Sexy Sailors Page 2

  “Hey.” Mike must have read some of that on his face because the hand he used to cup Danny’s cheek was gentle, rasping slightly against Danny’s stubble, and his kiss was warm and affectionate. “Here, you insisted on using it, you can prep me.”

  He raised himself just enough for Danny to slide one lube-slick hand up his inner thigh, one finger slipping easily into him. Danny forgot, then, about not being able to have sex exactly how he wanted to; he forgot about how Mike was only in town for a week; he forgot about everything but the way his fingers slid into Mike, the sight of Mike’s cock, hard against his stomach, precome glistening on the head, and his own hand, pale against Mike’s darker skin.

  “That’s enough,” Mike said as Danny teased his entrance with a fourth finger. “Fuck, come on, do me already.”

  “So romantic,” Danny teased, but he couldn’t keep it up, not when his own cock was so hard he was afraid it might break off, his hands shaking as he reached for the condom. Smoothing it down his cock was an exercise in self-control when all he really wanted to do was give himself the half dozen strokes he knew it would take to get himself off. “You ready?”

  “Been ready for the last ten minutes,” Mike grumbled. He steadied himself with a hand on Danny’s good hip, shifted forward a little. Danny closed his eyes, all the breath rushing out of him as Mike slowly lowered himself, tight and hot, onto Danny’s cock.

  When he was finally all the way down, they both moaned. Danny was sure he could feel the breath Mike took through his own body. “You feel so good,” he said stupidly.

  “You, too.” Mike’s eyes glittered, something more than amusement that was gone before Danny could pin it down.

  Then Mike raised himself up and sank back down onto Danny’s cock, and Danny let go of the thought. Let go of everything but the way Mike felt on his dick, the way his ass clenched around Danny as he shifted position to get Danny’s cock on his prostate.

  “You gonna—” Mike lowered himself again, voice cracking. “You gonna just lie there and make me do all the work?”

  “Thinking about it.” Danny nudged his hips up as much as he could without knowing he’d be screaming in pain come morning. “I like you like this.”

  He did, but his hand was greedy for Mike’s cock in it, the same way his own cock was greedy for an orgasm that wouldn’t be long in coming. He took Mike in hand, rubbing his palm over the slick head to get some lube, then tightened his hand, stroking Mike in one long line that made his breath catch sharply.

  “Do that again.”

  Danny obliged, matching the rhythm of Mike fucking himself on Danny’s cock, losing himself in the sensations, the burn of his building orgasm in his muscles, his spine.

  “Want to fuck you,” Mike murmured. “Want to—your dick in my mouth, Danny, I want to suck you, I want you to suck me, want to fuck your face, your mouth, you’ve got the best mouth, Danny, I swear.” He kept going, like a direct line to Danny’s brain, the images building behind Danny’s eyes as Mike spun out the fantasies in a voice that sounded exactly like sex.

  It didn’t take long for Mike’s cock to twitch in Danny’s hand, for his words to switch over. “I’m gonna, Danny, I’m close, I’m going to come, Danny, Danny, Danny…”

  Danny felt Mike’s ass clench around his cock, heard Mike’s low groan as his orgasm started to hit him, and that was all it took for his own to crash over him, sharp and hot, leaving him panting and spent. Mike had collapsed on his chest at some point, only the head of Danny’s cock still inside him, both of them breathing heavily and sweating.

  “Fuck,” Mike said, low.

  “What you said,” Danny agreed. He tilted his hips slightly, encouraging Mike to pull the rest of the way off, then took care of the condom.

  Mike didn’t move, his head resting on Danny’s shoulder, his eyes closed. If past experience was anything to go by, he’d be out in the next five minutes. Danny wrapped his arms around Mike, pleased when Mike made a happy sound and snuggled further into him. The apartment would get cool when the sun started to set, but they had a couple of hours yet, so Danny didn’t bother with the covers.

  Instead, he ducked his head a little, pressing a kiss to Mike’s forehead. “Welcome home, sailor.”

  MY FRIEND ZEKE

  Martin Delacroix

  Let me tell you about my best friend Zeke. And let me tell you what he did for me.

