Hotel - Room 707

I think it might have been my last statement that prompted such an immediate response. I was shoved into an ambulance within minutes and taken to a civilian hospital in El Paso with armed police at the door. My parents were both immediately taken to the police station for questioning and were arrested two days later. The girls were removed from the home and placed in foster care. I was in the hospital psych ward for two months, during which time I was kept informed of what was going on with my family by a psychiatric social worker. Apparently the military brass advised Dad he'd better as quickly as possible before a court martial and a reduction of grade which would lower his retirement pay. Mom maintained to the bitter end that she'd never been abused by her loving husband. Dad retired and they moved to Las Cruces, New Mexico, somehow managing to regain custody of my sisters as Mom swore that I'd been a troublemaker since birth. Several of Dad's cohorts spoke in his defense and a few spineless teachers supported their story, chiefly the Moses family. No charges were ever filed against either of my parents. The social workers asked my Aunt Arleen if she would take custody of me but she refused. Good thing; there was no way in hell I'd have stayed with that bitch.

I ended up in the state foster care system, moving from home to home, city to city in Texas. I had a few good foster parents that lasted for only brief times. The bad ones I ran away from on several occasions, only to be brought back by the police. Within the Texas foster care system I became known as a major problem child, a real pain in the ass to my social workers. After having endured years of torment from my own father and after having attempted suicide, I was in no mood to put up with shit from anyone anymore. I became extremely aggressive, getting into fights and brawls all the time. One thing growing up on bases around the world will teach a military brat is how to fight and handle yourself. It's that, or your ass gets kicked every day. I chose to fight and with that background I fought a lot in the foster care system. I broke one foster father's nose after he shoved me against a wall because I beat his natural son to a pulp. His son was constantly grabbing my ass and trying to get me to have sex with him. In another great foster home I killed a Pomeranian dog because he kept biting me and my foster mother wouldn't do anything to control the little bastard. That act earned me a psych evaluation and two weeks in a mental ward before the psychiatrist decided I was not mentally ill; just too aggressive, but he also stated the woman should have controlled her dog. The cunt was dropped from the foster care program. Just one shit hole after the other, foster care can be hell on a kid.

At last I turned eighteen and I joined the army, the only life I really knew, eager to get away. Never once did my family attempt to contact me, not that I wanted them to hear or see any of them ever again. I also made the huge mistake of marrying before heading off to Iraq after completing basic, a marriage destined to end in a nasty divorce before I even returned to the states. After my discharge I moved to New York City and attended bar school. I figured I might try higher education later; much, much later. It gave me a headache to even think about being in another school. I tended bar in New York City until I moved to Clearwater with a buddy of mine who soon left me to fend for myself. That's how I ended up in my current little efficiency apartment.

And that's the story of how I came to find myself on the Clearwater beach nearing Pier 60.

My god, what a fuck ass crowd; the pier was a madhouse. Lost in a haze of reopening old wounds I'd forgotten how crowded Pier 60 gets, particularly on a holiday weekend. Pier 60 is named for Florida State Road 60 that terminates at the pier. It's a hive of activity, the central spot for people at the beach. It has a playground, a snack bar with an attached souvenir shop, and a long fishing pier. There's also a daily event called Sunsets at Pier 60, which includes street performers and musical acts. On the pier itself, there's a nightly display of goods sold by local artisans such as jewelry, candles, and other gift items, most just shit for tourists. On a holiday weekend, it's total chaos and packed tighter than Disney World in the height of the summer. Normally I don't mind so much and I enjoy spending time in the almost carnival atmosphere. That night it was more than I could stomach so I turned around and headed back the way I came, determined to walk as far as I could in a southerly direction.

As I neared the hotel again I saw Matt headed into the surf. He'd really turned into a total stud muffin. He was wearing a wide brimmed white cloth hat and a wild blue pair of miniscule bathing trunks with a pattern that looked like waves with occasional sea green streaks. From my distance his muscular body appeared hairless and perfect. He saw me and waved with a huge smile, yelling for me to join him. I knew he was married but suddenly I wanted nothing more than to have him inside me, to be fucked by him until I passed out. I wanted him so much I could taste it and yet he'd never made a sexual move toward me. I knew that I really wanted to be fucked hard by a military man, preferably older, but Matt would do. Like me, his father had been a military officer so Matt was sort of a proxy substitute. I was torn up inside, doubting myself. It only been a few short months before when I'd had my first gay sex experience and it had been with a retired West Point military officer like Dad, a man who fucked me into total exhaustion and submission before disclosing he'd known Dad. Somehow it had made it even more satisfying and I'd fucked Richard every day the entire week he was at the hotel.

