Best Gay Romance 2009, page 16
When he finished high school he went north to pick tobacco. Other boys went to college, some were drafted into the military, but after that initial summer he returned to his hometown. He came back because he desired the beach. But he did not stay long. With his tobacco money he traveled the coast and sampled the dunes. For years he would work a season on the farms and then return to explore the Florida coast. He dove naked for sponges with Greek immigrant boys in Tarpon Springs. Miami was a glorious city of light and breeze. He drifted to Key West and drank his money away and played with other boys in the surf, their backs to Cuba, laughing that if there were a nuclear war they would have the best tans in the world. When he ran out of money, the bar where he spent it all gave him a job and he waited tables and learned the secret language of queens and realized it would never be very useful to him: he didn’t go to the movies. He didn’t like opera, preferring music he could twist to at clambakes. He loved the sun and a good day was one where he never wore shoes. A shirt was something unbuttoned at night, loose, slipping off the shoulder as a sailor embraced him while they were both knee-deep in the midnight surf.
He was working as a fisherman on a trawler off Cape Canaveral and witnessed an early morning moon launch. A group of drunken men beat him up in Daytona. He drifted toward the Panhandle and danced with beery Air Force officers in Pensacola who would pull him into hotel rooms and parade their muscles for him or lie awkwardly on their stomachs and await an assault he would resignedly deliver, and not one of them kissed him in the moonlight like Key West boys. Still, he kept what epaulets and undershirts he could secret away. While working in a rough bar in Apalachicola, making no money and drinking too much, he wondered if his life might be too much without direction.
Mornings he would go for walks on St. George Island. St. George was a magical barrier island where high sugary dunes erased the road on blustery afternoons. The heavenly whiteness of the sand blinded first-time visitors. Scrub and sea oats were sparse, the shifting sand was all. One morning he witnessed a porpoise turning in the surf, glistening purple in the weak dawn light. The perfect circle of his being slid from view only to rise farther down the beach. And then another emerged by its side. They moved with an easy and aimless joy. A third appeared and he thought, “And so it goes.”
He found himself back in his hometown and was surprised that his parents were smaller than he remembered, their hair whiter, the wrinkles on their faces deeper. He washed boats at the marina and walked the shore. Men still gathered behind the same dunes, and he went to them regardless of looks or age. He wanted to roll through the world the way dolphins spin through the sea and was happy to meet anyone who wanted to play in the sun. There was a sadness to living in his hometown, though. Classmates and the older people who knew him as a boy needlessly pitied him, judged him, and he always noticed the same thing—they were pale and tired. Beautiful new homes, fast cars, but rote lives. He wanted to roam again but felt a new sense of duty toward his parents and reluctantly stayed.
He met Dag on Lido Key one summer, a massive shadow against a majestic sunset, orange curls and purple curtains that billowed behind black clouds. Dag approached; both of them were standing in the water, older but fit, deep tans painted them still-young. The silver dog tags bouncing off his chest signaled potential danger. He turned to study the sunset as the other man stood beside him. They stood so still tiny fish schooled at their feet. Finally the man said, “It’s moments like this, the stillness, the setting sun. You can really feel the earth under your feet move.”
With that a wave larger than the previous slapped their thighs. They staggered and laughed and walked back to shore together.
Dag lived on the beach, in a house on stilts, a house big enough for both of them; he let that be known their first night together. And that first night was different. They joined on the bed with the sliding glass doors open, the sound of the sea matching their rhythm. He lapped the sweat off Dag’s neck as he thrust above him. He stayed the night. Dag had a sailboat and the next day they sailed on Sarasota Bay.
They lived together from that point on. He worked a simple job in a gift shop near the shore. Dag owned a construction company and regretfully built the mansions that were swallowing the southern wilderness of Turtle Beach. Dag helped him bury his parents and sell the small home he had grown up in. Dag taught him to sail. Their travels were always to hotter climes, exotic islands and untamed coasts. They kept each other strong, running on the beach, cooking for each other, driving out to the orange groves to pick their fill, catching fish off the pier.
