My summer of sex with Cowboy

Chapter 25

Considering what Bruce said about wanting to pay his way, we have dinner at a pizzeria north of Atlantic City in Brigantine. Lee suggested the place, saying, "They sell draft beer by the pitcher." It's an odd endorsement since he doesn't drink. Well, everybody likes pizza, though, and the other two nineteen-year-olds I'm traveling with do drink beer. They used fake IDs, and we shared two pitchers of beer with two large pizzas. Total cost... $56.00 without a tip because there are no waiters or waitresses. We had to pick up our pizza when our number was called and get the pitchers of beer ourselves. This place isn't big on customer service, but they do a hell of a business anyway. The pizza was not remarkable, but the worst pizza I've ever had was pretty good.

After driving back to Atlantic City, we walk off the pizza and beer on the boardwalk, Bruce acting fidgety. We plan to split off from Cowboy and Lee at the Steel Pier, where they're trying to break a record riding the roller coaster or some such nonsense. Bruce and I are in a mood to get drunk tonight. We're celebrating a new beginning, so maybe we'll also get high smoking those premium joints I bought from Bruce's friend, Bret. 

I couldn't help noticing that Bruce had an especially wary look in his eyes as we walked to the Pier. He's worried about running into Richard or one of Richard's enforcers. As for myself, I'd like to see that little prick with his eight-inch cock and see if it's possible to tie it into a square knot. And Richard's enforcers scare me about as much as Lee does. It's been a while since I've had an opportunity to put someone down in the Navy Seal required four seconds. I'd like to see if I've still got it.

It is sad to say that, as a civilian, the only talent I got from my Navy Seal experience is confidence in physical confrontations. And I haven't seen anyone associated with the pussy boys anxious to get into anything physical, so I'm not expecting confrontational possibilities from that group. Bruce isn't a fighter either, Cowboy's a happy-go-lucky guy, and Lee couldn't beat his mom at arm wrestling, so I'm the only macho motherfucker in this group, which isn't much of a brag. In any case, we don't see any pussy boys on the boardwalk. 

At the entrance to the Steel Pier, I pat Cowboy on his back and say, "While you and Lee are breaking records riding the roller coaster, Bruce and I will be getting hammered and, therefore, we'll be sleeping in tomorrow morning, so you're on your own for breakfast, bro." 

Bruce says, "We also might get high on dope, so if we're not in the hotel, don't call the cops. We're probably just lost." 

We all snicker at that because we've all been there. Cowboy and Lee exchange 'looks,' Cowboy saying, "You guys are gonna smoke some joints, huh? Well, that, um, reminds me. I meant to, ah, you know, mention this to you, Zack. Lee and I have been borrowing joints from your stash, um, now and then. Lee doesn't drink, and we thought, well, never mind that." 

Ha, they were hoping the marijuana would help Lee lose his cherry. Cowboy adds, "Hope you don't mind, Zach."

Patting Cowboy on the shoulder, I go, "I don't mind, bro. Are there any left, though?" Lee looks out at the beach as if something exciting is happening out there. Lee shrugs, mumbling, "At least three, I'm pretty sure." 

Holy shit, they must have been smoking their asses off in NYC—no wonder Cowboy never questioned what the hell I was doing during that whole trip. 

"No problem, two or three is all we want. Bruce has a buddy from whom we can buy more. And it's good shit too." They nod their heads, and I go, "Hey, no worries. You pot-heads have a good time. We'll see you tomorrow on the beach." 

They head into the pier as Bruce says, "Let's walk back to the car on the street. Fuck this boardwalk, too many people." 

"Yeah, sure." Then, on the street, Bruce puts his arm around the back of my neck, telling me about a gay bar in Cape May, blah, blah, and blah. I'm not listening too closely because I'm getting a kick out of his arm around my neck, his hand resting on my right pectoral but not touching my nipple. I think this is Bruce's compromise to the pussy boy walk. The fact that this is also how boyfriends sometimes walk hasn't occurred to Bruce, apparently. 

What occurs to me is Bruce never had a boyfriend before, and while he didn't say this, I'm guessing he's never had a friend either. Not outside the pussy boy group, and only Eli in the pussy boy group. Oh, yeah, there's his druggie friend, Bret, who's high most of the time. What I'm saying is this friend experience with me is all new to Bruce. That's really too bad for Bruce because the friendships made while growing up create memories you'll consider throughout your life. Having friends as a teen is how you form a separate identity outside the family, although Bruce didn't have a family either! Anyway, teen friendships are valuable to a kid's psychological well-being and self-esteem. Bruce never had that going for him, so he resorts to things such as spanking the only true friend he's ever had, meaning me, to boost his ego. That's some sad shit right there.

My friends were mostly made at an early age before meeting Ronny, who monopolized most of my time after that. Still, I had good friends early in my life, although I told Bruce I didn't have any. I meant after meeting Ronny. I did have a lot of friendly acquaintances, though, which almost count.

Anyway, Bruce is trying to adjust. In the past couple of days, his behavior has altered somewhat. I can see that, and it's only been a week since the world crashed down on him, so I'm giving him some leeway. He's flexible, too. Hell, he's had to be, and I expect he'll see how things can change for the better if he gives it a chance. Of course, it wouldn't be a surprise that a person in his position would take advantage of me and gobble up all the financial help he could weasel me out of, but Bruce is doing the opposite. He won't accept anything. He paid for more than his share of the pizza dinner, for Christ's sake. Pride is a powerful emotion.