I couldn't figure out the precise reason why I enjoyed it so much. Was it because I knew it would completely destroy my father if he ever knew his son had queer sex with a military man just like him? Dad hated queers and never missed the opportunity to yell it to anyone who would listen. He'd ruined the careers of more than one soldier who he either suspected or discovered was homosexual. Or was it because in a twisted way I wanted to be fucked by the mirror image of the man who had beaten me while I was naked all my life? I'd actually had erections while he beat me a few times, had even ejaculated twice. He'd beaten me until I was nearly unconscious on both occasions determined to 'kill the perversion in me'. One thing was definitely certain. I for goddamn sure was not sorry he was dead, him or Mom, which brought a disturbing question to my mind. Why did I feel the need to be fucked by a military man again?

I walked up to Matt.

"Going in for a swim?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's what I came here for, to enjoy the beach. Why don't you join me?"

"Oh, I don't have my bathing suit on."

"Why does it matter? You're wearing perfectly acceptable shorts. There's no way anything's going to show through them if they get wet."

He was right. I pulled my shirt off and dropped it onto a vacant wooden lounge chair. I grinned at Matt.

"I'll race you in."

Suddenly we were laughing and racing into the gulf waters. We splashed around, enjoying the waves. There's something incredibly peaceful standing in the surf about chest deep, your body being pounded by gentle waves. You completely lose track of the time and the cares of the world just melt away. We stood there in silence until I noticed the sun was getting closer to the horizon. We'd been out for about an hour and I panicked for Matt. Even this late in the day the sun can be brutal if you stay out in it too long. Here I was thinking about getting fucked by him and everyone knows your dick's not going to get hard when your skin's burnt to a crisp. The sun doesn't bother me much and my skin just gets darker. Matt was really fair skinned even though he had jet black hair. I looked at his shoulders and saw the water beading on his shoulders and I hoped it was from a strong sunscreen.

"Matt, you about ready to go in? The sun here can be wicked and you've got real fair skin."

He laughed. "Good idea. I probably don't burn as easy as you'd think I do; all those years of baseball and football in the sun, but I know better than to take chances. My sunscreen's an SPF 50 and I'm wearing a white hat to keep my scalp from burning. I learned my lesson a couple years back when I went to Miami and was out in the sun too long. I ended up in the emergency room and was in hell for three weeks; spent the whole time at home in my undershorts. My hair's thick but it didn't stop my scalp from burning. I couldn't comb my hair for almost a month."

I nodded. "I see that kind of shit every day here. These tourists come down for a few days and leave in pain. Didn't you notice the hotel has little signs by the door when you exit advising people to use sunscreen and limit their time in the sun?"

His eyes widened a bit. "No, I missed it."

"Most tourists either miss it or just ignore it and Mr. Patel says if he had it up in fucking neon people still wouldn't pay attention to it. He puts the signs up though for the occasional asshole that blames the hotel for not warning them they might get burned it they go out in the sun too long."

I grabbed my shirt from the chair and we walked back to the hotel.

"Is it okay if I just come up like this? I don't really feel like stopping by my locker, don't want to see anyone."

"Sure, Rowdy, I've got some stuff you could probably wear while you're in the room but you'll have to use a belt to come down stairs. You're tall and thin. I'm thicker than you. What are you, 30 in the waist?"

"Twenty-eight," I grinned.

"Shit man, you're nothing but skin and muscle. I'm a thirty-two waist and have to work out all the goddamn time to keep from going to a thirty-four."

I looked at his ass not attempting to hide my assessment of his body.

"You look real good, Matt. You keep that body in shape and I see you've got some muscles, too. Your wife must love it."

We'd reached room 707 and he unlocked the door.

