Beach Boys (20 page)

“We’re both shit out of luck, I’m afraid.”

He slowly turned to face me. “Wha?”

“Out of luck. To swim.”

He seemed to study me for a moment. “I don’t swim here, mon. I’m the pool-mon.” It almost sounded like reggae, although he wasn’t singing.

“Oh. Not much you can do then, until it’s finished. I hope they’ll still pay you.”

This was met with a silent nod, and he went about his business. He would walk for a few feet and stop to further contemplate the pool’s lack of contents. He continued to do so, this walking/stopping around its entire perimeter. Every now and then, he glanced in my direction. I realized I hadn’t stopped staring at him. Who was studying whom? I felt suddenly very awkward under his occasional gaze and clumsily reached for my bottle of sun lotion. I twisted the cap off and the bottle slipped from my greasy hands. With a thunk, it hit the ground, glooping its milky contents across the stone tiles. I swore under my breath, watching the lotion spread. I caught sight of a pair of sandaled feet and dark muscular calves; I lifted my eyes. The
pool-man was at my side. He was somewhere in his twenties and wore his hair in long, tight dreads. They had a slight reddish tinge to them and were tied back with a strip of fabric the same color as his swimsuit. His skin was a dark caramel, and his eyes, his eyes were a greenish-gold. I wondered what convoluted mix of African tribe and colonial romp sprung forth the lineage of this impressive example of manhood. He seemed to sternly look down at me.

A moment of fear crept through me. “I-I…I’m so sorry. A total doofus.”

His eyes softened, and he laughed. “Na problem, mon. Give mi something a do.”

His basso lilt set me at ease. He crossed to a storage cabinet and pulled out a mop and pail. The lotion was now pooling about the lounge-chair leg. I stood up and pushed the chair out of the way. As it scraped across the tiles, it dragged along a snaky squiggle of lotion. Weirdly, it made me think of the drippings of come on the little air steward’s ass. What a perv I was becoming in the Caribbean sun! I was chuckling in spite of myself when the pool-man dropped the pail down beside me. My heart jumped and I backed away. But my right foot came out of my flip-flop; the other slid in the goo, and I fell ungraciously to the ground with an unmanly squeal. A pulled hamstring seared through me, then settled down to a somewhat dullish throb. The pool-man knelt beside me and asked if I was all right.

My voice went up half an octave. “I’ll be fine,” I strained to answer. “I just need to get to my room and stretch out.”

“Can you walk, or do you need me to carry you?” His back-and-forth between English and Jamaican patois was interesting.

I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me or not. Instead of answering, I decided on a stoic approach. I slowly stood and limped a few steps on my own before buckling.

“Here, mon, lean against me,” he offered.

Who was I to refuse? I hobbled back to my room, resting against him for support. Some of his dreads had come loose and kept brushing against my face. He had used some kind of aftershave, and its scent was rather heady. I felt a bit dizzy—either from the pain, his scent, or his mere presence. Wishful thinking made me vote for number three. My thigh wasn’t the only part of my anatomy that had started to throb; I was getting turned on in a major way, despite my injury. I hoped the pool-man wouldn’t notice.

No, I hoped he would.

Progress was at a snail’s pace, but we eventually made it to my room. I passed him my key, and he unlocked the door. He helped me to the bed, and I plunked myself down heavily with a moan. He seemed to focus for a moment on my swimsuit. Although his swimming shorts were baggy, I noticed a slight swelling there as well. Not so slight.

“You need someone for dat, Mister,” he said.

I couldn’t form any words in reply.

“It still hurt?” he continued.

“Oh, right. Yeah, big time. Any house doctors or a masseur in the hotel?”

“Na yet, na yet.”

“Right. They’re under construction like the rest of the place, I suppose.”

He laughed. I laughed. Then there was that awkward bit, after the laughter died down, and neither of us was sure what should be said or done next. A thank you and goodbye? A huge tip? Speaking of which, both our dicks refused to die down like our laughter.

He cleared his throat. “I can massage, mon, if yuh still in pain.”

“Oh. I…yeah, if you don’t mind. I mean, I can pay you something.”