  I’ve known I was queer since I was twelve. I never dated girls; their bodies didn’t interest me. During high school, my sex life was a tube of jelly and my right hand. I kept my feelings a secret from everyone but Zeke. I didn’t tell him until our senior year. My voice shook when I broke the news, but he handled my revelation with typical aplomb.

  “You’re gay?”

  I nodded. “I know it’s a shock, but—”

  “No problemo, Andy. If I meet any cute guys, I’ll send them your way.”

  That was Zeke for you: he didn’t judge. Six foot three and sinewy, Zeke’s rust-colored hair, riot of freckles and big smile disarmed people.

  Everyone loved Zeke.

  We roomed together at University of Florida. Zeke dated a nice sorority girl, while I hooked up with guys through the Internet.

  “Anytime you need privacy,” Zeke told me, “just say so and I’ll make myself scarce.”

  I took Zeke up on his offer, several times. But guys I met online were not looking for relationships. These were always one-time encounters—wham-bam—and nothing else. As my second year of college drew to a close, I felt lonely and terribly frustrated.

  “I don’t get it,” Zeke told me when I explained my situation. “You’re a nice guy, and good-looking, too.” He ruffled my blond hair. “Most guys would kill for your dimples and blue eyes; the girls always talk about them when your name comes up. Face it, Andy: you need a boyfriend.”

  I bobbed my chin; I knew Zeke was right. I wanted a guy I could hold in my arms at night—badly—but where could I find one? I told Zeke, “I’ve tried two years now, without any luck. It’s not as easy as you think.”

  Zeke shook his head and pointed a finger. “Maybe I’ll find a guy for you.”

  I made a face. His remark sounded nonsensical.

  Come on, I thought. How would you do that?

  “Zeke,” I said, “I don’t know anything about sailing. Can’t you find someone else?”

  “There’s no time. The boat has to leave Eleuthera within five days. Otherwise, my dad’s stuck with Bahamian duty tax: six thousand dollars.”

  “I’d like to help, but—”

  Zeke waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll teach you everything you’ll need to know. It’s not hard, plus my cousin will be on board. We’ll do four-hour shifts at the helm—a piece of cake. Dad will pay us each five hundred dollars; he’ll finance the food and beer, too. How can you say no?”

  Zeke’s dad owned a marina in Lauderdale. Once the boat was there, he’d refurbish it inside and out. Then he’d sell it for a profit.

  “It’s a forty-six-foot, ketch-rigged Morgan with a center cockpit,” Zeke told me.

  “A ketch what?”

  Zeke rolled his eyes. “It has three sails.”

  He and I were home on summer break, with our sophomore year behind us. The economy was in deep recession, and temporary jobs for college kids were nonexistent. I flexed my fingers. The thought of sailing in open water frightened me, but…

  Come on, chicken shit. Five hundred bucks with no taxes taken out? Do it.

  I drew a breath and released it. “All right, Zeke. I’ll go.”

  Our flight from West Palm Beach to Eleuthera took about an hour, but it seemed like five. I was scared shitless the entire trip. Our aircraft was a twin-engine prop model, with eight passengers and a pilot not much older than me. Every few minutes, the plane lurched up and down like an elevator out of control.

  “We’re hitting warm air pockets,” Zeke said. “You’re completely safe.”

  Keeping my eyes closed, I squeezed my armrest
s and prayed I wouldn’t puke. Would the seasickness patch I’d stuck behind my ear actually work?

  Thanks a lot, Zeke. This is just great…

  Zeke behaved like he was sitting on his dad’s Barcalounger back in Fort Lauderdale. His long limbs sprawled here and there. He yakked with other passengers like he’d known them all his life. Like I said: everyone loved Zeke.

  From the air, Eleuthera looked like a crooked eyebrow. The airport in Governor’s Harbour was nothing more than an asphalt strip and a one-story cinder-block building. Two customs officers checked our passports; then they pawed the contents of our bags before waving us through a pair of glass doors. Outside, in hot sunshine, a row of unmarked taxis waited for potential passengers. Drivers smoked or played cards on their trunk lids.

  A grizzled black man missing most of his teeth drove us northward on Queens Highway, a two-lane road peppered with potholes. We encountered little traffic, just an occasional truck or car. The cab was a twenty-year-old Chevrolet station wagon with missing hubcaps, a cracked windshield and no air-conditioning. Warm air rushed through the car. I squirmed in the backseat while sweat trickled down my ribs. Up front, Zeke chattered with the driver like the two were old buddies.