The bar Bruce directed me to doesn't look like a bar, but it's a gay bar. It's in a strip mall with a big plate-glass front window like a sub shop might have. There is a CD store on one side, a used clothing store called Second Chance on the other side, and a gourmet food shop at the very end of the strip mall. The bar is called 'Yes, It's A Bar.'

It's bigger inside than it appeared to be from the outside, but still not huge. It is a narrow but deep room, with a small dance floor at the back where three couples of middle-aged men are doing various styles of fast dancing to a song I'm not familiar with. I think, but I wouldn't bet my life on it, that it's a song from the distant past as I believe two of the men are doing what's called jitterbugging, a dance from the 1950s. Hmm, this might not be the most rockin' gay bar in New Jersey.

There's a bar extending almost down to the small dance floor on the right and on the left, a dozen tables and chairs, and this joint is fairly crowded. I haven't been in a ton of gay bars because Ronny wouldn't go in one. The times I have been in one myself, I'm always surprised at how many gay men there are. I rarely see recognizable gay men on the street. Well, that's because most gay men are like Bruce and me, meaning they look, act, and sound like average straight men. Of course, if one goes to Provincetown or Fire Island or the like, all bets are off because we're free to be as gay as we want. 

I'm not sure what I even mean by all that.  Bruce and I are pretty fucking gay walking into this gay bar, his arm around my neck and our sides rubbing together. Sweet! We sit at the bar, Bruce next to a nice-looking guy in his twenties who grins, muttering, "What is a beauty like you doing in the military?" 

Obviously, that's a reference to our short haircuts. Bruce says, "I'm not in the military, but I am with my boyfriend, who is extremely jealous, so a word to the wise." 

The guy grins and looks at me, then says, "Thanks for the heads-up, darling." He snickers, then says to his friend next to him, "I've still got it!" They laugh, and Bruce orders shots of bourbon with draft beer chasers, putting his last twenty-dollar bill on the bar. He gets 'carded,' obviously, the fake ID fooling the bartender.

I ask Bruce, "How did a young guy like you develop a taste for shots and beers?" Bruce says, "I don't like them. I'm trying to pass as older so they don't suspect my fake ID." 

I laughed like he was joking because the bartender heard him and glanced at us. Bruce looks young for nineteen, never mind twenty-one. The bartender doesn't look twenty-one either, though, so maybe he's not. In any case, he puts our drinks in front of us and takes the twenty, then slaps down six dollars in change. Oh, a bargain! I've been in bars where the bartender would have said the twenty dollars covers the shots, so how about the twelve bucks for the beers?

That place isn't here, though, so we flash down the rotgut bourbon shots and take our time with the beers. Grinning, Bruce says, "I'm going to fuck you on the beach tonight. Whaddaya think about that? Not that you have a helluva lot of say in the matter?" 

I mumble, "Let's go right now." He snorts out a laugh, saying, "Goddamn, you're a good recruit." 

I do what he's always doing to me and rub his head, mumbling, "I was serious." 

"Can you wait at least until it's dark outside, ya horny fuck?" He's a sweet talker. I could eat him up. I've never been so taken with anyone in my life, not even remotely close to how deeply I'm into Bruce sexually and in a lot of other ways as well. I wonder how much of my infatuation with him results from his dominance as my so-called mentor doing that so-called training bullshit?

Then, unexpectedly, Bruce talks about sports, specifically the Philadelphia Phillies baseball team that he's been a fan of for as long as he can remember. I'm not sure why I'm surprised Bruce is into sports, but I am. As for me, I have a casual interest in sports but never latched onto one team. During any free time I've had in my life, I was mostly thinking about gay sex. I've admitted to being a sexaholic of late, but that's probably because now, I can be one for the first time in my life. I'm catching up on the lost time. As Ronny's wingman, I was with him a lot; it was almost a full-time job. If Ronny's spirit or some such shit is around, I'm sorry, Ronny, but I must tell you that I'm enjoying my life a lot more doing what I'm doing now.

Bruce orders us another shot and beer, which I cover with a twenty-dollar bill. He tells me he wants to dance when we finish these drinks. I'm like, "When did you learn to dance?" 

"In my escort days. There was this one older guy who would pay for the hour with me every week. I'd need to dance with him, and this dude was in his fifties, although an excellent dancer. He taught me to fast dance, but mostly, he liked to do dirty slow dancing." 

I ask, "Naked?" Bruce shakes his head, "Just shirtless, but he had a gross amount of body hair." 

"And that was all he wanted to do, dance with you?" 

Shaking his head again, he mumbles, "No, the last fifteen minutes of the hour, he'd fuck me, then give me a hundred-dollar tip, and that was it until the next week." 

"And you wanted me doing shit like that on the street?"

Finishing his beer, he says, "Yes, because that would have been a hundred and fifty dollars in my pocket and a hundred-fifty in yours. I'd get a cut from the online telephone service plus half of the hundred you earned. You'd keep fifty bucks of that and the hundred-dollar tip. What kind of job do you think street boys could get that pays a hundred and fifty dollars an hour?" 

"Tell me more; it's fascinating." He takes my hand, mumbling, "Maybe later, finish your beer and dance with me. I chug the beer, and then, while walking to the dance floor, Bruce holds my hand, saying, "The music is coming from an old jukebox. I want you to buy us a slow song. You can slow dance, can't you?" 

"Yeah, I can dance. What the fuck, bro?" It's only fifty cents a tune, but there are five songs ahead of the one Bruce punched into the jukebox. I dropped two quarters in the slot anyway. That jukebox is a cool-looking old machine! There's a lavatory off the dance floor, and Bruce holds my hand again, pulling me in there. We take a piss and wash our hands, then Bruce pushes me up against the wall, saying, "I think this is what boyfriends do," and we make out for a couple of minutes. Oh man, I get insanely turned on with Bruce's face against mine. Ending the make-out, he licks my lips, his face touching mine, as he murmurs, "I get off on how submissively devoted you are to me. It's a rush I've never felt before, and I like it." I rub his back, murmuring, "I could eat you up, Bruce. I've never felt like this about anyone before you."

