Surf God of Malibu

When I was in my late Twenties, surfing was not just my life, but my religion. Half the week I'd surf, and half the week I'd give lessons—tourists, bored housewives, ambitious entertainment types who thought surfing should be part of their L.A. lifestyle. I lived in a shack right on the beach in Malibu. It was cheap because it was out behind a filling station on a crappy little bluff. One room with one tiny salt-encrusted window looking out to the ocean, a shower, a sink, a bed, a toilet, a Coleman and four boards leaned up against the wall.

What else did a guy need?

I lived alone, but I was blond, 6'2", ripped, with a slightly Norwegian look that drove the girls wild—so I never had a problem getting laid. My chest was huge and flat, my six pack shone, my blue eyes killed. My blond hair was long and usually tangled. I had a hand-made sign above the door that read "Surf God." Every now and then I'd gather up some of the other surf bums along Malibu and we'd throw beach parties with torches and rum, and the girls would flock in. I'm not exactly sure where they all came from. L.A. Girls with sun-bleached faces. Girls who spread their legs wide. They kissed my pecs, but somehow, we never connected. They'd suck my dick dry, but in the morning, well, I was disappointed that they'd spent the night.

Was I gay? I wondered all the time. For it was true that all my dreams and wildest imaginings were not about the girls, but about the other surfers. Their powerful legs. Their hairy chests. Their bleached eyes. I'd imagine pulling down their baggy suits and pushing them down gently onto the sand and having at their muscular behinds...but of course, I never did anything about it. "Dang, Peter," I'd say to myself. "That's weird thinking."

Into this life came Jacob Townsend. Sweet Jacob of the curly black hair and soulful eyes. He was a young businessman, 32, with a silver Porsche Boxster and an eager smile. Some kind of finance guy, I was given to understand. Like everybody, Jacob wanted to learn to surf, and I was ready to take his $50 an hour. Normally, I only charged $35, but when I saw the Boxster, well—I wasn't a fool.

The first day he showed up it was late December. He came with a brand-new wetsuit he'd bought himself for Christmas, a thermos of hot coffee, and a ridiculously short board that some hotshot had sold him at a sporting goods store. He was so cheerful, so clean cut, so fucking motivated, and so perfectly coiffed, that I had to laugh.

"Sorry amigo, can't learn on a short one." I said.

"What?"

"The board, Amigo. It's barely taller than you."

"Is that bad?"

"Fuck, Amigo."

He smiled uncertainly, and because I was a Surf God, and he was a business dweeb, I slapped him across the back. He went sprawling. I mean, he wasn't any kind of wimp—he worked out and all—but he was kind of a little guy, maybe 5'8", nervous around me, and besides I liked to give little guys a hard time.

"Sure," he said. "Long is good. I get that."

The lessons went slowly. Jacob was no born surfer—no feel for the water, just fighting it all the goddam time, not able to relax and go with the waves. But what the hell, he was paying good money, and I had to admit I enjoyed the way he admired me and my freedom and my tan. I mean, he had such a boring fucking existence—the wife, the stock options, the incredibly clean car. For several days we just did a hold-and-push. You know, he'd lay on the board, and I'd give him a push into white rollers, and he'd try to stand up. Hours passed without any progress, but I didn't mind. He seemed to appreciate the whole thing so damn much. At the end of each lesson, he'd give me this little shrug, and shake my goddam hand, and go off perfectly happy, even though he'd missed most every wave, and fallen after two seconds on little rollers. I have to admit I'd sort of play it up for him, you know, the tough, buff, Surf God thing.

And yeah, I started thinking about his ass. Holding the board as he tried to stand, I'd imagine grabbing that ass and shoving a finger up it. Or more.

This went on for a couple of months. We didn't talk a lot—which Jacob seemed to appreciate. I gathered that the other people in his life talked plenty. I got the feeling that he was under a lot of pressure all the time, to keep up the Boxster payments, and to please his Beverly Hills born and bred wife...who he said he hardly ever saw, and with whom he always argued. She didn't want kids, he said, a sore point that had driven them apart.

