Chapter 6
Costas was holding to Wade's naked legs with both arms, and once Wade reached down and ran his fingers over the colorful tattoo; Costas laughed at him and slammed his cock in extra hard, so hard that Wade winced and banged his head back against the wall.
He was aching all over by the time the man got done with him. His ass ached from the brutal fucking, his back and neck felt sore from the awkward position.
Costas never spoke. He simply slammed his cock in and out of the asshole until he shot a huge load of come, some of which dripped out and splashed across Wade's thighs. Then the man jerked his cock out and, placing his hands on Wade's waist, lifted Wade down until his feet were planted on the floor. Wade leaned against the wall for a moment trying to catch his breath. Costas stuffed his big cock back into his pants, zipped up his fly, and stuck out one dark, callused hand.
Wade crossed to the sink, got out his wallet, extracted a ten-dollar bill, and handed it to the bored, hustler. Costas turned and left.
After he had dressed, Wade went back into the bar and paid his bill. Several people glanced at him with knowing, mocking smiles; he refused to look at them, refused to be embarrassed or ashamed over the degrading little episode. He had wanted a cock up his ass and he had gotten one -- to hell with everything else.
Costas was sitting up at the bar, drinking, looking as cocky and aloof as ever. He did not even glance at Wade.
Out on the street, the night air felt cool and good on his face; it erased the smoke and the heat and the foul odor of that john. Out on the street, it was as if nothing had happened, as if that quick; frenzied incident in that toilet with a stranger had never occurred. Wade was so drunk that he knew once he made it back to his hotel and went to sleep. None of it would be remembered in the morning, anyway. At least, he hoped it wouldn't be remembered.
He was walking down the sidewalk, telling himself that he wouldn't remember and that nothing mattered. Suddenly somebody was beside him, walking with him. Somebody handsome. Somebody whom he thought he'd seen earlier in the bar, but couldn't tell for sure.
The boy was talking to him and he tried to answer, although he really just wanted to be left alone. He caught the name "Paul", some question about being new in town, another question as to the destination of his walk.
He couldn't cope with it. "Look," he said finally, the words coming out sounding slurred, even to himself. "If you want to fuck, then come on... if not, leave me alone."
The boy stopped speaking. They walked together back to the hotel.
Wade went into the shower. He wanted to wash all traces of Florida off him before making a start back home, all traces of that sad, pathetic, drunken, and meaningless little encounter the night before. It was the first time he had had sex when he could not even recall what the person looked like the following morning. Things had gone too far. He had to go back to Los Angeles and settle things. He couldn't stay here and start a new series of meaningless sexual encounters.
He decided not to even think about facing Rick. Rick wouldn't go anywhere until he knew where Wade was. After all, Wade was his meal ticket. If Rick didn't know anything else in relation to Wade -- except how to turn him on -- he was certainly sure that living with him was preferable to trying to make it on his own.
Turn the whole business off, Wade told himself, until you are back home.
He had just gotten dressed when a knock came on the door. At first, Wade just stood there, not certain, and thinking that the last thing he needed to add to his confusion was to have that silly trick from last night actually show up again.
"Who is it?" he called sharply.
"It's only me," came the reply. "Paul."
Paul. Yes, that was his name. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he just be honest with the boy? Open the door and say sorry -- sorry, but I'm going back to Los Angeles to my sonofabitch lover, and it's been nice talking with you and even nicer being sucked off by you, but just keep your pants on, Paul, baby, because I don't have the energy to make it with you again.
"Wade?" came the voice from outside the door. "Are you going to let me in?"
As bright as the room was with the midday sun glowing on the curtains, it brightened a hundred times when he saw Paul's smile of greeting.
"Hey," he said cheerfully. "You're all dressed and ready to face the day." He glanced around the room a moment and then said, "Let's go get something to eat."
His actions took Wade off balance. He had been sure the kid was going to be hot for more sex and disappointed to see him dressed. Wade was staring at him.
"Is something wrong?" Paul asked. "The way you're looking at me, I thought there was something wrong with my face."
"No, Paul," Wade said. "There's nothing wrong. And there's certainly nothing wrong with your face. It is exceptionally nice to look at."
"Thank you," he replied, and it was a combination of acceptance and appreciation Wade was unused to; it was as though Paul knew he was good-looking and was sincerely glad to find out someone else thought so too.