  I’d expected Eleuthera to look like pictures I’d seen of Bermuda and Nassau: pink hotels, traffic cops on pedestals, white sandy beaches and coconut palms. Instead, the island was hilly and sparsely populated. We passed a dairy farm, then a pineapple plantation. Forests of slash pines and Australian pines grew on both sides of the highway, groves of sea grape as well.

  We crossed a narrow concrete bridge where a pass split Eleuthera in two. The driver stopped for a moment so we could study the divide. He called it “Glass Window.” To our left, the turquoise Caribbean was as placid as bathwater. But on our right, the Atlantic frothed and pitched; its hue was close to cobalt. Waves struck craggy palisades, sending plumes of salt spray high in the air. A cool breeze swept through the taxi; it smelled fresh and briny. I looked up at the sagging headliner and drew a deep breath. For the first time since we’d left Florida, I felt myself relax.

  Okay, Andy: maybe it’ll be okay.

  The plan was simple: Zeke, his cousin and I would sail the boat from Bottom Harbour, in north Eleuthera, to Fort Lauderdale—a four-day trip. Zeke’s cousin was already aboard ship; he had stocked the larder and purchased alcohol. Our taxi left Queens Highway. The driver turned onto a narrow crushed-shell road bisecting a stand of Australian pines. The trees were so thick I couldn’t see anything but needles and bark to either side of us. I felt like we were in a tunnel. The road was bumpy and our taxi pitched and squeaked. Again, my stomach felt queasy.

  Please, god: let me stand on solid ground for ten minutes.

  When we finally emerged from the pines, I squinted in the afternoon’s brightness. A dozen sailboats bobbed in a calm body of turquoise water, protected from the Atlantic by a rocky island. The boats all looked the same—white fiberglass hulls, aluminum masts, sails shrouded in blue canvas—but only one had three sails.

  I pointed. “Is that ours?”

  Zeke nodded.

  The taxi left us at a small marina with a concrete dock and diesel fuel pump. The proprietor had a beer gut, a ball cap and a scar like a centipede on his stubbly cheek. A British accent flavored his speech. Once we’d identified ourselves, he pointed to a fiberglass skiff tethered to the dock.

  “Load up your gear, lads. I’ll ferry you out.”

  The skiff’s outboard engine chugged and sputtered as we crossed the harbor. The water’s clarity amazed me; I saw an orange starfish twenty feet below the surface as clearly as if I held it my hand. The bottom was sandy and as white as table sugar.

  “Unlike Florida,” Zeke explained, “the Bahamas don’t have rivers dumping silt into the ocean. The water’s never cloudy here.”

  Up close, the Morgan was far bigger than I’d expected—you could’ve thrown a party for thirty on its deck—but the fiberglass hull was heavily oxidized. The canvas sail covers and cockpit enclosure were all sun-bleached; they bore numerous patches. The teak trim looked weathered and rust flecked the chrome brightwork.

  Zeke clucked his tongue and shook his head.

  “Dad’ll have his hands full with this one.”

  A slender, dark-haired guy emerged from belowdecks. He looked the same age as me and Zeke and wore only board shorts. I saw dark hair in his armpits when he greeted us with a double-handed wave. After we boarded with our gear, Zeke made introductions while the man with the beer gut chugged away in his skiff.

  “Andy, this is my cousin, Paul. Paul, this is my best friend, Andy.”

  We shook. Paul’s eyes were emerald green, his brows thick and dark. His voice was deeper than mine or Zeke’s. Stubble dusted his chin and cheeks, and his teeth looked like piano keys. When he smiled, it seemed as though someone had switched on a high-wattage lamp. Like me, he was half a head shorter than Zeke.

  “Paul goes to Emory University,” Zeke had told me during our flight. “He’s a nice guy, and smart. You’ll like him.”

  I surveyed Paul’s lean torso, thinking, How could I not like him?

  Paul pointed to an ice cooler. “You guys want a beer?”