He licks my lips again and says, "We're referring to different emotions here, but they're both positive ones, so that's good, doncha think?" I nod, "Yeah, you're enjoying being worshipped by me, and I'm in love with you. They're quite different emotions, as you've pointed out." 

He pats my cheek, "Good boy, you get it." I snort out a chuckle. "You're smug now, but just wait until I win you over and you realize that you're in love with me, too." 

"You're a dreamer and a romantic, Zach, and there's no reason you shouldn't be, but I'm not. I never had the luxury of feeling secure enough to be, either. But, if that sounds like I feel sorry for myself, I assure you I don't. As I said, I'm a realist... it is what it is."

Our faces are still one inch apart as I whisper, "Would you like me to suck your dick?" 

He snickers, "Yeah, but not here! You like sucking my dick, though, doncha?" 

"Yeah, I do." He grips the back of my neck, "Let's go, boy," but drops his hand and pats my back, mumbling, "I was just fucking with you," and I smirk at him, not sure if he was fucking with me or he again forgot we're not mentor/recruit now. Back to the dance floor, there are two more tunes before ours, so Bruce wants to fast dance. Like most guys, I know the basic fast dance moves, but Bruce is far advanced. Good dancers have a natural, smooth-moving body, which I do not have. I think you're either born with that ability or you're not. Smiling to myself, I watch Bruce showing off, looking so cool dancing. Wow, no shit, he's a terrific dancer. While I'd rather not dance at all, I'm doing my best so Bruce doesn't need to dance alone. Dancing isn't fun for me because I'm not good at it. 

Then a youngish-looking guy, probably in his early twenties, gives me a break by cutting in on me and dances with Bruce, who seems fine. Relieved, I watch them both do some cool dancing and at the end of the record, they chuckle and hug for a second. The next tune comes right on, and they dance to that too, neither of them having said a word to each other during either dance. 

Bruce's song comes on next. It's 'Conversations In the Dark' by John Legend. Bruce and the stranger bump fists, and then Bruce pulls me over to dance to his song. Well, slow dancing with Bruce is more like it. He gets very tight against me, his hips humping ever so slightly, but I'm thrown off at first because he's leading. There have been times in my life I've danced with girls at weddings and graduation parties, etc., and, as the guy, I'd lead. Not so dancing with Bruce, but he leads well, and he's easy to follow.

The side of his face against mine, his hips tight to mine, it's lovely. He dances with his arms around my waist, so I put mine around his waist and move with him as my cock grows hard once again. Bruce smells good, and his slim body is so awesome to hold; this is the next best thing to sex. It's a distant second for sure, but sexy in its own right. 

At the end of the dance, he kisses me, murmuring, "This boyfriend bullshit of yours isn't so bad. C'mon, we're having another shot and beer, then we're getting Bret's joints and hitting the beach." 

I mutter, "Yes, Bruce," I wanted another slow dance with him, but he's the boss. I don't feel right disagreeing with him yet. It's still too soon after that intense training he put me through. More than three weeks of absurd but crazily effective training still resonate with me, more so than I'd ever imagined possible, but as Bruce says, it is what it is.

At the bar, Bruce orders us another shot of the house's rotgut bourbon and a draft beer. I'd complain, except he can't afford a better bourbon, and I'd feel like a snob complaining. I've never had a problem drinking shots, and often I'll drink booze straight... good booze, not this shit. This doesn't go down easily, and Bruce says, "You're a pussy drinking shots, ain't ya?" 

I mutter, "I guess so," and gulp some beer. There's no smoking in here, and I could sure go for a smoke after those horrible shots of horse piss.Outside, we light up Marlboros and lean on my car, smoking. 

Bruce says, "That was fun, Zach," and he takes one of his ridiculously deep drags off his cigarette and, exhaling, says, "When you're in our room getting the joints, remember to get a towel, one of those big bath towels." 

Nodding, I start to say yes, Bruce, but I want to break myself of that habit, so I stutter, "Yes, um, ah, sure. Yeah." 

He goes, "You were going to say yes, Bruce, weren't you?" I chuckle and say, "Yes, Bruce." 

He mutters, "You'd have been a pussy boy star on the street," and he pats my shoulder, adding, "And, you're a likable motherfucker too, but I already knew that. I'll bet you had a lot of friends in your life."

Once I got to prep school, as I said, I didn't make any close friends. Gay sex buddies aren't friends per se, and other than them, it was Ronny's friends we hung out with. I say, "Not really, Bruce." 

He goes, "Oh, that best friend of yours. They were his friends, huh?" 

"You're very perceptive." He mutters, "Whatever that means. C'mon, let's get going." We step on our cigarette butts and get in the car. I'm not drunk; I'm feeling good and definitely capable of driving, but we did have the pitchers of beer with the pizza before having three shots and beers here, so I'm extra careful driving back to Atlantic City. Bruce is very chatty, telling me about another of his three-day trips to Florida being paid for getting fucked on videos, this time by a musclebound black guy from some Caribbean Island. He says the guy had the biggest cock that he's ever had up his ass, and, for the camera, he had to maintain an expression of ecstasy when he was in agony. 