They stood staring at one another. He was very nice, Wade thought, he wasn't just some silly trick at all.
"I didn't expect to see you again," Wade said. "We were both... well, awfully drunk last night. It's a little embarrassing, isn't it?"
"Yes," Paul grinned, "it is. I didn't know whether to come back or not. I didn't know if you'd want to see me again."
"Why did you come back?" Wade asked him.
The boy shrugged, looked down.
"Come on," Wade said. "Let's go get something to eat."
"You know, it's funny," Wade said. "I spend several hours answering a question, and it ends up that I've asked myself about a hundred new ones."
"Okay," Paul answered, "if you say it's funny, I won't argue."
Wade knew what he meant, but there was no reason to say anything more about it. They had eaten a long and leisurely lunch, then walked, or rather wandered through blocks of sunlit, palm lined streets while Wade poured out much of the story of Rick and himself...
Paul was an excellent listener, only occasionally asking a question which led into more details, and sometimes he would break in to point out some place of interest: a new lust-hotel, a famous shop, a gay bar.
"You know," Wade said finally. "I've been talking about myself all this time, but you haven't told me one thing about you."
"Is that important?" Paul asked with a quizzical look. "You'll be on a plane before the day is over and back in California tonight. What difference will it make if you know anything about me or not?"
They were standing at a corner waiting for the light to change. Wade turned and looked him square in the face. It was like seeing him for the first time. Still an exceptionally attractive young man, but something much more. For a brief instant he remembered him kneeling between his legs in the hotel room, his hand firmly around his throbbing cock, and heard the echo of his words: "I'm going to blow you." Then it was replaced by the actuality of his deep, intelligent eyes looking at him in a way Wade was not accustomed to -- curious, seeking something inside which had nothing to do with sweating, anxious sensuality, stiff pricks, wide-open assholes, white come.
"It makes a difference," Wade heard himself saying. "Because I'm not, going back to Los Angeles today."
"When did you make that decision?"
"Just now."
"Why?"
Wade thought about it for a minute. "I'm not sure I know, Paul," he said. "It has something to do with what I've been telling you about Rick. And it has something to do with you, I suppose. I want to know more about you. I can only do that by staying in Miami."
"What about your job? And your house... and the car you left at the airport? You can't just walk away from everything."
"Are you trying to convince me to go back home?"
They looked intently at one another and then they both smiled at the same time. It was the only answer needed.
"I'll have to make a phone call to Greg today," Wade thought aloud. "He can take care of most things for me. He's the best friend I have."
"Yes," Paul said, "I gathered that from what you told me. It's too bad Rick isn't."
"Isn't what?"
"Your closest friend."
Wade knew the minute they walked into his apartment that it was all Paul. He had picked it out. He had decorated it. He had selected the furniture, the colors. And there was nothing phony, pretentious, or fancy about it. It was masculine without being defensive -- modern without being attention-getting.
Paul carded the bag of groceries he had purchased into the kitchen and then returned to stand in the doorway facing Wade.
"If you like it," he said, "stay awhile."
"I like it," Wade said. "And I know why. The place is simply an extension of you."
"Thanks," he grinned; he walked over to the windows and pulled up the rolled bamboo curtains. "Welcome to the Atlantic Ocean."
The view was surprising. The sun was getting low and great piles of clouds above the blue-green ocean were being tinted with hues of pink and violet. Between the apartment and the beach there was nothing but a few blocks of private homes.
They stood together staring out the window. "I could watch it for hours," Paul said.
Wade turned, standing very close to him, and Paul faced him. Wade could feel the warm touch of his breath on his face, and at close range his brown eyes seemed wider and deeper than ever. Wade was still looking into them when he felt Paul's lips pressing against his own with just enough pressure to cause a dry electricity to flash its message into him.
Paul moved back from him, making Wade feel as if he were being deserted. Wade put a hand against the flat of his chest.
Then he began to unbutton Paul's shirt. Paul stood silent and motionless, as though he were a slave at Wade's command. When the material had parted, Wade put his hand inside. He was slimmer, but more muscular, than Wade had expected. The pectorals flared under his exploring hand; Wade ran his hand from side to side, caressing his skin and feeling the hardening of his nipples. A soft sigh escaped him, but he did not move or try to change the tempo of their contact.