I started feeling what? Affectionate about him. Protective.

Then came that fateful morning in March. It was an unusually cold morning—full wetsuits. I'd had him come early, and after we finished our ritual coffee, we paddled out into a heavy mist. The ocean was gray and uncertain—a little bit blown out with a shifting wind; not a good day, at all, but shit, it was Jacob's Wednesday if he wanted it. By now, I was pretty dependent on that three hours of reliable pay, and I didn't want to call it off. We did the easy stuff for a while, but he said he was bored with the foam and begged me to go out to where the waves were actually curling—so against my better judgment, and to keep him happy (and I enjoyed keeping him happy), I at last agreed to take him out there.

Jacob struggled to paddle through the surf, hell both of us struggled, and when we found ourselves a ways out, the wind suddenly picked up into a kind of whirl—like it was coming from all directions. The chop increased, and I turned back to Jacob to call it a day...but he wasn't there. My training longboard was there, all right, getting tossed around, but no Jacob. The mist was bad, so I called out...but no response. I started to panic. Finally, I caught sight of his black suited body way out beyond the breakers, thrashing around. How the hell? Like an idiot, he must have let the leash come off, then he'd fallen off his board, and some wild rip had caught him—all in the space of a couple minutes. I paddled out after him like a maniac, but he seemed to keep being pulled out further, and I lost sight of him again and again. When I finally found him, he was completely exhausted and panicked, and I as I hauled him up on my board, he gave me this desperate, animal-like look. Me, I went around back to propel the board from behind, high-tailing it for shore. It was rough getting back against the rip and the wind—it seemed to take forever and every ounce of strength I had, especially with Jacob laid out on my board, heaving water and flopping around. He was confused, and thrashing around, and he kept kicking me in face.

Finally, I actually spun the board around and slapped his face.

"Stop that, Jacob! Don't thrash around, and don't kick me!"

He looked at me, surprised and uncomprehending at first.

"What do you want me to do, Peter?"

"Just lie still and I'll get us the fuck out of this."

"Okay, Peter," he said, "I get it it" he said, as if I might not decide to save him at all.

Finally, I got us to shore, where the wind was really whipping the surf, and the fog had really moved in. You couldn't see five feet in any direction. I hauled Jacob up out of the water and just laid back on the sand in my wetsuit, next to him, totally exhausted. After a while, he said:

"You saved my life."

"Never, never get separated from your board."

"Got it."

"Never, never let your leash get undone."

"Got it, Peter."

"Look, Jacob," I said, exhausted. "I'm just going to lie here for two more minutes, then we'll drag our sorry asses up to my shack to get cleaned up.. Just give me two minutes."

And that's when it happened. There on the beach, hidden in the dense fog, Jacob moved close to me and rested his head on my chest. Just like that. A grown man, resting his head on my chest. I was too tired to do anything about it. And after what we'd just been through, it seemed almost natural. Plus I was goddam cold. I put my arm around him, to comfort him. We lay there for a time like that, just breathing to recover.

Then I felt his hand slide down my chest, and come to rest on the crotch of my wetsuit. It stayed there for a few moments on my package, and when I did not object, the hand slid up back up along my torso to my chest, and stayed there again for a time, and then slid back to my crotch...and squeezed me gently.

"Look, Jacob..." I began

"No, Peter, please. Just lie still. You just saved my life, and....and I don't know...I just...let me, please you."

And for some reason, I just lay still. Maybe it was the draining of the adrenaline from my body. Maybe it was just the nice warm feeling of his hand on the crotch of my wetsuit. It all seemed strangely right. Why didn't I push him off me and stomp back to the shack? I couldn't explain it.

Again he squeezed my crotch gently, and rubbed gently, and curled closer into my body. He was trembling slightly. To my surprise, despite the cold and my exhaustion, I started to get a hard-on inside my suit. And it felt, what? Just natural.