A stern expression returned. “Na, mon, dat not why I offer.”

I flushed and felt ashamed. My erection shriveled. I expected him to leave. But he didn’t. I ventured, “My name is Roger.”

There was an uneasy pause, then, “I am Laz.”

“Laz. What an interesting name. Is it short for—”

“Yah, mon. Lazarus. Mi mama gave birth, and I wouldn’t breathe. Took the doctors a while a get mi goin’.”

“Well, Laz, I’d be grateful if you could help me get going again. It’s my hamstring.”

“Cool. Yuh have to flip onto yuh belly, mon.”

I blinked a few times, then slowly turned over.

“And spread dem legs a bit.”

There was a long pause. I could hear him breathing. Shallow and labored breaths. Or was that me? I nearly leapt to the ceiling upon feeling his long fingers press against my inner thigh. He began to gently rub. I let out a low moan. He stopped.

“Is it di pain?”

“No. Yes. I mean…keep going. You have a great touch.”

Laz pressed and prodded, dug deep. The soothing of the pain was in direct proportion to the re-growth of my erection. I pushed it against the mattress. Laz eased off and began to massage the entire area in small circular motions, moving slowly upwards. I moaned again — a sensual, rumbling thing from deep in my throat.

He suddenly withdrew his hand. “No, don’t stop!” I said way too loudly.

A large hand cupped the left cheek of my ass. I stopped breathing. “You like dis, Roger?”

I could barely get the words out. “I…do.”

“Good.”

“Do you?”

His response was using both his hands to stroke my butt. He allowed me to turn over. My Speedo was stretched almost to bursting. The most amazing smile spread across his handsome face. I looked into his eyes.

“I asked you a question,” I said.

He took my hand and placed it against his crotch. I became afraid; I wasn’t sure why. Exploring further, I knew why. Laz pulled down his bathing suit, and it dropped to the floor. As did my jaw. All sorts of clichés ran through my head—mostly comparisons to endowed animals of some kind or another. I forced my eyes away from the obvious and scanned the rest of his body. Unlike most men down there, his chest, arms and legs had a matting of hair. This just emphasized his otherness—and my attraction.

But after the moment’s appraisal, my attention was driven back to his cock. How could it not? I was entranced by the slow-motion dance of his hardening dick. The dark hood of his long foreskin very slowly rolled back as the great plum head crept out. Its slit seeped pre-come. A droplet fell onto my foot. I found myself licking my lips—it does happen!

Laz chuckled, a low purr from the back of his throat. “Yuh thirst, Roj?”

I nodded.

He slipped further into his native patois. “Come yah, ’n kiss di head, mon.”

I leaned forward, protruded my lips. My eyes crossed, so focused was I on the dark head, slick with his pre-come. He tapped it against my mouth, wetting me with his ooze. My lips parted and I—

There was a rapping at the door.

Nooo! Had I said that out loud?

Laz tugged up his bathing suit and dove, of course, into the closet. Another rapping. I called out. “Coming!” If only. I limped into the bathroom and threw on a bathrobe to open the door. It was the bellman.

“Excuse me, sir. I just wanted to extend the hotel’s apologies for the state of things here.” He strained his neck about. His eyes shifted this way and that beyond me.

Go away
, I thought, but just said, “Well, it’s not what I had expected, or paid for.”

“Of course. The pool should be open in a couple of days. In the meantime, perhaps one of our staff could escort you to the beach. The pool-boy might be willing.” Again, this way and that. Were there any telltale bits about the room?

“Thank you,” I replied, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He left, and I locked the door. Way to kill the mood. Laz emerged from the closet with a heavy sigh. I nodded. “I know.” Wasn’t going to happen. I peered out the peephole into the hallway. All clear. He edged towards the door.

“Like ’im say, I could show yuh di way to di beach, sir.”

I couldn’t let the opportunity slip by. “When?”

He looked deep into my eyes. “Ten.”

“At night?”

His turn to nod. “In di dark.”

* * * *

We met that night, a block from the hotel. A knapsack hung off of one of his brawny shoulders. We walked in silence as he escorted me to the beach. I yearned to take his hand, but that would’ve been a definite no-no, even in the dark. This was his territory, his rules.

