California, USA
Part 1

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"$2500, that's as low as I'll go, bud." The salesman patted the hood of the old Chev convertible and gave me one of those well-rehearsed 'trust me' smiles. It suited his polka dot bow-tie and maroon-striped jacket admirably.

"I'll take it." Actually, I thought the old, red Yank Tank was a bargain. A snazzy car like that in Australia would have cost at least twice as much, and gas here was a lot cheaper so those eight pots wouldn't be a worry. Besides, there was something very erotic about the throaty burble of a V8 engine and the wind in your hair -- even if those old clunkers did handle like an overweight labrador on wet linoleum.

The sexy burble started to become decidedly unsexy about fifty miles south of Fort Bragg. The noise from under the hood sounded more like an out-of-balance washing machine on spin dry. I nosed the sick Chev into the lonely gas station, killed what was left of the motor and walked to the door. CLOSED FOR LUNCH. "Oh, fucking fine!" I wandered around the place. Nothing. Zilch. Just a few old cars in the process of either being pulled to pieces or re-assembled. I couldn't figure which. The only calming feature of this place was the nearby ocean and the fresh smell of salt air.

"Hi."

I turned to face the young voice. "G'day." There was a surfboard tucked under his arm. He was wearing colorful, baggy board-shorts that were threatening to plummet earthwards from his narrow hips at any moment. The rest of him was naked. His hair was sun-bleached blond and looked as though it had been suffering from a terminal comb allergy for his entire life, which I estimated to be about eighteen years. His skin was tanned and stretched taut over a trim, nicely muscled body.

"Is that OK?"

"Is what OK?"

"What I just said."

"Sorry. Did you say something?"

He grinned the most magnificent grin adorned with perfect rows of teeth. "I said Mike will be back shortly. Can I help you with anything?"

That was a loaded question, but one for which I had no immediate answer, except for the disgusting and inappropriate thoughts that were hurtling around in my mind like feral neutrons. "Well, I think the engine's had a coronary," was about the best response I could manage.

"Mike's a wizz with engines. He'll have you mobile in no time. Well, I've gotsta go! Surf's callin'. See ya!" He ran a few yards down a sandy track toward the beach when he stopped and turned. "Oh, I'm Mike's son, Kurt. See ya!" He ran another few steps and turned again. "Are you English?"

"Australian."

"Cool! Great surf down there! Byron Bay and all that! Bye!"

What was it about that kid? I'd seen him for all of two minutes but he was invading my grey matter big time. The weird thing was, as hard as I tried, I couldn't quite picture him in my mind. I rested my butt against the front fender of the Chev, rolled a Dr. Pat and tried to visualize Kurt, but all I could summon were bits and pieces -- the surfboard, the smile, the blond shaggy hair, the voice. I simply couldn't put the pieces of the puzzle together to form a complete mental image. One thing was certain, though, our brief encounter had made an enormous impression on me. But why, exactly? I lit the cigarette and watched the blue smoke catch the breeze and disappear.

"Hmmm, I reckon it's a broken con-rod. Piston's probably scored the cylinder wall too. Big job."

I looked at Mike hoping that he could come up with a cheap solution. "How big?"

"Depends. I can take this here engine apart or I can drop in a used one. There's a junk dealer's yard just down the road. He's got Chevy engines comin' outa his ass."

"Thanks for the charming visual," I laughed.

"Won't be 'til tomorrow, though, and it'll take me half a day to drop in the new engine. $250 I'd say. Charming what?"

"Oh, nothing. Done. By the way, is there a motel or hotel around here?"

"Not unless it was built this morning," he said in a dry voice devoid of humor. "You travelling through?"

"Yeah ... sightseeing ... no special plans."

"Your accent. Lemme guess. New Zealand?"

"Australian."

"Well, I've met a few of you Aussie folks. Friendly as heifers in heat. Tell you what. We've got a spare bed at the house. Nothin' fancy. $20."

"Done. Thanks, mate. By the way, my name's B."

Mike was grossly overweight with thinning, black hair. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, and bore no resemblance whatsoever to Kurt. I helped Mike push the red convertible into the workshop where he unbolted the engine from its mountings and transmission in readiness for lifting by a block-and-tackle attached to a large, wooden beam that ran the length of the roof.

"Your son seems to love surfing."

"He's a dreamer. Thinks he's gonna become professional. Doesn't wanna know about getting grease under his precious fucking finger nails. Trying to get that kid to help around here is like trying to win an argument with a woman." Mike wiped his nose on his cover-all sleeve and left a black grease mark across his face. "Kids today live in fucking fairy land."