Finally, without a word, I got up, and grabbed my board, and started up toward the shack. Rain started moving in even before we got there, and the day grew darker and darker. I had a shower head outside, and as usual, I helped him unzip his wetsuit to rinse it off in the cold water—but even though we were freezing, there was a powerful sexual tension between us now. When I stripped off my own suit and ran under the shower, I could feel his eyes all over me, my muscles, my chest, my arms, my baggy surfer bathing suit. The rain was coming in hard, and the wind was rising, and we were both starting to shiver. I thought, what the hell? Why not?

'You better come in for a hot shower, Jacob. I need one too. We'll make some more coffee."

He started to kneel on the ground in front of me, and I moved forward and let him nuzzle my wet bathing suit, out there in the rain just for a minute. Then I put my hand on his wet, curly black hair and turned his face up to me. He gave me a pleading look and I nodded to him and indicated the door, and he nodded, and we went inside, where it was warm. I knew what was about to happen.

Once inside, I let him kneel in front of me and pull down my wet bathing suit, but I didn't let him suck my dick. Not yet. Instead, I pulled his head gently back.

"I'm cold, Jacob. I stink from the wetsuit. Let's go in the shower."

Again he only nodded, unable apparently to speak, and he followed me into the shower—me naked, him still in his bathing suit. I told him to wait outside the shower, but I left the shower door open so he could watch. Then I turned on the hot water and let it wash over me, my long hair, my muscular body, down my legs. Again he tried to approach but I gestured him to wait. I wanted to enjoy this moment, draw it out. I was getting a serious hard-on now, and I played with it for a while, stroked it for his benefit, till it lifted high, then I turned around and washed my ass, letting him watch. Again he knelt there on the bathroom floor.

"Can I take off my suit, Peter?"

"Not yet, Jacob. You'll enjoy it more if you have to wait a little."

"I'd like to wash you."

So I turned around and walked out of the shower, and put my hands behind my head, facing him, and smiled. He tried to suck my dick again, but I raised him up, and led him into the shower. Then I stood and put my arms behind my head again and smiled. And he, standing, took the soap and washed me under my arms, where I was blond and strong. I let him nuzzle me there, under each arm, and l let him move his face down and suck on my nipples for a long time, still keeping my hands behind my head.

"Do you enjoy that, Jacob?"

"Yes, Peter."

"I'm happy that you enjoy it."

"Can I take my suit off now?"

I could see he had a wicked hard-on.

"Sure, Jacob," I said, and I put my hands on his shoulders and drew his face up to mine, and put my tongue in his mouth as he pulled down his suit and dropped it in the floor of the shower. Then I raised my left knee and put it up between his legs forcefully, up against his balls, and pushed him against the wet tile wall of the shower, and he gasped. Then I grasped his dick with my good right hand and pushed my tongue into his mouth harder, and pushed with my knee, and the water was all around us, and neither of us could breath very well as I held his dick and pushed my whole massive body against him. And without letting go of his dick with my right hand, I put my left hand behind his curly blackhaired head and pushed his face against mine, pushed his mouth over my tongue, and still my right hand grasped his dick and now his balls hard, so I had him completely, all of him. And then I released his mouth and his dick and spun him around so that he was facing the slick wet tiled wall and pushed him against it, and ran my own huge pulsating dick up between the cheeks of his ass, not penetrating him yet, but letting his ass grasp my proud upraised member and forcing him against the wall so that he again gasped. And my left arm was crossed across his back now, pressing him harder against the wall, and I pushed again and again and again, thinking how his dick was being pushed against the tile...just enjoying that thought. And I reached around front of him to grab his dick again, so I could feel how it felt, and it was good to have him in my right hand as I pressed, and I liked to hear the sound of his gasping.

Then I pulled back and spread his legs with my right hand while still pressing him against the wall with my left. And then I pushed my right index finger into his ass and just holding him there like that for a long time. It was what I had only imagined doing before.

"Does that feel good?"

"Yes, Peter, it feels good," he managed to say.

"Wait here a minute," I said, and he nodded, and I removed my finger, and he remained standing, obediently, against the wet tile, with the shower running down his back.

