The beach was empty, save for the seagulls strutting up and down its length. Their proud chests puffed out as they screeched and cawed at each other as they argued over scraps of torn crab in the sands. The tide was low; the water lapped far out, leaving behind rippled and smooth sands. The air hung over me like a blanket, wet and cool. From inland the prevailing wind blew, warm and comforting. From the direction of Long Island, barely visible beneath the clouds across the Sound where the storms still flickered in the distance, the wind would sometimes shift, dropping the temperature by a few degrees. Every time, it raised goose pimples on my skin.
The woman at the gate had given me a surprised look when I'd pulled up and presented my resident's pass. Apparently she was used to bad weather keeping people home, this late in the day. But I'd been looking forward to going to the beach that evening and had been disappointed when thunderstorms had blown through the area during my dinner. They'd disappated to the south while I was washing up, though. The sand was already wet, I figured. And mostly I enjoy walking up and down in the surf, anyway. That could be done just as easily post-storm as in better weather, right?
I was the only one who seemed to think so. That's why, for a very long time, I had the beach entirely to myself. I squelched in the shallow waters and let the sand and the waters of the Sound gush between my toes. I enjoyed the sensual sensation of the wind and my gooseflesh, and of the giddy, almost naughty feeling of being entirely alone in a place that usually was overrun with people. For the better part of an hour, I walked and enjoyed the solitude.
A few people began to venture out before sunset. One older gentleman with a surfboard and a paddle floated out to the deeper end of the swimming area, stood on his board, and began to row himself around the island. An elderly woman came out onto the sands and began delicately to pick her way across, wrinkling her nose every time we passed at the seaweed and storm flotsam nudging against our ankles.
And there was a blonde boy, preppy and pretty, of nineteen or twenty, who hung around the concession area. He nodded at me the first time we passed, his frank blue eyes staring into mine without fear, or hesitation. I'd just met and fucked the Latin kid in the mall the day before; the sight of his eyes staring so candidly into mine made my dick twitch. I walked down to the rocky end of the public beach and waited for a moment, keeping him in the corner of my eye the entire time. I watched as, hands plunged deep into his oversized trunks, he ambled around the picnic area and kicked up sand with his bare feet. Occasionally it seemed as if he were looking in my direction.
Well, I thought to myself. Nothing ventured. . . .
On any ordinary day at the beach it would've been too crowded and hectic to cruise. There wasn't a soul around, though. The concession stand was closed. Only the boy and the old woman and the paddle-boarder, who was now a speck on the horizon, were around. So I walked back toward the boy and the restroom beyond the concessions, nodding at him and staring him in the eyes as I passed.
Those blue eyes met mine again. He was a pretty boy, with tousled, thick hair and fine, pale features. He stared at me soulfully, as if he wanted to say something, but didn't trust his lips.
I must have had my mojo back.
The men's room at the beach is a decidedly grungy affair. The urinals overflow with every flush, spreading water and waste alike toward a drain in the middle of the floor and leaving the cement enclosure stinky. There's usually so much traffic from the beach, though, slopping in salt water and sand that it's tough to tell where all the wetness is coming from. I walked past the single shower enclosure and over to the urinal, my heart pounding, my dick hardening in my shorts.
Like the day before, I wasn't at all surprised when the boy followed me in. I looked casually over my shoulder and caught his glance. His lips parted slightly.
I was about to swing around and show him my hard-on, when without warning, the door to the shower enclosure opened. I hadn't even realized anyone was in there. An older man stepped out—he had to be somewhere in his sixties, and his physique had taken on the general appearance of a pillar candle left forgotten to slump and bulge, on a hot day in the direct sun. His face was red from too much exposure to weather, and he wore an oversized pair of glasses. I'd turned back around at the first sound he'd made, but when I looked over my shoulder again, the old man was standing with his madras shorts around his knees, hovering over a pair of unfortunate black socks pulled up to his calves, and a pair of sandals. His dick, I had to admit, was pretty impressive. I would've guessed it to be a solid seven inches, and thicker than mine by half. The head was so big and bald (like its owner) that it almost looked as if the old man had been carrying a smaller version of himself in his pocket.
The boy vanished. Like a frightened deer, when the man had stepped out of the shower, he'd bolted out the door.
"I've been trying to get him for a half-hour now," creaked the old man, shaking his head. "Pretty boy, too. Think he'll be back?"
I shrugged. Part of me was annoyed that my sure thing had been ruined by the man's unexpected intrusion. Another part of me realized that in this game, just about anything is fair game, and it's unreasonable to get one's hopes too dashed.
"What you got there?" asked the old man. "You want it sucked?"
I like older men. I wasn't too attracted to this one, though. "Nah," I said, then politely lied, "I'm not really into the public thing."
"Okay," he said, still playing with his mini-me. "Thought I'd ask. Hey, you think that kid will come back in?"
I didn't think he would, no, not with that guy letching after him. I was wrong, though. I'd zipped up and was washing my hands with the boy made a return. He stepped into the men's room and peeked around the corner as if trying to figure out whether I'd hooked up with the older man or not. Our eyes locked once more, and his mouth opened. This time, I was sure he was going to say something.
"Hey kid, you want a blow job?" The old man had withdrawn into the shower stall when I'd started to wash my hand, though he'd left the door ajar. Like a perverted jack-in-the-box, though, he popped out at the sight of the boy. "Let me suck your boy dick off."
And once again, I saw the youth bolt out the door. He wasn't running at top speed toward the parking lot, but he certainly would have blown past all the casual strollers on a usual beach day.
"Damn," said the man. "All I wanted to give him was a blow job. Something spooked him. What do you think it was?"
I shrugged, privately rolled my eyes, and exited.
The kid drove past me in a battered old lime-green Wrangler as I went to rinse the sand from my feet under a spigot at the edge of the parking lot. He stared at me, slowing down a touch, and lifted his left hand from the wheel slightly, in a private wave. He then gunned the accelerator and vanished down the narrow access road and back to town. It was the last I saw of him.
Spooked. I'm pretty sure I know by whom.