He says, "His cock was as long as Richards, maybe longer, and much thicker. It felt as if he had his big fist up my ass, and he had huge hands. Huge everything; this dude was big. Oh, one time I got fisted... blah, blah, blah. Again, like his other terrible tales of Florida, he seems excited about the experience, but to me, it mostly sounds hideous.

At the hotel, Bruce has another of my cigarettes waiting outside. He says, "Bring a condom too." 

I go up to the suite for the joints and a towel, plus a condom. The condom and towel have me way more excited than the joints. Then, when I look in the cigar box, there are only two joints left. Cowboy and Lee must have been stoned through most of the NYC trip. I imagine them at the Met saying, 'Dude, what's that picture saying to you?' 

Putting the joints in my shirt pocket, I get a condom from the drawer of the bedside table, then grab a big bath towel from the bathroom and head for the elevator. On the lobby floor, I go out a side door and walk around to the hotel's front entrance, where Bruce stands. He grins, "Ah-ha, you snuck out of there afraid you'd get caught stealing a towel." I go, "Bingo!"

We walk the block to the boardwalk, go under it to the beach, and take off our sandals. Bruce hands his sandals to me. I carry his sandals, mine, and the towel as we wander down near the water to avoid a man and woman walking hand in hand on the beach. It's about eighty degrees with a slight breeze and a bright sky. It's a nice night. Bruce says, "I'm a little drunk; how 'bout you?" 

"I'm feeling good, but, yeah, a little drunk too." He puts his arm around my neck again, pulling me against him, mumbling. "I've been thinking I should say thank you more often. It's hitting me how lucky I am that you care about me. That's a new experience. I mean, you're a great guy, Zach, so this is my thank you for everything, my sincere thank you for how you've helped me."

I've got the towel and sandals in one arm and my other arm around the back of Bruce's waist as I mutter, "Do I hear a 'but' in there somewhere?" 

He shakes his head, "Nope, no buts. I appreciate all you've done for me, and I'm sticking with you as long as you want me to, um, provide all the stipulations about money I already told you about are respected. I need to pay my way; that's the only way I can do this without feeling I'm a charity case."

Squeezing him with my arm around his waist, I say, "Well, to your sincere thank you, I say you couldn't be more welcome, Bruce. You really do need to lighten up, though, just a little regarding the money situation. I've got plenty, and I want to share some with you, you know, to pay you back for how I screwed things up for you with the pussy boys. I feel bad about that." 

He starts to object, and I go, "As a loan! I don't mean charity. You can pay me back the way Cowboy did, ya know... when you get it."

He nods, mumbling, "Thanks. I've already borrowed twelve hundred dollars for the apartment, but I don't want to discuss money tonight. Light up one of those joints." We let go of each other, and I light a joint. Taking a drag, I pass the joint to Bruce, keeping the druggie smoke in my lungs, then exhale it and go, "Oh, that's some good shit." Everybody says that, so...

He nods and puts his arm around the back of my neck again; I put my arm around his waist, and we walk down the beach, passing the joint back and forth without talking. When Bruce finally burns his lip on the roach, he curses and laughs like an idiot, then tosses the roach into the Atlantic. I murmur, "I'm high and feeling dizzy." 

Bruce says, "I burned my 'effing lips on that 'effing roach," and he can't stop laughing as if that's funny. His laughter is contagious, and I start laughing at him laughing. That goes on for two minutes before he goes, "Where are we?" 

We're still holding onto each other as I look around, then say, "Past the boardwalk, but I don't know this city well enough to know what past the boardwalk means." 

He laughs at that, then wraps his other arm around me and kisses me. I'm holding both our sandals and the towel, so I only have my one arm around him, but we have a good, sloppy kiss, exchanging spit and getting saliva all around our mouths and down our chins. A two-minute mouth mugging has both of us moaning, Bruce hugging us tightly together. Then, he stops and gets us walking again, wiping his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, and I do the same.

Neither of us says anything about the juicy kissing; we just keep walking. Finally, I say, "I love you, Bruce," and he goes, "I know." Then we walk for; I don't know how long, but the sand is crappy here, not taken care of. We'd probably walk to China if Bruce didn't step on a shell. "Motherfucker!" he yells. 

"What happened?" Bruce is hopping on one foot, then he says, "See if my fucking foot is cut." I drop to my knees and hold his foot in my hand, looking at it closely. Then say, "You big baby, it isn't cut. There's a little tiny bruise under your big toe."

He puts his foot on the sand and walks a few steps, mumbling, "I didn't think it was anything," and we both break out laughing again. He looks around, then says, "Spread the towel." Jeez, I almost wish I was his recruit again because we had much more naked bodily contact when he was my mentor than we have as boyfriends.

When I spread the towel, Bruce lies on it and closes his eyes. Oh no, he's going to sleep! He opens his eyes, saying, "I'm just fucking with you. Suck a good hard boner on me, then I'll give you a hard fucking." 

I nod, and he goes, "You got the condom, right?" Nodding again, anxious now, I unbutton his shorts and unzip his fly, then pull his underpants down below his nuts. He says, "Use your head, Zach. Pull everything down past my ass." 

"Hey, stop yelling at me. I'm not your recruit anymore." He goes, "No shit. You can play along with me, though, can't you?" Grinning, I go, "If you act nicer!"

Oh boy, though, his penis turns me on, and there it is, right in front of me! Making sure the shorts and underpants are not caught under his ass, I walk on my knees to his side and bend over, then lick his cock from where it's lying sideways, pushing it over with my tongue until it's straight down along his pinkish-white thigh. I ask, "Shouldn't your shorts be all the way off?" 

He says, "Yes, but first, lean down and kiss my dick and give little Brucie another nice lick." My cock is already slightly boned-up, so, playing the recruit's role, I ask, "And, is it okay if I take my shorts off too?" 