I went to fetch some lube, and when I came back he had not moved. So I spread the lube on my dick, being careful not to let it wash off. Then I crouched down a little and forced my lubed dickhead up against his butthole.

"Relax and let me in," I said, and again he nodded.

And I felt my hot hard member penetrate his asshole and it felt good. Very very good.

"I don't want to hurt you," I said.

"It does hurt, a little," said Jacob.

Then I pushed in a little farther and he let out a little cry, and I felt the tight hot clutch of him around my dick and we just stayed like that for a time, not speaking or moving. It was so intense and so personal that I had to stop.

"Okay, Jacob. Don't worry. That's enough of that for today," I said. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay, really."

Then I pulled out and I turned him around to face me again and kissed his forehead with the loving kiss as if of a husband and he sank down on his knees and I held him back again while I carefully washed off my dickhead before his face. Then I finally I allowed him to take my big thick straining dick in his mouth slowly, holding him back yet a bit and penetrating his lips ever so slowly with the head of my dick, at first just the head, just for a moment, then pulled out again.

"Slow," I said, "just the head at first." And he was breathing hard, desperate like an animal.

"Please, Peter."

"Shhh. Don't talk." And I was holding his hair again, holding him back with my left hand, and now I lifted my dick to his lips with my right hand, and brushed it gently against them. "Shhh," I said, and again, "Shhh."

And he kissed the helmet gently, and touched it lightly with his tongue. Shyly, really.

And then I penetrated his lips again just a little, him sucking eagerly. Then the helmet. "Slow, not so hard. I want it slow and gentle at first." Then something made me forcefully pull him forward under the shower, so that the water ran down my body and his face, and there I pushed myself all the way into his mouth, so that he gasped, almost choked, but took my whole huge dick thick and joyous in his mouth.

Then I couldn't stand it, and I grabbed the back of his head hard again and thrust into his very throat. And our eyes met, and we both understood that we had achieved some new understanding of ourselves.

"I'm going to come, Jacob," I said. "Is that all right?"

And he nodded as best he could. And I pulled him forward again so that now my own back was against the wet tiled wall of the shower, and I braced myself against it and again raised my left leg hard up against his balls and pulled his head over my dick so that I penetrated his mouth as deeply, deeply, as possible, and I could feel his sucking, sucking, sucking, and then everything went black and crimson and I came, I came, I came, I came into his mouth, and I could hear him choking, just a little, just a little. And then the world returned and I released him and he fell back onto the floor of the shower. And I slid down to sit on the floor of the shower, and we both just let the warm water wash over us. And when I recovered just a little, I put my arm around his shoulders and sat next to him and we both thought about what had just happened. And again I kissed him on the forehead.

"It's okay," I said. "Your life is okay."

And he took my hand and kissed it, and I laughed and tousled his hair. And kissed him on the lips. And he smiled and bent over and buried his face in my crotch, licking my big bush of blond pubic hair, which I knew to be both all wet and a little sticky and he licked my spent dick and my balls until at last I laughed, and raised him up.

"How would you like to come this first time?" I asked.

"I don't know, Peter, I've never done this before. Would you like to enter my ass again first?"

"Next time, Jacob. Even surf gods need a little time to recover."

And we both laughed, and I got up to kneeling on the hard wet tile, and pulled him up to kneeling, and moved around behind him so my spent dick was against his backside, and I reached around his slick body with my strong right hand and grabbed his wet hard dick and started pumping, and he gasped and grabbed my hand, but I pushed his arm away and told him to relax and keep his arms straight down on the floor, and he obeyed and the water was coming down warm over both of us, and I bit his right ear a little and he gasped and laughed again, and I kept pumping, pumping, pumping his dick with my hand until he came against the tile wall, came wild and white and sticky with a loud cry, and I enjoyed for the first time feeling that hot mad pulse in another man's dick. And his cry of release.

"Oh, oh, oh," was all he could say.

And then I felt his dick grow softer and I released it, and released him, and again we both just collapsed on the shower floor; both of us happy, happy, happier than we had either of us ever been.

And that was the beginning of the rest of my life.

(Stay tuned for Part II)