressed. I could scarcely believe that I was finally kissing another boy. I could feel his hard cock poking against mine as I pushed my tongue into his hot mouth. Wade sucked my tongue and stabbed it with his own, his lips hot, his body squirming against mine. My cock felt like it was going to rip through my swim trunks. Trying to adjust it, I pushed my trunks down so my cock popped free.

  “Wait,” Wade gasped, drawing away from me. He twisted and pulled the back door shut. With our surfboards blocking the salt-encrusted windows, no one could see us. Wade pulled my trunks over my bare feet. Then he pushed off his own trunks. Naked together, we kissed again. My mind reeled, not only from the fast shift in my fortunes, but also from Wade’s passion. His enthusiasm for my body was beyond flattering.

  My hand was on his naked cock. His skin was smooth and hot. The circumcised head swelled hard like a billowy mushroom. As I squeezed it, thin fluid leaked out, slicking my hand. Bathed in this pre-ejaculate, my hand could pound more freely on Wade’s cock.

  “Let’s jerk each other off,” he suggested, his eyes shining with anticipation.

  Wade was dripping enough to give us both slippery palms. Soon he was jerking my cock with his slick hand while I beat his meat. And even as we stroked, rubbed, squeezed, and fondled cock, we kept on kissing.

  As we grew close to shooting our all, we began fucking each other’s fist. We sprawled face-to-face, humped our asses toward each other, and let our free hands roam. Wade’s hand gently slipped over the mound of my ass as I thrust into his fist.

  “Oh, that’s nice, Wade,” I moaned, pulling my mouth from his.

  “Yeah,” he said. My cock grew heavier, and Wade’s cock pulsed and thickened in my hand. Tingles rushed through the head of my cock, while Wade’s leaked enough fluid to fill a beer can. Then the full throes of orgasm struck me. I rode the waves without a board, wave after wave of intense pleasu
re. I felt the muscles contract the underside of my balls and spasm throughout my pelvis. The first contraction was hard and tight, but so intense was the burst of pleasure that I could not feel the cum squirting from my dick. I only felt the hot spunk striking my pubic hairs and splattering high onto my stomach.

  I squeezed Wade’s dick tighter, directing it up as I did so, and something hot and wet slicked my right nipple. Even as Wade’s contractions stilled, mine continued, and I became more aware of the spurts from my tortured dick that splattered against Wade’s skin, decorating him with my spunk nearly to his chin. Suddenly, the back of Wade’s Woody smelled of spilled cum, and we broke apart, gasping for breath and laughing at the same time.

  “Isn’t that better than jacking your own?” Wade hooted.

  “Oh, yeah,” I agreed. Wade and I tried to clean up with a towel as best we could. Then he drove me home. I invited him in, but he shook his head. “I better not meet your mother while I’ve got streaks of your cum on my stomach. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.”

  Leaving my surfboard in the back of Wade’s Woody, I rushed into the house and up the stairs. I heard Mom shouting something, but I called down, “Let me shower first, Mom. I’m covered with salt and sand.” If she only knew, I thought, grinning to myself as I stood under the spray. I washed extra good and soaped up my swim trunks too, since they bore telltale spots.

  My arms were exhausted, but I did fifty push-ups and fifty pull-ups that evening. If I was going to get up on that surfboard, I was going to need more than swimmer’s muscles. I surprised myself by sleeping rather well, but I woke early.

  Wade pulled up in his Woody about five minutes before eight, which meant that I had been eagerly ready for only an hour. At the beach, Wade and I carried our boards into the water, where we went over the basics of paddling again. I could hardly believe that paddling alone could be so complicated. “If you can’t paddle, you’ll never catch a wave,” Wade warned, which inspired me to paddle until my arms were ready to fall off. When I began to get the hang of paddling, he showed me how to balance while sitting on my board. I promptly leaned too far to the left and fell off. On my next valiant attempt, I leaned too far forward and planted my face in the ocean while my surfboard shot out behind me.