Grinning, he mumbles, "Recruit, do what you're told, and then ask your question." Bruce was trying to be stern while trying not to grin. Yep, we're still slightly drunk and high, I think. Whatever! I suck Bruce's fantastic penis. Leaning over, my right hand on his leg and my left on his right side, I do a long lick from the mushroom head back to the root and then up to his hairless pubic area and keep licking to his belly button. Sucking on his belly button gives Bruce shivers, and I feel his body shimmer, then shimmer again.

Moving my hand off his leg, I lift his shirttail and continue licking up his belly, my head under the shirt. Good God, he smells so sexy, although, once again, I can't put into words a description of his scent. It's Bruce's scent, one I never expect to smell anywhere else because it's uniquely Bruce's as a bloodhound would confirm if it could speak our language. I lick right up to his breastbone, my head moving inside his shirt, which is no problem because Bruce is very slim, and the shirt is not. I love his skin, his body, and his scent. My cock is like a six-inch brick tube now and still getting harder, pushing up at the waistband of both my underwear and shorts. Christ, it's like I've got that hideous jock on again. 

My tongue finds his left nipple on his very subtly defined pec, and after licking all around it, my lips suck on that tiny nipple until it's as hard as my dick, then I lick across to his other nipple. Then I stop because I feel as though I'm going to cum. Taking slow deep breaths, my olfactory glands swarming with Bruce's scent, I feel dizzy, but the urge to cum lessens. Pulling my head out from inside his shirt, I take a deep breath and look at Bruce. He takes a deep breath, too, and asks, "Why'd you stop? That was amazing. I loved your tongue all over me." 

"I had to stop because I was overwhelmed with arousal. Your body, your, um, the subtle smell your skin has, it's, ah, I thought I was going to cum." 

He says, "That's so weird of you, but I guess I should be flattered, um, somehow."

My head back, I smile and say, "You have no idea. I mean, how would you, but Bruce, you're totally irresistible. It's like the biggest coincidence in the world that everything I could want in a boyfriend I found in you while doing that crazy pussy boy shit. I thought I'd do it for only two days because I was bored then and intrigued by you." 

He says, "I already explained that to you. You were hellbent on replacing your leader, that dead guy who used you to run errands for you. I was the first viable replacement." I say, "I asked you not to talk about him."

Apparently, we're not high anymore. 

Bruce exhales noisily as if he's irritated, then says nicely, "I apologize, Zach. Um, what was the question you asked me before turning my nipples into toothpicks?" 

"I forget now. Oh, I remember; I asked if I could take my shorts and underpants off." 

He opens his eyes wide, saying, "You had to ask that?" 

I mumble, "I was playing along as a pussy boy recruit because you asked me to. It wasn't my idea." 

He sits up and squeezes his dick, which was fairly hard a minute ago. Mine was as hard as a brick a minute ago, too, but it's not now.

Bruce says, "How about if you get that other joint out and fire that fucker up? We're having grumpy hangover symptoms." 

Nodding, I mumble, "Good idea," and then, looking past Bruce, I see two people walking toward us about fifty yards away. They're closer to the ocean than we are, but they are coming our way. I pick up Bruce's underwear and get his bare feet into each opening, then do the same with his shorts, saying, "People are walking this way."

Bruce turns his head, looking back, mumbling, "Fuck, help me pull my shorts up." Bruce goes up on his elbows, I slide his underwear and shorts up to his ass, and he does the rest. We both turn to watch the two; no, there are three guys, and they're drunk, pushing each other into the run-off water from the waves, laughing and cursing and acting stupid.

"Whaddaya think, Zach?" 

I mutter, "Fuck 'em! " Then, using a bit of common sense, I mumble, "On second thought, let's move out of here. Who needs that trouble?" 

Bruce gets up right away, saying, "My exact thoughts: get the towel, and where are our sandals?" From here, the three guys appear to be in the twenty-something to thirty age range, all drunk as skunks and maybe military guys on leave because they have short haircuts. It's not worth standing our ground. It'll be like, hey, what's your problem, asshole? Pushing initially, trying to work up to a fight. I know how it goes, and the truth is, Bruce would get hurt, so fuck it.

I say, "I've got our sandals, Bruce," and I shake the towel getting a lot of the sand off it. Then, folding the towel, "Let's walk up to the street and down the way we came, but on the road or sidewalk if there is one." 

Bruce nods, "Yeah, that's a good idea." He's not a brawler, that's obvious, but I already surmised that earlier.

We take two steps and hear one of those guys yell, "Where ya going in such a hurry fags? We've got dicks you can suck." They probably saw me helping Bruce get his shorts on. Jesus, though, if Ronny ever heard someone yell that to us, holy shit, we'd be running down to them. Those assholes wouldn't know what hit them. Most guys, ninety percent, do not know how to fight. They may have been tough guys on their high school football team, bodybuilders, or the toughest guy in their school... but they're not Navy Seals. It's like a pro boxer against the best gold glove amateur, no contest. An excellent college basketball team against the worst pro basketball team, no contest. Like that...

But Ronny's not here. I say, "Ignore them, Bruce." Now that we're leaving, he goes, "We should fight them. You want to, don't you?" 

Yeah, I do, but I say, "Nope. I want to avoid confrontation of any kind unless it's not possible. And here and now, it is possible to avoid it. Keep walking." 

Bruce keeps walking but feels he needs to say fighting words. "They insulted us, calling us fags. That pisses me off." 