Within an hour, the Chev's engine was dangling in mid-air, supported by four chains attached to each corner. "I'll drop this in the back of the pick-up. Should get maybe $50 for it from the junk dealer tomorrow."

"Hi, dad."

I turned to see Kurt standing behind us. He was dripping wet and slightly out of breath. His board was tucked under his arm, causing his golden-brown bicep to bulge and the tiny silver hairs to glisten. He used his spare hand to brush the long, blond hair from his face and gave me a broad, friendly grin.

"Sharks weren't hungry today, huh?" Mike muttered. "This is B. He's staying overnight." He looked back at me. "By the way, is that B with an 'e' two 'e's' or none?"

"Pick one."

I collected by bags and gear from the trunk, then followed the kid down a narrow road which hugged the natural perimeter of the beach. We were separated from the surf by a row of quaint houses with their back yards facing the road. Most of them looked like holiday shacks. Boards, wetsuits, bikes and the odd lazy dog littered the grassy areas. Theft was obviously not a big issue around these parts. It had a nice, neighborly feel. Yeah, it felt comfortable and relaxing--almost like home.

I purposely walked a few paces behind Kurt so that I could admire his natural curves. His naked back was quite broad and deep, no doubt due to constant paddling in the surf. His spine formed a pronounced groove between the firm muscle on either side, and ended just above the top of his shorts where a tantalizing inch of his ass crack was showing. His lat muscles were particularly prominent, which accentuated the narrowness of his waist and cute bubble buns. Compared to his substantial upper bulk, his legs were surprisingly slim but were nevertheless strong and well-defined. The fact that he was able to negotiate with ease the rough asphalt and stones suggested he'd spent a lot of his time barefooted.

"This is it," he announced as he headed to a wide gap in a wooden fence where a gate would have normally been. We walked along a path adjacent to a double-width garage. Beyond that was a small yard at the far end of which was an old, ramshackle timber house. "That's where the folks live. This is where I live." He leaned his board against the wall of the garage, opened the unlocked door and beckoned me to follow him inside. Part of the garage had been converted into a bedroom-cum-living room. Surfing posters adorned the walls. The air was rich with the smell of incense. Oil paintings were stacked in a corner next to a violin case and a saxophone. "That's your bed."

"This is my room? But where will you sleep?"

"Didn't Mike tell you you'd be sharing my room? Is that a problem?"

"Fuck no!" The words escaped from my lips before I could collect my thoughts. "I mean, it's fine by me if it's OK with you."

"Cool. You can tell me all about Australia. Let me show you the house. That's where the shower and stuff is."

Kurt led me along the straight hallway which stretched from the rear of the house all the way to the open front door. The breakers were just fifty yards away from the porch. The kid's front yard was literally a sandy beach. Awesome! "It's high tide now. The waves don't get any closer than that except for king tides. Pretty cool, huh? I'll introduce you to mom."

Kurt's mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner, using an old-fashioned fuel stove. Whatever she was cooking smelt totally delicious. "This is B, mom. He's sleeping over tonight while his car's in the workshop."

"Hello, I'm Grace." The gray-haired woman of about fifty wiped her hands on the apron she was wearing. "Pleased to meet you."

I'd hardly had time to shake Grace's hand when Kurt whisked me away to another part of the house. "I can see the family resemblance between you and your mother."

"Dad's my step-father. My real dad died when I was twelve." He pushed a door. "This is the bathroom. I'm gonna take a shower. Stick around. I'll only be a minute."

I watched him step out of his shorts and climb into the bathtub above which was a shower rose. A rail holding a plastic curtain ran around the top, but he left it open. I tried to keep my focus on his eyes but it wasn't easy. It was only when he put his face under the spray and closed his eyes that I got the chance to check his family jewels. Oh me, oh my. Oh, dear. And I was going to share a room with this awesome Adonis tonight? Jeez!

"So, tell me about Australia." Clouds of white, soapy foam scampered down his shiny, brown skin.

"Well, it's big," I said as my gaze refused to leave his soft six inches, "and it's totally awesome."

By the time my eyes had wandered back to his, he was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "You mean Australia?" I blushed and studied the floor. "Hey, man, don't worry about it. Lots of people stare at my dick. It's no big deal. Well, I guess it is, but you know what I mean," he laughed. He stepped out of the bath and wrapped a towel around his waist without drying himself. "Lemme show you some stuff. I don't often get a chance to brag to strangers, and the dudes who know me are sick of hearing it."