The man-in-the-moon smirked as we made our way in the sand along the shore. One thin long leg of a rocky hillside extended towards the water. In its shadow, we set up camp. Laz pulled out a blanket from his knapsack and spread it by a large rock formation. We sat, propped up against the rocks and smoked some ganja.

Waiting for who would make the first move was getting to me. Perhaps some conversation was in order. “How long have you been doing this?” He gave me a puzzled look. “I mean, being a pool-boy. Sorry—pool-man.”

“It’s not a career, mon. I’m financing mi correspondence courses.”

I was impressed that he was trying to better himself, although anything I could have said just then would likely have come off as patronizing. So I shut up and made my move. I pounced onto him and locked my lips on his. He seemed freaked for an instant, but then he reached around and held me tight. We rolled, and he was now on top of me. The white man’s burden, I was definitely willing to bear. He nibbled my ears, licked my neck, and returned to my lips, trading tongues. After several minutes of this, he pulled away and slowly removed his clothing. My moonlight man seemed a god in silhouette to me. Breaking out of my reverie, it was my turn. I unbuttoned my top and Laz sprung into action, stripping me bare in seconds. He flipped me onto my belly, then paused. Not sure what I should do, I simply waited.

“Your beautiful ass glow in di moon, Roj.”

That was reggae to my ears! In response, I tilted my lower half slightly upward. The touch of his lips on the flesh of my ass fired my lust even more. He spread the cheeks apart and kissed my hole. His tongue lapped against my bud, sending an electric thrill through my entire body. My cock was like iron and dripped like a faucet. Lubricated by his saliva, he worked a finger into me. Then another. I couldn’t stop moaning, and it drove him to go further. He
withdrew, and after a couple of minutes of encasing his enormous cock in latex and lubing my hole, I felt that unmistakable nudge and press against its lips. I did my best to part them further, despite my being nervous. With gentle but persistent progress, the head finally popped inside of me. He stopped to ask if I was okay. I was so horny at that point, I seethed, “Je-susss! Slide to the root, man.” And he obliged.

* * * *

We repeated this intimate play on the beach over the following few nights. I couldn’t rightly say I was in love, but I surely acted like it. There seemed to be a permanent smile splashed across my mug. On the other hand, sitting comfortably became problematic, but it was worth it. Thoughts of dead-end long-distance relationships notwithstanding, whenever Laz was around, I seemed—what is the word? Oh yes—happy.

On the fourth go-around that week in our special place, Laz had just pleasured my special place when we could hear in the near distance a coughing and laughter. Out of a clump of moving silhouettes, a male voice called out in patois, “Hey! Wha’ppun, mon?”

Laz whispered to me. “Roj, you must…”

I couldn’t make out the rest, as another voice boomed, “Wha gwaan, red mon?”

Laz laughed uneasily and threw a greeting back. “Gwaan, bredren?” and he gave me a poke, but not of the loving kind.

I quickly gathered my things and walked off in the dark. There was swearing and words in patois that pierced the night. “Raas” and “bloodclaat.” I wasn’t sure what they meant, but I could tell it wasn’t nice. Then, “Come yah, battybwoy. Maama man!” Those I could figure out—derogatory terms for a gay guy, as anyone following rap music knows. I started to run.

Had Laz played me for a fool, gaining my trust, only to have his buddies gang up to mug me—or worse? No, he wouldn’t. But who knows? Poverty drives people to all sorts. Maybe it was all about getting his rocks off—against the rocks, after all.

I didn’t stop running until I was safely inside my hotel room. I slid down against the door and sat on the floor, awash in conflicted emotions.

* * * *

Two days later, the swimming pool was finally dry. It had been painted, and I looked down at its blue shimmer from my window. Laz did not appear. A middle-aged man had taken over his duties, but I felt no urge to take the sun. Cooped up in the room, I was still angry and confused about things. Had I escaped a beating and theft? Was the pool-man just using me? All sorts of thoughts and possibilities chewed at me. I decided to go down the hotel café for dinner.