The old man remembered the beautiful morning they last went sailing. The seas were rough but the wind gave them great speed. With the wind in his face he was thinking back to when they had first met, and then a dark shadow lifted them. Instantly, he knew the angle was too aslant. They would not be able to right themselves. They were going over. He looked for Dag at the tiller and saw that he was lost in thought, looking back toward the shrinking city on the bay. He tried to shout a warning but water filled his mouth and he was over. Plunged into a harsh white swirl, he panicked and lost sense of which way was the surface, which the bottom of the sea. But he kicked and clawed and finally emerged to sputter and gasp and ache for Dag, who was nowhere to be seen in the pitch of the waves. The underside of the boat bobbed benignly, a tatter of sail spread beside it. Distantly, the back and arms of his lover dipped beneath a wave. He swam, and when he reached him rolled him over. His head lolled back, too loose on the strong neck that had always been an anchor of sensibility. The old man recalled the fear and hopelessness and then the struggle to bring the body to the overturned boat; the Coast Guard; the long night in the empty house. He put Dag’s ashes in the sea and kept only a cutting of the sail.
Years of wandering followed. He retraced his youthful voyages south and nearly drank himself to death in Key West. One hungover morning he lumbered onto the pier and looked at the ocean, hoping to draw some sense of peace from the expanse of undulating indifference, when he spotted, far away, a pod of dolphins. They broke the surface irregularly, yet he imagined that underwater they spun with the happy homogeny of a Ferris wheel. And he realized Dag would want him to whirl rather than drown.
He spun back to Lido Key and sold their beachfront home. He danced with devil-masked hustlers at Mardi Gras. He shielded his eyes from the sun, prone on the beach of Baja, as he watched determined surfers cut through majestic ocean. Boys who never came ashore, forever bobbing in the surf, awaiting the perfect wave; occasionally he would find one of their socks stuffed in an overturned sneaker and slip it into his pocket. The old man whirled his way through Asia and tucked the last of his money into the white underwear of grinning Thai boys.
Back in Fort Lauderdale, he tended bar and grew old in the sun. He drank more and more and wandered the shore and watched the sun set and sometimes fell asleep on the beach and woke with the rising sun, happy to at first be unsure on which shore or island he had just slept. He would look out at the sea and think of Jimmy, of Dag, the untouchable boys of Baja, the very touchable boys of Phuket and Pattaya, Key West at night, sailors and soldiers, the arc of a rocket reaching out toward the moon. Men and boys rolled through his memory merrily like dolphins in the surf.
Canvassing the beach for driftwood, he pulled sundry boards back to his shabby bungalow and quietly assembled a raft. He sat on the porch and sewed. He stitched together the coveted underwear and patches of T-shirt and scarves and such. He lovingly mended these scraps into a haphazard sail. When he pushed his rickety craft into the water the morning sun was behind him; the colored quilt of the sail lit up like the wings of a dragonfly, ephemeral and fragile above the waves, but soaring nonetheless.
THE BAKER
Neil Plakcy
Monday morning, on my way to the unemployment office on Miami Beach to register, I decided to treat myself to a chocolate croissant from the little French bakery around the corner from my apartment. I was about to start tightening my belt, finances-wise, but I figured I could afford one last small indulgence.
I entered the bakery, my senses immediately assaulted by the smell of fresh bread, the rows of beautifully decorated pastries, and the French reggae music playing softly in the background. The bell over the door tinkled as I entered, but the heavyset French-woman who normally waited on customers didn’t appear.
I scanned the bakery case in front of me. What, no chocolate croissants? Oh, man. What a disappointment.
Then the baker himself appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray of mixed breakfast pastries, including the pain au chocolat I was jonesing for. “Sorry,” he said. “My clerk, she has left me. I am all alone here.”
