Rocks

Circa 1979

There must have been a half-dozen of them, standing on one side of the small patch of sand between mangroves where Derrick was fucking me. Some still wore their Speedos, with bulges in the vee-fronts; others were naked and masturbated while they watched.

It had become a weekly bit of erotic theater at the gay end of the Miami beach where we all came to swim and play. I would arrive there at dawn on my ten-speed. Derrick would arrive an hour so later and wade out to jetty’s end where I was diving off the rocks into wave swells. We would hug, kiss and rub against each other before finally coming ashore, both of us sporting hard-ons (Derrick’s was considerably bigger than mine). The six or so men who would soon watch us fuck lined the beach, watching our inward progress. Then, after Derrick grabbed his backpack, they would follow us to the mangroves and our patch of partially hidden white sand. It was “our spot.”

While Derrick lubed up his bare cock (this was before the AIDS epidemic and there was never any talk of wearing condoms) I would get in position on my elbows and knees. Then Derrick would kneel behind me and enter me and we would fuck and put on a show for the curious onlookers. Sometimes I enjoyed it, the exhibitionism, other times I felt like part of a circus act.

Derrick was very verbal and grunted the whole time to my moans. It was if, with the pleasure-sounds we each made, we were batting an oral ping-pong ball back and forth.

“Unh!”

“Ohhhh.”

The first time Derrick fucked me (I was not a virgin) I’d been quite tight. But as the weeks and months went on I opened up considerably. When Derrick penetrated me he went right in, all the way to his sandy-colored pubic hair. He fucked me—each stroke—with his full length, which must’ve been a good seven inches. His circumcised cock was thick as well, uniformly thick from its base to just behind his well-formed mushroom head. He had a beautiful one—a cock you wanted, as a bottom, a submissive, to worship. To give it your all.

Derrick had good stamina as well. He would fuck me for a full fifteen minutes or so, though by the end he was huffing and puffing, as well as grunting. When he finally came he would let out a single cry—a kind of plaintive one, like a wounded animal alone in the woods.

One of the excited onlookers would invariably ask, “Did you cum in him?” And an out-of-breath Derrick would answer by pulling back, and out of me, his glossy cock already beginning to droop. Derrick might give my ass—one cheek—a pat of acknowledgment before getting unsteadily to his feet, but the only true affection he ever showed occurred beforehand, out there in the waves.

Derrick was my height but thicker-bodied. He always sported a few days’ growth of salt-and-pepper beard. It scratched when we kissed. I guessed he was in his early forties, or about twice my age. After fucking me Derrick would stagger down the strand and into the gentle waves, as if to cleanse himself. His stiff walk reminded me, comically, of the Frankenstein monster in movies. I would soon follow, some of the onlookers sometimes reaching out, touching my slender body, giving my just-used ass a caress or fondling my balls. I would wade out as well, and dive into the waves, though keeping my distance from my weekend lover, who preferred, by that point, to remain alone. It was a strange relationship—if you could call it one at all.

In fact I would continue out to jetty’s end again, and resume diving, while Derrick soon waded ashore, dried off, gathered his things and left the beach through a break in the mangroves. Sometimes I would look back and see him talking, briefly, to one of the onlookers, the voyeurs. I assumed they were discussing me.

When I finally came ashore, perhaps an hour later, as the day began to heat up and the sun turn blistering, I would invariably be approached by another man, an older man, who would ask if I’d like to go home with him. To his condo. To his beach bungalow. To his house on the bay...These men were always older, and always made it sound like they were wealthy, quite wealthy.

They would ask me if I had cum and when I said no they would offer to make me cum with their mouths when/if I went home with them. I politely informed them that I didn’t mind (that my balls were still full) and in fact preferred it that way. I was saving it, I would tell them, with a smile.

“For what?” they would always ask, wearing a confused look.

It would still be morning, late morning, when I arrived back at the little two bedroom/two bath flamingo-pink house I shared with my pretty mother in south Miami. She was about the same age as my friend Derrick but looked younger. She had a slender, youthful body.

I had no father. Or rather, he was not a presence in my life. I hadn’t seen him in something like 13 years and, besides that, my mother detested him. She didn’t want him around.

She didn’t want him around and he didn’t want to be there in the first place. So it was a perfect symbiosis. At Christmas a mysterious gift would arrive, that was about it.

Mom would always ask me how the beach was that morning. Fine, I would tell her.

“Was your friend there?”

“Derrick? Yes.”

“He’s your age, right? Another student [at the community college I attended]?”

“No, mom. I told you. He’s one of my instructors.”

“Oh. So he’s older.”

“He’s about your age.”

“I don’t understand,” mom would say skeptically. “Why are you hanging out at the beach with some older man?”

“I told you,” I would insist. “We go to the same beach. We met there by accident. I recognized him, that’s all.”

Another suspicious frown. “What kind of beach is this?”

A shrug. “A regular beach. The same one I used to go to with my [male and female] friends in highschool.”

“What do you do with this...Derrick?”

“Do? Nothing. It’s a beach, mom. People swim. I spend the whole time diving off the rocks.” I’m always anxious to change the subject. Mom is in slacks and a loose-fitting top, her pretty feet with their painted toenails bare. She’s been cleaning house. She has small breasts. “What can I do to help?” I offer.

“Well...you can run the vacuum then do the dishes.”

“OK.”

“Then when I get back from the store you can help carry in the groceries.”

“Sure!” I say enthusiastically. Anything to change the subject.

“What do you want for dinner?”

Despite her pretty face and slender body, mom rarely dates. Occasionally a man will stay over, but nothing ever sticks.

On Friday nights, and sometimes on Saturdays as well, depending, I sleep with mom in her bed.