"Why don't you grab a shower first and throw your clothes in the sink? I need to make a call and then I'll hang them up on the balcony chairs to dry."

I did as he suggested and I heard him on the phone. I finished showering and wrapped a towel around my waist before going into the bedroom. Maybe I could entice him to make a move first. My penis was partially erect and swung seductively beneath the towel.

"So when does she get to come home from the hospital?" I heard him ask.

As I walked into the room he was sitting naked on the bed, leaned over with the phone at his ear. I could see the black curls of his pubes between his legs but his penis was hidden. His nipples were hard and the size of half dollar coins. I looked at his body as he talked and marveled at how incredibly handsome he was. I felt my erection getting bigger and I didn't care if he saw it.

"Look after your Mama, Nick. I'll be home on Wednesday. And you've got my number if she gets worse. Just let me know." There was a silence as Matt listened to his son and then, "Nick, your Mama's cancer's fatal; there's no way around it. We've talked about this, all of us. You've just got to be the man of the house while I'm away."

His wife had cancer. My cock drooped instantly. I stepped out onto the balcony and quickly put my wet clothes on. We were on the seventh floor and it was doubtful anyone noticed a brief moment of male nudity on the balcony as I put my clothes on. Matt was still on the phone as I walked thru toward the door.

"Hold on, Nick, I'll be right with you," he said. "Rowdy, where are you going? I thought we were going to hang out."

"Maybe later tonight; I need to make sure Steve's got bar coverage. It's Labor Day weekend and after all, I'm the assistant manager. I'll see you later."

I didn't look back.

"I'll see you in the bar later," he called after me.

Matt had a wife dying of cancer and he was on the phone with his son. No way in hell was he interested in my ass and I suddenly wasn't so interested in his either. I went down to the locker room, showered again, and threw my clothes in the washer. I got dressed in shorts and a Bucs jersey. I walked the few steps into the bar and stepping behind the bar, immediately taking drink orders. Steve and the other bartenders were obviously stunned to see me. Steve walked over to me as I mixed a Tom Collins for a middle aged woman who looked like a high school English teacher.

"You don't have to be noble about this, Rowdy," he said. "It's okay if you want to make arrangements to attend your parents' funeral."

I laughed bitterly and didn't even look at him as I mixed a Mai Tai.

"Steve, I'm not going to the funeral. You know those scars on my body you've asked about and I've never answered? My parents put 'em there, over and over again all through my childhood. The only reason I'd go to the funeral is to make sure the motherfuckers are really dead."

"Shit, sounds like you were related to my family, sonny boy. Trust me, you're far better off to just stay away."

The comment came from the granny with white hair that had ordered the Mai Tai. She was smiling at me sympathetically.

"That's how I feel, Ma'am. I figure after fifteen years of abuse I've got the right to not care if they're dead."

"Goddamn straight, son, goddamn straight. And take it from me, don't you ever have a minute's guilt about it in the future."

She took her Mai Tai and rejoined her crowd as Steve moved closer to my side.

"I'm sorry, Rowdy; I didn't know that's how it was. Man, I don't blame you. I've seen those scars; ain't no way they can be missed when you're changing clothes or in your swimsuit. I guess you and I are different that way. If my parents had tried that on me, they'd have been dead pretty soon after the first beating."

"That's easy to say, Steve, but when you've been dominated all your life by a military man and his mealy mouthed wife, you don't exactly have the strength to rebel. It's was beaten out of me when I was eight years old."

"So you're not going to the funeral, eh? That means you plan to work all weekend."

I could hear the blatantly obvious relief in Steve's voice and I had to laugh.

"Yep, I'm gonna be here all weekend, right by your side."

"That's good, Rowdy, real good. I was hoping to get to take Monday off."

My head jerked at him in stunned surprise and I saw the laughter in his eyes.

"Gotcha," he laughed. "What the fuck else am I gonna do on Labor Day? The only thing worth doing in this town on Labor Day is to go to the beach."

"Well, you could always stay home and watch one of the thousands of porno tapes you own and jack off."

He squeezed my ass behind the bar.

"Nah, Rowdy, I'd rather get a taste of your ass instead of just whacking off with my hand."