He was about my age, late twenties, and about my height as well, just over six feet. But there the similarities stopped. He was broad-shouldered and beefy, with big hands and a broad smile. He wore a white chef’s coat with the collar turned down, already spotted with what looked like raspberry jelly, and a white toque.
“Are you hiring?” I asked. “I haven’t worked a register in a couple of years, but I spent four years while I was in college working at fast-food places.”
He quizzed me for a few minutes about my skills, and then said, “You are a gift from God. How soon can you start?”
“Now?”
I stepped behind the counter and he grabbed me in a big bear hug, kissing me on each cheek. My body tingled, and my cock stiffened almost immediately. Embarrassed, I backed away, as the bell over the door rang and a customer entered.
My shift was seven to three. The other clerk, who came in at one, spent her first two hours in the tiny office next to the kitchen, ordering supplies and paying bills. By the time she relieved me, my feet hurt, my shoulders ached, and I wanted to luxuriate in a hot bath for hours. But it all went away when the baker, whose name was Jean-Pierre, hugged me again and kissed both my cheeks.
“How can I thank you,” he said, his French accent making each word as sexy as a proposition. “I know! I will cook for you. Dinner, tomorrow night.”
“Okay,” I said, as he released me. My dick had popped back up and I tried to turn away as fast as possible so he wouldn’t notice.
Back home, naked in a tub of hot, lavender-scented bubbles, I had only to remember the baker’s embrace and I was instantly hard again. I closed my eyes and jerked myself to orgasm, remembering the scent of flour and lemon that surrounded him, the touch of his lips against my cheek. In my head I heard him murmuring soft French words as my body shook and milky white cum spurted out of my dick.
The next morning I wore sneakers with thick white socks to cushion my feet. Jean-Pierre unlocked the door for me, greeting me once again with a big bear hug and a kiss on both cheeks. I felt my whole body glowing with his touch—and the memory of my bathtub adventure the afternoon before.
We chatted off and on as he baked. He was excited about the meal he was preparing for me that evening, and he kept popping out of the kitchen to ask if I liked oysters, spinach, chicken, mushrooms, garlic. With each new ingredient, with each time I saw his shining eyes and the sexy triangle of flesh where his collar folded over, I came closer to orgasm.
He lived in an apartment above the bakery, he said. Very convenient when it was time to start baking, at four in the morning. No commute.
I left at three, promising to return that evening at seven. I lounged in another hot, lavender-scented bath, but this time I wouldn’t touch myself at all. I didn’t think Jean-Pierre was gay, and didn’t expect anything to happen—but I wanted to leave myself in a heightened state of expectation anyway.
After my bath, I stood in front of the mirror examining myself. I hadn’t had a serious boyfriend for a year or more; I’d worked too hard at my last job, and all I had the energy for was the occasional bar pickup. But I’d kept going to the gym, and my body was toned and sexy: muscular calves and thighs, slim waist, seven-inch cock nestled in a patch of wiry, black pubic hair, six-pack abs, nicely defined pecs and biceps. If nothing happened with Jean-Pierre, I might head over to one of the gay bars on Lincoln Road and see if any of the available hunks floated my boat.
I pulled on a pair of Ginch Gonch briefs decorated with fruits and vegetables, a form-fitting black T-shirt, and a pair of khaki pants that accentuated my butt. Promptly at seven, I was ringing the bell at the back of the bakery.
Jean-Pierre was delighted to see me. He engulfed me in another of his big bear hugs. He took my face in both hands, kissing me on each cheek, and then, unexpectedly, on the mouth. Though the kiss was brief, his full, moist lips sent a jolt of electricity through me. Then he turned and bounded up the stairs to his second-floor apartment, leaving me to wonder if his ebullience was simply French, or something more.
I also got a great view of his ass as I followed him up the stairs. Without the white chef’s coat to cover it, I saw two round globes gripped by a pair of form-fitting jeans. I liked what I saw.
“You must sit here,” Jean-Pierre said, when I entered his apartment. He stood by an oak table, pointing at an armchair covered in a colorful Provencal fabric. “You like white wine, yes?”
