Free Beach Boys by S, #232, phera Gir, #243, n Page A

smile was so damn sexy this morning, he reached down and kissed him before continuing.
    “Are you going on vacation anywhere next weekend?”
    “No. In fact, I have to stay in town.”
    “Why?” Chaun prodded.
    “I have a date already.”
    Chaun rolled his eyes back in his head and groaned. “A date? You’ve got to be kidding me. With who?”
    Dylan reached over and curled his fingers around Chaun’s chin. “With the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.”
    Chaun’s smile was lost to Dylan’s kiss almost as soon as it formed, but he didn’t mind. He sighed into his mouth as he savored his lover’s kiss.
    “But tell me one thing,” Dylan asked, as he pulled away. “Who the hell was that guy who fingered me in the jungle? Did you even know him?”
    Chaun shrugged. “Just a finger fucker I hired to loosen you up, that’s all.” He smirked at Dylan’s pout. “It’s good to keep finger fuckers employed.” He let his fingers splay over Dylan’s chest. “They need money too, you know.”
    * * * *
    On their way to check out, the couple passed a bulletin board in the hallway. On it hung two pairs of black silk shorts. A note was pinned above them:
    “Found in jungle: two pairs of black silk shorts. Heavily used. Please claim at office.”
    Both men snickered at the sight, then walked on past with their hands on each other’s asses.
    “Maybe they’ll bring good luck to somebody else,” Chaun observed.
    “I sure hope so, because you are coming home with me.” He pressed his lips against Chaun’s ear. “Forever,” he whispered.

Peepshow
    by Eric Del Carlo
     
    Nervous
wasn’t the word. Henry and Lance had finally caught me. I’d had a sweet thing going for almost two months of this post-high school summer vacation, my own private live peepshow.
    My parents were renting a house in a sleepy—hell, nearly comatose—little burg in the California wine country. Acres and acres of vines growing in regimented rows, wineries everywhere you turn, and no adult who could talk for long about
any
thing but the local industry. It was all useless to me: too young to drink, not mature enough yet to feign interest in all things oenological. It had started as a sullen, unwelcome sojourn, my very last days of post-adolescent irresponsibility. At least, that was how my parents—high-flown intellectuals both, and not too adept with friendly sarcasm—had put it to me more than once. They were researching another joint academic tome, something about bird migrations or Robert Louis Stevenson or some other subject I was consciously apathetic toward.
    It was a hotter summer than the more northerly latitudes of home had prepared me for. The local young adult population apparently saw summertime as their cue to evacuate the town, leaving me among skateboarding kids I was too old to hang out with.
    I was slated for college in the autumn, uncertain whether I or my parents had decided which hallowed hall of learning I would be committing myself to for the next several years. I didn’t have good cause for the bitterness softly gnawing at me, and I think I even knew that at the time, but that didn’t keep it off. I was resentful and showed I was with long dull pauses before responding to parental questions. Yeah, real rebellious stuff, but I hardly knew what else to do.
    One other thing I did do was to slip quietly out my bedroom window at night, onto the gravel roof of the house’s long garage, and duck-walk out to the far end. Hunkering here and poking my head over the rain gutter, I was rewarded with a perfect view down into our nearest neighbors’ bedroom. From this steep angle, a gap opened above the room’s drape that let me see their king-sized bed—and everything that went on there at least four nights a week.
    This routine had started as more useless rebellion, since I would smoke forbidden cigarettes out on that roof. I was old enough for
that
empty gesture, anyway. But the third or fourth time, I had discovered