  Moments later, we sat in the cockpit, shaded by canvas. A light breeze cooled my brow while I sipped from a can of Beck’s. Zeke and I had both shed our shirts, and I noted the difference between Zeke’s beefy physique and Paul’s slender frame. If Zeke was a bull, Paul was a gazelle. Zeke’s calves were carpeted with rust-colored fuzz, while Paul’s were dusted with dark and delicate hairs; they reminded me of raindrops, cascading toward his ankles. I stole a glance at his crotch. His cock bulged in one leg of his board shorts and I felt a stirring in my groin.

  Okay, Andy: behave. This cruise isn’t about sex.

  I shifted my gaze to the horizon while Zeke and Paul conversed. Paul had flown down from Atlanta two days before, connecting through Miami. He’d brought a cooler packed with chicken, beef, pork and dry ice. “I’ve heard you can’t buy decent meat on this island.” He’d bought the rest of our provisions in Governor’s Harbour: fresh fruit and vegetables, rice, pasta, and beans, and plenty of beer and wine.

  “We’ll eat simply,” Paul said, “but well. Nobody’s going hungry or thirsty on this voyage.”

  After we’d finished our beers, Paul led us belowdecks to stow our gear. I’d never been on a sailboat before, and the Morgan’s roomy accommodations surprised me. Right away, I learned nautical vocabulary. The boat’s “beam”—its broadest point—was nearly fifteen feet. A “master stateroom” with a queen-size bed was “aft,” i.e., at the rear of the boat. The “forward v-berth” slept two persons on separate mattresses. The galley kitchen had a double sink, propane stove and “twelve-volt” refrigerator. The main “head” had a shower, tub, sink and toilet. Another “guest head” was a half-bath. The dining area—or “mess”—had booth seating for six. Storage cabinets and closets were plentiful, and all the woodwork was lacquered teak.

  Okay, the carpet was worn to the weft in places; the drapes were faded. The upholstery bore multiple stains and looked like something from my grandma’s house. But our quarters were spacious and bright nonetheless. Already I felt better about making “the crossing,” as Zeke had called it, to Fort Lauderdale.

  We drew straws, using uncooked spaghetti noodles, and I won the right to occupy the master stateroom. I stowed my gear there, then I fell onto the mattress, face-up. Fresh air entered through an open hatch above me. Folding my arms behind my neck, I watched fluffy clouds float across the azure sky while the boat rocked from side to side.

  Not bad.

  Paul stuck his head through my open doorway.

  “Comfortable, Andy?”

  I grinned and nodded.

  Paul turned down one corner of his mouth. ‘“If you’ve survived Zeke’s snoring two years, I guess I can handle it four nights.”

  I chuckled. Poor Paul.

  Zeke’s nighttime rumblings wer
e legendary. In high school, a buddy had nicknamed him “Mr. Chain Saw” during a camping trip. When Zeke and I got to college, it took a month before I could sleep soundly in our dorm room, and that was using earplugs.

  I spent the remainder of our first afternoon on the Morgan’s deck, learning names of shipboard equipment: mainsheet, roller furl, winches and winch handles, running lights, and booms. I grew acquainted with the wheel, throttle and gear shift. Paul did most of the talking, and I found myself growing more charmed by him as each hour passed. I loved the sound of his voice and the way he gestured with his hands when he spoke. He was self-assured and purposeful, but friendly. I liked the way his wavy hair fell across his forehead and covered the tops of his ears.

  Our dinner that night was baked chicken with rosemary leaves, wild rice and snow peas—all prepared by Paul. He served it with a jug of cheap chablis that burned the back of my throat on the first sip. Paul sat next to me in the mess; he smelled of soap and shampoo from his evening shower. During the meal, more than once, his knee touched mine. On each occasion, he left it there a while, and the first time this happened, I sprang a wicked boner. My hands trembled and my armpits moistened.

  Ay-ay-ay, watch yourself, Andy.

  Zeke and I did the dishes. Then all three of us sat on deck in the cockpit, passing the chablis jug between us and gabbing in the darkness. All around us, lights shone through ports on neighboring boats. A breeze blew; the air smelled fresh and clean. The Morgan rocked and our booms creaked while Paul spoke of Emory and his life in Atlanta.

  “The school’s tough—I study six hours a day—but I like it there. Atlanta has so much to do: clubs, professional sports, great restaurants. And Lake Lanier’s a fun place to spend a warm day. Sometimes, a group of us will rent a pontoon boat and we’ll party like fools.”