I mumble, "We are fags." We're on the street now, heading back the way we came. The drunks yelled other things, but I couldn't make out what it was they yelled. "Here, Bruce, put your sandals on," and drop both our sandals, stepping into mine. He gets his sandals on, saying, "We should have stayed there. We had a good spot on the beach. Fuck those assholes." 

Way up ahead, at least a mile, I see lights from the end of the boardwalk. Christ, we must have been high as a kite to walk at least a mile and a half on the beach. Wow, that's good shit Bret sold me. It's an excessive price, but it's as good as he said. Bruce is still fuming, and then he yelps like a lady seeing a mouse when one of the drunks, out of breath from running, appears on the street ten feet before us. 
This close, the drunk looks about as old as Bruce. I say to the kid, "You do not want to fuck with me. I'm telling you honestly; I'll put you in the hospital for a few weeks... that's if you're lucky." 

The kid, who is pretty fucking well put together, looks back for his drunk friends, who apparently aren't in the shape this kid is in. Running in the sand fifty or sixty yards to come out on the street ahead of us is hard work, especially considering he's drunk.

I push Bruce to keep him walking, and when I get to the kid, who is still taking deep breaths after his long run, I say, "That run you made getting ahead of us is fucking impressive, dude. Tell your drunk friends when they eventually get here that my friend and I ran away when we saw you." 

He nods, then says, "I didn't yell that fag thing." 

"Good for you. Are you in the military?" 

"Not yet, but I want to be an Army Ranger. My parents, though, they, um..." 

Bruce is a half-block ahead of me by now. The Army Ranger, wannabe, asks, "How 'bout you?" 

I say, "I just got out of a four-year Navy Seal enlistment. It was intense, and I don't recommend it. Go to college instead." 

He nods, "I'm in my junior year at Michigan State. I meant after graduating." 

Shrugging, I mutter, "Good luck to you."

Catching up to Bruce, he asks, "Why didn't you beat the shit out of him?" 

Smirking, I say, "Because my mentor didn't tell me to. We recruits cannot read our mentor's mind." He puts his arm around the back of my neck, as he's been doing all night. I put my free arm around the back of his waist, and he says, "You're a good guy, ain't' cha?"
"There was no reason to hurt that kid."
Completely off-topic, Bruce clears his throat and says, "I never thought I'd tell anybody this, but you're not just anybody, so, um, I'm not nineteen."  

"Oh, sweet mother of God, you're at least eighteen, right?" 

He says, "This is no joke, Zach. I'll be twenty-two next week. When Richard recruited me off the street, I told him I'd be eighteen in three weeks, but I was actually almost twenty. I told him that because I thought he was looking for boys, and I didn't think a guy almost twenty would be considered a boy."

I'm scrunching my face, going, "Are you shitting me? You look sixteen," and he goes, "No, I don't, but I do look younger than twenty-two, I guess. And what the fuck are you talking about? You don't look anywhere near twenty-eight. How the fuck old are you, Mr. Deceitful?" 

"I turned twenty-eight six weeks ago, and the only deceiving I've done in my whole life was to myself and you about me becoming your pussy boy." 

He says, "We've eliminated you deceiving me as if it never happened, but how have you deceived yourself?" 

"I don't want to talk about that, and it doesn't have anything to do with you. My deceit with you, the deceit that never happened, is the only time in my life I did something as low as that." 

He mutters, "Except deceive yourself, which you don't want to talk about."  I go, "Roger that, sir."

We walk another block, his arm around my neck and my arm around his waist. I ask, "Are you really going to be twenty-two? How can you prove that?"  

"Isn't my word good enough?" Hmm, I mutter, "Yeah, your word is good enough, and what difference does it make how old you are anyway?" 

He goes, "I have the birth certificate that I dug out of my old lady's desk 'cause I needed it to get a learner's permit and eventually a real driver's license, which I got six years ago as a sixteen-year-old. I brought it with me from the apartment. I'll show you when we get back there."

We walk another block, then I say, "Well fuck, and I thought I was traveling with three nineteen-year-olds." 

Bruce says, "You are. You, Cowboy, and Lee. Now you have an adult in the mix, too." 

I laugh and say, "Yeah, I guess so, you prick." Then I ask, "Do you have any other lies you'd like to confess?" 

He goes, "No, do you?" 

I mutter, "I can't think of any, so no."

Halfway down the next block, Bruce says, "Let's get back on the beach and smoke that other joint. We need to get back in boyfriend mode."  

On the beach again, Bruce takes off his sandals, saying, "If you don't mind, I'll have one of your Marlboro cigarettes first, then the pot."

The confession about his age didn't change anything. Hell, I'm glad it didn't, but I want to see his birth certificate and six-year-old driver's license. Trust, but verify, ya know? Handing him a cigarette, then holding my lighter out, lighting it, Bruce mutters, "I'm buying our next pack of cigarettes." 

Shrugging, I have nothing to say to that. Bruce drags off his cigarette and then takes my hand, and we walk down to the water and out in the ocean up to our knees. He mutters, "We should have changed into our swimsuits, Zach." 

Christ, holding hands with him gives me chills. And how can he seem so natural, so comfortable doing this handholding? See what I mean about him trying. That's so fucking sweet too.

Standing very close to me, our arms touching, Bruce exhales smoke and says, "Sorry if I was acting bitchy a while ago. Sorry for lying about the age thing all this time. You're the only person in Atlantic City who knows my real age, and I feel goofily good about telling someone. That's weird, huh?" 

I mumble, "I don't know, um, when's your birthday? We'll have a birthday dinner, and I'll get you a present." 

He looks at me, "June thirtieth. Christ, twenty-two seems old, but a birthday dinner and a birthday present, gee, my first ever on both counts." 

