Free It Takes Two by Elliott Mackle Page B

good we forgot to kick our feet.
    Breaking apart, we came up laughing. “Let’s get in the boat,” I said. “Before we drown.”
    He shook his head. “We ain’t finished with this, Coach. Do you think?” Drifting back and steadying himself, he held my waist with his feet. His hard cock, the hood still retracted, rose and fell like a red-topped periscope breaking the surface.
    Touching his knees, I said we might end up as floaters if we tried to finish things where we were. He reached for me. “We ain’t stopping,” he said, sounding determined. “Show me how else you want to do. Boat’s fine. Race you back.”
     
     
     
    Later, side by side in on a sweat-soaked narrow bunk, I touched the rows of milk pearls lining his belly. “Definitely two colors,” I said, running a finger into the wetness, spreading it and drawing a circle. “Your cream’s thicker than mine.”
    He looked down, a neutral, tired expression on his face. “I’m thicker all the way ’round. When I get my steam up, anyhow.”
    “Out of steam for now,” I answered, touching the curves of his relaxed shaft and sack. “Want me to see if I can get your pressure back?”
    Bud pushed my hand away. Then, suddenly hearing something, he stood up, moved quickly to the open door of the cabin and peered outside, sweeping the ocean. Looking at him, I could hardly breathe. In the 1940s, sex between males went hand in hand with fear.
    “God damn,” he said as he stepped back inside the cabin, rubbing his belly with one towel and throwing me another. “There’s a boat out there, coming up from Estero Island. Anybody could have chugged right by and seen us, seen what we was doing.”
    I’d shifted to the middle of the mattress. The sensation of mixing his sweat with mine made the whole thing seem a little more real. “We’d have heard a motor if somebody got within half a mile of us.” I replied. “Relax, Buddy.”
    “Could have been a sailboat come up.” Bud pulled his shirt over his head. “Fucking acting like a bunch of snot-nosed kids, we was. Draining our nuts. Forgetting there’s other people around.”
    “Your old coach says it felt pretty good too,” I answered, trying to get back in the game. “Your coach says his Buddy has a good set of hands and a bat that sure shoots a helluva home run.”
    “Lay off,” Bud said. “Why don’t you put on some clothes?”
    “Because they’re on deck,” I said. “Because I’m going to splash the cream off before I get dressed.”
    “Man,” he said. “You’re not getting me in the water again. So forget that idea.”
    I stood up, suddenly pissed and disappointed and feeling thoroughly naked. “Not my intention, Sarge,” I said. “But then what was yours, throwing that woody in my face if you didn’t want to roll around?”
    He pulled his shorts up, zipped and buttoned them. “Like I said last week. You remind me of my old coach. I must of had a thing for him, wanted to be his little jerk-off buddy. Must of wanted to do what we just did, with him, in the shower room. Big fucking deal.”
    Men are apt to turn either sad or angry soon after they shoot off. But they can be humored. So I tried another joke. “Everybody’s got a school-kid jerk-off fantasy,” I said. “Only this was kind of a daytime wet dream. Wet, huh? You get it?”
    He smiled. “I get it,” he answered. “Now why don’t you go rinse off, so we can head back.”
    He picked up the towel he’d brought me and handed it over. “Anybody ever tell you, you look a lot like Van Johnson,” he said. “Only not half so good looking?”
    This sounded like a battlefield promotion to me, from home-town coach to redheaded movie star. “I’ve heard it once or twice,” I answered, slapping my butt. “But my ass isn’t as wide as his. And I’ve got better legs.”
    Bud shrugged. “Your toes point in when you walk. At least you got two legs and two feet, though, instead of just one and a stump like that