He laughed and walked down to where another customer was asking for a Pina Colada. I smiled to myself. It felt good to be among friends in the bar, particularly Steve. He was always teasing and coming on to me but I really wasn't so sure he wouldn't have been totally astonished if I'd ever taken him up on it. I knew he had something going on with a local football player who is gay but he was so 'in the closet' that Steve never discussed it.

It was an insanely busy evening and I was so busy I completely forgot about Matt and his news. At nine that night, Steve came up to me as I was hooking up a new beer keg.

"Rowdy, I need you to go finish out the pool bar shift tonight and then you can go home. Carl's sick and throwing up. The other three are all new guys sent from the bar school for the weekend and only one of em's worth a damn. Her name's Ricky and she's a real go-getter. The other two need a goddamn bar manual every time they draw a beer."

It sounded okay to me. It had been a bitch of a day and knocking off five hours early sounded great to me. I went out to the pool and saw firsthand what Steve meant by the two slackers. If you've got zero memory and clumsy bar skills, then you need to get out of the bar business. On a really busy day there isn't time to check the recipe for every drink. You've gotta retain the most commonly ordered drink recipes in your head. I'd tended bar long enough I knew almost every drink a customer could order; only stumped occasionally by something new or foreign. These two were total losers and what made it even worse was they thought they were top notch bartenders. They couldn't get their head out of their asses long enough to see the customers were getting pissed off. The way they were jumping around it was obvious they had seen the old Tom Cruise movie 'Cocktail' and envisioned themselves as the two lead characters. It's a common occurrence among new bartenders. They see the movie and think bartending is all joking and showy pouring skills while in reality, unless you're well grounded in the skills of preparing mixed drinks then it's not going to be very pleasant at all. People don't trust a bartender that has to look up the recipe for every drink. And if they don't trust the bartender, they go to another bar, period. Drinking at a bar costs too damn much to throw away money to idiot bartenders.

I'd decided to just let it go, ride it out until the night was over. After all, the pool bar closes at ten each night, holiday or not; only forty-five minutes left to go. My hope to have the evening end in peace just wasn't possible. Cheech tossed Chong a ninety dollar bottle of bourbon and Chong missed it. It smashed into the bottle shelf and brought down bottles worth around three hundred dollars. Guests were watching, those wandering the pool, those in the pool, adults and children. I couldn't make a scene because you never know when a guest will complain to management about witnessing employee discipline in an unprofessional manner; it had happened before. I just pointed at all the glass on the floor behind the bar and softly told Cheech to clean it up immediately.

"That makes seven bottles those two clowns have broken today," Ricky informed me.

She apparently didn't give a damn if the guests or the two idiots heard her and I saw venomous looks directed at her from the clowns. She pulled a trashcan from under the bar where she'd obviously kept the broken bottles as they were swept up.

"It was just accidents, man."

Chong shrugged his shoulders as if it was unimportant.

I reached under the counter to the button and buzzed Steve. A buzzer always yields immediate results as it indicated problems that need to be solved at once by a manager -- you've run out of gin, whiskey, bourbon, etc.; there's a guest problem that needs immediate resolution, you're being robbed, etc. The bar manager is able to observe the bar and pool area through a disguised peephole before deciding the action to be taken. When he saw it was probably just a beverage shortage he followed up with a call on the in house line to the bar to take the order. I knew where the peephole was located and I knew the exact look I needed to have on my face to get Steve out to the pool. Within thirty seconds he was standing at the bar.

"What's up, Rowdy? What are you short of?"

I stepped to the entrance half-door and showed him the broken bottles.

"The two idiots over there have been playing 'Cocktail' today. It looks like they've broken about four hundred dollars worth of booze."

Steve's eyes looked like daggers and his face reddened. Broken bottles and a shortage in the inventory of booze could come out of his pocket personally if management decided to take the hard line. Bars are hyper conscious about employees drinking on the job, sucking up the booze. A bartender can be fired on the spot if he's observed drinking an alcoholic beverage behind the bar. A common ruse of an alcoholic bartender is to break the bottles of booze they drink and then claim loss due to breakage. Seven broken bottles in one day would get Steve's ass chewed good.