I believe him and squeeze his hand, grinning and asking, "Whaddaya want for your birthday, boyfriend?" 

He snickers, "Um, I've never had to think about that question before. It's kinda cool. Um, how about a wallet?" 

I'm like, "That's not much of a present." 

I'm thinking about the present I got on my twenty-second birthday. It was a combination of college graduation and a birthday present because both things happened in the same week. It was a check for twenty thousand dollars in a plain white envelope 'cause Mac, dad, couldn't be bothered buying me something, not even a card. Of course, he didn't know Ronny had already talked me into joining the Navy Seals. He wouldn't have given me anything if he knew that.

Finished the Marlboro, Bruce says, "Let's fire up the joint and get mellow again." I do that, and we smoke it, passing it back and forth, our arms around each other's waist as we slowly walk in water above our knees. It feels surreal after a while that we're clutching each other, smoking pot, not talking, and in-step taking one deliberate step in the water after another. Why are we walking in water?

We're both pleasantly high by the time I flick the half-inch roach into the ocean, snickering and saying, "I hope it can swim." We don't get into laughing fits the way we did after the first joint; instead, Bruce nudges me to walk out of the ocean and, on the beach twenty feet up from the ocean, with nobody in sight, he says, "Spread the towel, Zach." 

His voice sounds funny, and I look at him. Both of us looked very serious, and we did another sloppy kiss and a really nice, less sloppy one. I drop the sandals and towel, and we wrap our arms around one another to kiss and lick each other's lips and mouth and then kiss some more, sucking on each other's tongues until I almost cream in my shorts.

I rub my hand gently on the side of Bruce's face, our eyes locked together as I murmur for the second time tonight, "I love you, Bruce," and then we hug. I don't expect a return sentiment, and he doesn't offer one, although that doesn't change the fact I love him as if there's nothing else in the world that matters. Honestly, it feels wonderful to love someone, fantastically wonderful.

Letting go of him, I pick up the towel, shake it, and then spread it on a flat area of sand. This time, Bruce says, "Let's take our shorts off," and as I do that, he takes his off. Holding our shorts and underwear, we look around for a spot to put our stuff; Bruce shrugs and drops his next to the large bath towel, so I drop mine, too.

He nods at the towel, so I drop to my knees and lean my face against his cock and balls, remembering that this was one of those idiotic familiarity training exercises. Maybe it worked, ha-ha. I mean, what the hell? I get aroused at the scent of his cock and balls and the look and feel of them. The hair removal allows a greater appreciation of how perfectly formed Bruce's genitals are and his penis especially. It is a super turn-on for me to be able to do what I do with them. Bruce has a perfect penis in length, girth, and color; in every way, there is to evaluate a penis, Bruce's is perfect. Rubbing my face back and forth on his privates, my hands holding onto Bruce's smooth, hairless, wet legs below his knees. 

Bruce puts his hands on my head and runs the back of his fingers against my bristly hair, chuckling and saying, "I knew you liked that familiarity pussy boy exercise, Zach. I do, too, when it's your face pressing my dick and balls. And I want you to do everything slowly this time. I want it to last 'cause nothing I've experienced so far in my life feels as good as you and me." 

Well, wow, that's quite an endorsement. I pull my head back, a startled expression on my face, then say, "Thank you, Bruce. Same here." 

He smirks, "See, I can be nice." 

Nodding, I lean in again and, this time, lick up his cock from the mushroom head to the root; then, like earlier, I lick all around his hairless pubic area. I'm doing quick, light licks that bring out goosebumps on Bruce's skin and make him shiver and shuffle his feet a little in the sand.

Licking and sucking on his belly button while rubbing my hands up the back of his long, nicely shaped legs, he shivers again. His buttocks are still not nice to look at, so I don't feel right cupping and squeezing them as I'd like to do. My hands stop rubbing his legs at his buttocks, and then I rub down them. Bringing my face down from his belly button to his genitals, lightly licking all the way, my nose dragging in the saliva I left behind, I lick down the inside of his right leg, his scrotum brushing my cheek, the ball on this side feeling hard and heavy. Jesus, that's sexy! I lick the skin on his leg, inhaling his scent, and then reach down to stroke my throbbing boner.

Oh God, this is so hot! I start licking his balls from the bottom of his scrotum up to his groin and then down and all around until his entire scrotum is wet with my saliva. Taking a deep breath, I give my boner another stroke;  then pick up his very firm cock and, hesitating for a second to stare at it; I then put the head in my mouth and moan, "Mmmmm." Soon I'm deeply into sucking and licking it until it's like a big hard swollen mass lying heavily on my tongue. Bruce has been making quiet moaning sounds playing with my hair, shuffling his feet, and gently humping his hips the way he did while we slow danced together.

Pulling the mushroom cock head out of my mouth, I do long licks up the shaft until his boner is like petrified wood, even harder than that. Letting go of it, his petrified boner drops down to sticks seven inches straight out. Bruce grabs it and moans, "Get the condom." Oh, fuck! I should have gotten it before dropping my shorts on the sand. I tentatively touch his boner, and it doesn't move as Bruce moans again. 

Reaching over and grabbing my shorts, I get the condom out, rip it open, and roll it on his petrified boner. The condom covers three-quarters of this perfect boner, the mushroom head stretching the latex. My fingers gooey with lube, I look up, "How do you want to do it?"  He looks dazed, saying, "Push up on your hands, get your ass up here." My feet on the blanket, bending my knees some, my hands in the sand, I push my ass up, then push it further, going up on my toes. Bruce grabs my hips and thrusts his boner in past my sphincter as I let out a muffled scream of pain.