I said yes, and he filled a stemmed glass for me. “Appetizers in one minute, please,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen.
I looked around. The impression was of a French country farmhouse: an oak armoire opposite a black metal baker’s rack; curtains and cushions in the same blue, white, and green floral fabric as my chair. The air smelled wonderful: roast chicken, lemon, and a host of other fragrant aromas. Jean-Pierre reappeared, carrying a tray of oysters Rockefeller, which he placed before me with a small bow.
“Smells heavenly,” I said, as he sat down opposite me.
He wore a blue-and-white-striped shirt, the kind French sailors wear, short-sleeved and open at the neck. I eyed his muscular arms and large hands as he dished out the oysters. But when I tasted the first one, I forgot everything but their orgasmic taste. “Mmm,” I said, and sighed happily.
They were silky smooth, accentuated by the spinach and the seasonings. I’d never tasted anything so good. “You like?” Jean-Pierre said.
“I like,” I said.
We chatted as we ate, moving from the oysters to a roast chicken accompanied by a dish of creamy scalloped potatoes and a tray of warm asparagus dusted with olive oil and sea salt. I didn’t think I’d ever eaten such a delicious meal, but Jean-Pierre dismissed my compliments. “Is a simple meal,” he said. “Because I must bake all day. When I have the day off, then you will see, I make something good.”
“I can’t imagine anything better,” I said, and when Jean-Pierre caught my eye and smiled a shiver ran through my body and my dick jumped to attention. Damn, I thought, this guy was a flirt. But again, I wasn’t sure if it was his native Gallic charm or something more.
When he cleared the dishes, I said, “I can only imagine what kind of pastry you’ve made for dessert.”
“No pastry,” he said. “I cannot bake one more thing when I come home. For you, I have the chocolate mousse.”
I sighed once again with pleasure. How could he have known that I considered chocolate mousse the perfect dessert? And Jean-Pierre’s did not disappoint. He brought out two elegant parfait glasses, each filled with mousse and topped with homemade whipped cream.
From the first bite, I was hooked. The texture was thick and silky, rolling across my tongue, and there were hints of vanilla and another fragrance I couldn’t identify. “Is my secret,” he said. He smiled. “But I tell you. Essence of violets. Just a drop, but the perfume…” He ended the sentence by bringing his fingers to his lips and kissing them.
I remembered the touch of those lips against my cheek, and against my own lips, and I experienced another of those electric jolts. I couldn’t spend another minute in suspense; I had to know if Jean-Pierre was anything more than a flirt. I leaned back in my chair and stretched my legs, and with just the slightest pressure, my foot grazed his leg, and I smiled.
Jean-Pierre smiled back and I saw his shoulders relax. “You would like to move to the sofa?” he asked. “I make cappuccino?”
“Yes to the sofa,” I said, standing, and making no effort to hide my boner. “The cappuccino, maybe later.”
I sat on the sofa and looked at him. He sat next to me, and I snaked my right hand behind his head and pulled him close. Our lips met, and I tasted the chocolate, vanilla, and violets on his. Our tongues dueled together, and my dick throbbed. I wanted to eat him up, my second dessert.
He pulled me around so that I straddled him, my legs wrapped around his torso, our dicks pulsing against each other through the fabric of our pants. He gripped me in one of his bear hugs, and I luxuriated in the feel of his strong arms wrapped around me, his chest against mine, our bodies merging into one incredibly sexy organism.
I reached my hand under his blue-and-white-striped shirt and started caressing him gently, as he nibbled on my ear and whispered those same French words I’d imagined him saying the day before. “Quel beau,” he said. “Quel homme.”
I thought he was handsome, too, and certainly a hell of a man. I kissed his neck, and he ran his hands under my T-shirt, up my back, and then down under the waistband of my khakis. I don’t know how long we sat, making out. The rest of the world disappeared. I was just a mass of sensations.