With both hands, Wade pulled the shirt up out of his pants and took it off. Square-shouldered, a bit boyish. Wade opened the waistband of Paul's slacks, pulled down the zipper, and, holding the pants on both sides, lowered them so he could step out of them after slipping off his sandals. Paul's legs were lean, the skin stretched tautly over the sinew and muscle. Although his chest was hairless, his legs bore a smooth, dark; downy covering. When he put his pants aside, Wade drew his hands up along the outer contours of Paul's legs, trying not to pay direct attention to the promised prize which was already right in front of his face.
Paul was wearing jockey-style shorts, probably one size larger than he needed for his slim waist and flat hips. But caged within the pouch was a mound far beyond the proportions his body or his hands might have suggested. And it was growing quite rapidly even as Wade slid his fingers inside the elastic waistband.
Wade pulled the flexible material out toward him, and the fine-sized, column of Paul's cock, freed from its entrapment, rose up sharply to lie against the rigid muscles of his stomach. Its great, flaring head gave more than a hint of what Wade revealed a moment later when he slipped the undershorts all the way to the floor. Paul stepped out of them; Wade put the discarded garment with his other clothes while he stood there waiting, erect and wide-legged and ready for Wade's next move or comment.
Wade studied the splendid body. He could see the full excellence of his physical condition; a body which was a complete unit, well-kept, thoroughly used -- the end result of hard work and natural sports development, rather than concentrated, self-centered efforts. Everything about him was natural, from the full crown of sun-lightened brown hair to the confidently relaxed posture to the upthrust of his swollen cock.
"Where is your bedroom?" Wade asked.
He motioned with his head toward the hallway which led beyond the kitchen. And he stepped past Wade to lead the way.
Walking behind him, Wade had a new perspective on the young man's body. His backside with all solid muscle, high and round, and incredibly sensual, inviting to be touched, kissed, even -- no, of course not. That wasn't his scene, Wade knew that already. Certainly no man had ever put his prick into the asshole hidden deep between those luscious cheeks.
In the few seconds it took to get to his bedroom, Wade also noticed that his soft, smooth tan did not stop at his asscheeks. True, that area was lighter in color, almost had an airbrush effect, toned down at that precious zone. Obviously he had someplace where he could sunbathe in the nude. Wade would have to ask him about it. But that and the rest of the world could wait.
Paul stood watching him as Wade quickly got out of his clothes. Then Wade went to sit on the edge of the bed. Paul walked to where he was sitting, stood with his legs planted wide apart on the floor before him. Wade reached out and softly stroked the cock. "It's so big," he said. "I wouldn't think you'd have such a big cock, for some reason."
Paul only laughed, good-naturedly. "Why don't you suck on it a little while?" he said.
Gently, Wade took the column of hard flesh into his mouth. He sucked on it until Paul was overcome with excitement; they moved onto the bed together, Paul stretched out and extended one arm for Wade to join him. A moment later, Wade was against him full length, chest to chest, belly to belly, leg to leg, their thrusting cocks sparring with each other almost independently of their movements.
The first true joining was their mouths, and the contact became wild, anxious, almost desperate, as they fought to plunge their tongues deeper and deeper into each other and to taste more fully the special and personal flavor of initial passion. And the wonderful struggle seemed to continue for hour after marvelous hour.
As though their joining had resulted in an increased ability to read one another's minds, their mouths moved apart on mutual command, and each began to seek out new areas of pleasure, together and individually. There was no pattern or order to it. They licked and kissed and bit and sucked at ears, necks, shoulders, nipples, arms, fingers, navels. Their lips and tongues and fingers pressed and pulled and touched at hips and thighs and buttocks and backs and calves, multiplying the possibilities of nerve reaction.
Wade had moved into an unworldly state of excessive wonder, unlike any he had ever known. For the first time he was not only aware of the taste and feel and erotic odor of every part of a man's body, but was in tune with the increasing pace of uncontrollable thrill building throughout his whole being.
When Paul's exploration of his body reached rapidly towards his sex organs, Wade had to warn him that he was dangerously close to orgasm.
"Take it very easy on me, Paul," he whispered. "I don't want to come before you do."
Paul's voice came back, thick with excitement. "I'm about to shoot my load, too..." Then he relaxed, but without taking his hand from Wade's prick. He was doing something with his fingers to keep Wade at the very highest pitch of feeling without bringing him over that ultimate crest.