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Brad, aged eighteen, the day before
The hotel room was large and white. There were flowers. It had a romantic you’ve-seen-me-in-a-movie look about it. Brad was sure he’d seen at least three newly married couples in the lobby which, on the whole, he found less uncomfortable than amusing. Ironic. The hotel was ocean front – he’d saved a lot of money from his high school Taco Bell job – so after he grabbed a quick dinner from the hotel restaurant, he ducked out onto the beach. It rested underneath a setting sun, pale sand glowing in the periwinkle dusk. People reclined beneath brightly colored umbrellas, naked. Brad hid beside the wall of the restroom, tucked in a shadow, and contemplated. This was a good idea. It was his fantasy. It was a good idea. Jenna had finally capitulated, even, and showed him something he’d never expected to see. Faint scars on her back she said came from something called lacing. Funny. He’d never figured her for... “Hey there.” He curled his hands around his knees and tried to bury his head in his stomach. “You okay? Um. It’s just that it doesn’t smell so good here, and we were wondering if you had somewhere to go...?” Brad looked up. They were a pair his age, a boy and a girl. He was large and golden tanned with velvet muscles. She was white and sleek, almost breastless, otherworldly. “I’m at the hotel. The one behind us.” “Oh. Us too. Sorry to bother you then.” The boy did the talking. The girl stood beside him, staring at the sun glare, toeing the pale sand with the edge of her foot. “No bother.” “He wants to be alone,” said Lydia, not looking at him. “See us sometime. I’m Tyler. This is Lydia. Room 240. Second floor.” “Yeah,” said Brad. He knew they didn’t mean the invitation; it was something offered out of embarrassment. They flitted off into the dusk, the dying light swallowing their forms before they had even reached the waves. Am I ready for this, Brad wondered. Outcast and watching. Caught between desire and actuality. Wanting and not having. But it had always been that way. As long as he wanted men and didn’t want to want men but wanted them... He dug himself off the slick tile, and floundered on the beach, struggling to escape the scent of urine and his growing sense of apprehension, melancholy. Tomorrow. He could have it tomorrow. He returned to his room, slid his shorts off his hips, and held his penis in his hand. He felt it stiffen, responsive. The feeling was slick and intense. He rubbed for a few moments and pulled his hand away before his penis could begin the climb to orgasm. Measured breaths reduced the climax until he could fasten his fingers around his shaft again and rub and pull. He watched his testicles strain, red beneath his cock. He wondered what they would look like tomorrow afterward. The thought pushed him closer and he stopped masturbating, but he’d miscalculated, and the orgasm swallowed him anyway, spurting white all over the hotel sheets. It was inverse and disappointing. He felt hollow. He curled up and fell asleep. Long dreams spun his consciousness out like a thread on a spinning wheel, sinuous and elusive, until he woke before dawn in a stranger mood than had seen him to sleep. * * * To help himself wake up, Brad went for a walk on the beach and watched the sun rise. He was on the wrong side of the island to see it cast skeins of color across the water, but it was peaceful and gave him room to think, alone. It was going to be cut off. He tried to picture it, with the cords and the nurses and the sterility and the anesthetic. He felt numb, so he tried to picture it simply gone. Waking up without the weight of it between his legs. To see a man, tempting and sweaty the way Brad liked to look at them, to want him, to feel the surge of arousal and no response. Brad’s stomach twitched. The strangeness of the night before was vanishing. He knew he wanted it – that desperate sense of helplessness.
And he was hard. He rushed back to his room and jerked off again, not bothering to stop masturbating to prolong the sensation. He wanted all of it, every drop of the pleasure. It ran thick and red along his thighs and through his penis. After he came, he dabbed his finger in the cum and swallowed it. He tried to revive an erection so he could masturbate again, but it was no use so soon. 7 am. His appointment was at 9. So he went to the lobby. There was still time. Lydia was at breakfast. She ate a croissant delicately and stared at a glossy print magazine. He sat on the other side of the room and she ignored him, if she saw him at all. He was leaving the lobby when he ran into Tyler. Large, golden Tyler, who looked like he would sweat like a bear in bed and grunt ferociously at orgasm. Enthusiastic Tyler, as it turned out. “Hey, you do stay here! Lydia thought maybe you said that to make us go away. Want breakfast?” “I already ate...” “Come and sit with us for a while then. You can come dive with us later.” “I actually, I have something to do. At nine.” “Got an hour then, right? Come sit with us.” So Brad got pinned with them through the meal. Watching Tyler eat was a marvel. He dined with vigor and enthusiasm, somehow employing the whole of his body so that his muscles rippled when he strained across the table or when he took a large, heaping bite of eggs. He talked while he ate, cheerfully and rapidly. Brad wasn’t sure why he stayed. He could have gotten up. He could have left. He wanted to masturbate. To touch himself again. It was his last chance. The appointment was in an hour. He was painfully aware of every second as it ticked by, swallowed by Tyler’s inane conversation. He could feel his penis prickling against the fabric of his jeans, hidden. He was tempted to touch it, and had gotten as far as scraping his fingernail against the denim, but then Lydia shifted position, and he wondered if she would see, so he snapped his hand away. He could have left. He could still fit in two orgasms in half an hour. Then, as time narrowed, one. He could have excused himself and gotten off in five minutes in the toilet. He could have fled for his appointment early and found somewhere there, or on the way. Surely they had places for it... arrangements for it... His pelvis shifted uncomfortably as he thought about it. Throbbing, grunting. He wanted to touch himself. He wanted to watch Tyler touch himself. He wanted to see Tyler throbbing and grunting. He wanted to straddle Tyler’s thigh with his cock pressed up against the slick skin of his quadricep while he took Tyler’s dick in his mouth and sucked him to ecstasy. The rolling of his Tyler’s writhing skin would probably push him to orgasm. Thinking about Tyler wasn’t helping. So why didn’t he just get up and go? Why did he just wait until 8:50 before he dashed out, penis jutting out so far that he could only hope Tyler was too entranced by his eggs to notice, and leap into a cab with no time to lose? Why did he risk being late for his appointment, still frustrated and longing for that last lingering touch? He was going to have his fill of hopeless frustration later. But it was such an aphrodisiac now – to watch Tyler and want him and do nothing. It was icing on his cake. The agony of willpower. He walked into the clinic, filled to the brim with straining seed, wanting one last orgasm more than anything. They asked him if he wanted to take a moment to himself before they started. He said no. He hoped he wouldn’t regret it later.
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