Bruce has never given much concern to my pain because he knows it's pleasure he'll soon be giving me. Without stopping, he pushes the mushroom head seven full inches up my ass and then pulls back on my hips, squishing my butt cheeks against his crotch, getting his cock in another little bit by compressing my butt cheeks. He lets out a long sigh, "Ooooh, mmmm," while the pain hangs on for me. 

After that first involuntary screech of pain, however, I control myself and begin embracing the pain. It's a strange sensation embracing pain, but it becomes part of the pleasure because it's Bruce causing the pain. Then, that rationalization isn't needed as real pleasure begins percolating from my rectum. And Omigod, how fabulous it feels to be so filled up back there!

The thrusting begins, and we're both going a little overboard with our pleasure moans, but it feels good to moan and just as good hearing Bruce's moans of pleasure, equal participants in pleasure. When Bruce gets a steady slapping rhythm going, "Slap, slap, slap," hitting against my buttocks, that's when ecstasy follows, and I'm floating high up in the universe, thinking about nothing but this sexual pleasure. Bruce's thrusting hard cock going in and out of my ass, his tight gripping fingers on either side of my hips, and the overall sense of totally being dominated by him. He and his fabulous hard penis are as sexually thrilling as anything my wild imagination could conjure up. 

It lasts for an incredible five minutes of unbelievable pleasure sensations, or that's how long I think it was when my climax bullies every other concern out of its way and rushes to a convulsive ending. I squeal, sounding like a cat whose tail just got stepped on as cum blows out my cock, thudding into the towel with screaming streaks of electricity shooting out from my groin, causing me to shake so hard I lose my balance and stumble half onto the sand, my knees hitting the towel my hands in the sand and Bruce's boner pulling completely out of me.

As I'm getting in a doggy-style position, Bruce rams his cock back up my ass and pounds that hard penis back and forth a dozen times before he's tight against my buttocks, groaning, humping, and filling the condom with his spunk.

With a loud breathy exhale, Bruce pulls out and sits back on the towel, a half-inch from my wet little pile of creamy cum that's slowly seeping into the cotton pile. My head is still spinning as I shudder a little at the after-effects of that luxurious orgasm. Bruce takes another deep breath because, after all, he does ninety percent of the work. Slowly, I turn around and get off my hands and knees, my ass feeling squishy with lubricant. Reaching over, I pull the condom off my super top's cock. He gives me a weak smile, mumbling, "Thanks."

Digging a small grave in the sand, I bury the condom, and when I pour sand on it to cover it, I see Bruce's cum drooling out the top. More sand, then Bruce says, "Don't do that. A little kid will dig it up with his or her little shovel and, no, don't do that." I pull it out of its grave, look around, and then get up and walk twenty feet to a large trash barrel near the street. A car drives by and honks its horn, and I realize I'm naked below my waist, but my shirt covers most of my now flaccid dick.

I hear Bruce laughing, then he calls out, "Your dick's hanging out, numbnuts." So much for any romantic hangover from that fantastic sex. I walk back and push Bruce back on the towel, the back of his head hitting the sand, and lie on him, our privates squished together, getting to know one another. Kissing him, I say, "That was an extraordinarily good fuck on my ass, mentor." He goes, "Yeah? I enjoyed it too, glad you liked it." I go, "That was almost how a twenty-two-year-old would fuck me." He goes, "Wait until next week, and you'll get the whole twenty-two-year-old effect." 

Then I relax completely on top of him but need to squirm down so the side of my head is on his shoulder; otherwise, my face would be in the sand. He puts his arms around me, then lightly rubs my back, saying, "That second marijuana joint didn't hit me as much as the first one. How about you?" I murmur, "I don't know. Maybe we were soberer when we smoked the second one." Then he goes, "Hey, you're bigger than me. I should be lying on top of you. Get up." I go, "Yeah, okay," and get off him, then stand and pick up my underwear to shake the sand off it.

Bruce does the same thing, and we get our shorts back on. I pick up our sandals, asking, "Do you think we should leave the towel?" He goes, "Yeah, but put it in the trash. You shot your load on it." As I do that, I again wonder to myself why I don't mind carrying his sandals and anything else we have with us or dumping the condom and towel in the trash. Why don't I mind doing that? I sincerely do not mind one bit.

I'll try to figure that out some other time. As we trudge back, walking on the sand to the hotel, Bruce says, "We didn't get smashed. We were gonna get hammered; what happened?" I shrug, "It felt like I was smashed after that first joint. We'll get really drunk tomorrow night if you want." He goes, "Nah, I just thought we were gonna get smashed tonight." I go, "Well, you're the boss, so you should have decided we'd stay at the bar longer. If you're going to be the leader, you're going to have to take the blame when your decisions are fucked up." He snickers, "What, you could be a better leader?" 

"Not hardly, I'm just saying..." He gets his arm around my neck again, mumbling, "I'm standing you in the corner when we get to the room." I go, "Oh, no. I'll be good, mentor." He chuckles and then squeezes me against him, and we keep trudging in the sand. It sure as shit didn't seem as long a walk down the beach as it seems coming back.

In the suite, we see Cowboy's door is closed. Showering together quickly and bathing ourselves, we get in bed with damp hair. Bruce holds his arm out, nodding his head for me to get over to him, and I do. He drops his arm over me; I snuggle in comfortably and familiarly. He mumbles, "Goodnight," and that's all there is to this day during my summer of sex with Ronny's brother Cowboy. Sex that's happening in ways and with guys, including Cowboy, I never dreamed of... but there it is. 

To be continued...