The sound of the violin was as sweet as I'd ever heard, but it seemed very odd to watch this boy-god perform so magnificently while dressed only in a towel. Even more at variance with his rugged, masculine physique was the way his little finger stood out so delicately as he moved the bow across the strings. In spite of that, he looked like a master of the instrument tucked under his chin, while his fingers danced lightly and expertly on the unfretted fingerboard. "Recognize it?"

I sat on the side of my bed and searched the furthest reaches of my mind. "Um..." I had no idea.

"Vivaldi, Four Seasons. Maybe you know this piece." He played a few bars and it was immediately familiar.

"The violin solo from Cat Stevens' 'Sad Lisa'. It's beautiful!"

"Hey, I paint too." He threw the violin and bow on the bed and darted over to the corner of the room where the canvases were stacked. This kid was in such a hurry to show me his work he must have thought I was going to evaporate into thin air within seconds if he didn't keep talking. He arranged a few examples against the wall and stood back. "Well?"

"Incredible! Truly brilliant!"

"You mean that? I mean, you come from a big city and all, and you've been around. Do you really think I'm talented?" At that precise moment, the towel lost its fragile grip on his slender hips and fell to the floor in a crumpled heap. He kicked it away, obviously unconcerned about his total nakedness. "I've got some photos of my paintings." He opened a drawer in his dresser, retrieved a paper wallet and stood next to me. As he handed me the pictures, one at a time, his monster dick was dangling just a foot from my face. I tried my best to concentrate on the images but managed to catch a glimpse or two of his perfect meat. It had a large, sculptured, cut head and a thick shaft which hung in a lazy arc away from his low hangers. The whole magnificent arrangement was crowned by a small, black bush from which two distinct lines diverged and travelled to the tops of his narrow hips, framing his flat lower abdomen. I was incredibly conscious of the warmth radiating from his body, or maybe it was his aura. I felt drawn to him like a magnet. "So, which one do you like best?"

"Actually, I, uh ..." I had to swallow to avoid choking on my words. My stomach was a mass of butterflies in panic mode. "They're all fantastic. But, if I had to choose, I'd say this one."

"Woohoo! I'm glad you like that one, B, 'cause that's my interpretation of my dad playing the sax. He used to be in a rock band before he died. Here, let me sign the back of the pic."

He took the photo over to his dresser and searched amongst the debris for a pen. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen such a beautiful ass. When he bent over to sign the pic, his dimpled globes parted slightly to reveal his delicious looking rosebud. Oh, my God, how on earth was I going to survive being alone with this Adonis all night in the same room? Jeez!

He turned and handed me the photo. I read what he'd written. 'To B from Kurt. xxx'.

I didn't have the nerve to ask what the three x's meant. "Thanks, Kurt. I really appreciate this and I'll treasure it forever back home in Australia. Which reminds me, I must take some photos of you before I go."

"Take some now!"

"Now? Oh! ... you mean like now?" Whoa! I reached for one of my bags, unzipped it and fumbled frantically around inside until I found the leather case containing the camera. I adjusted the settings and aimed the Canon at my awesome subject. "You wanna pick up the violin?"

"OK, sure." He placed the base of the instrument under his chin, held the bow as if he was about to launch into Beethoven's whatever and posed. "Do you want me to put the towel back on?"

"NO!" I shrieked without thinking. "I mean, no." I cleared my throat. "Not unless you want to." I placed my finger on the shutter button. "OK, smile!"

I'd taken a few shots when he threw the violin on the bed but kept the bow in his hand. "Hey!" he laughed. "How about this one?" He took the head of his dick in his fingers and placed the bow on his thick, veiny shaft as if to play a tune on his enormous cock. His boyish grin was priceless as I snapped a couple of pics.

I was gaining a little confidence by now. "How about a shot of you playing the violin with your dick."

"Cool! I'll have to get it hard, though. It'll be quicker if you do it. Is that OK?"

I dropped the Canon on the bed and proceeded to stroke his awesome piece of meat. At least, this time, I had an excuse to study its magnificence in fine detail. As it grew harder, it began to dwarf my fist. Its head could have choked a horse. "Have you measured this thing?"

"Eight and a half." He seemed so proud of it, and yet so naive about what was occurring. I could only assume that, in spite of his eighteen years, he was still a child in many ways. His innocence and uninhibited zest for boyish, playful fun was a potent mix. In just half a day, he'd won my heart completely.

I clicked away as he posed with his rock-hard boner laying across the strings, while his fingers danced over the fingerboard. He was laughing the whole time as if this was the most hilarious moment of his life. His joy was incredibly infectious, so much so I had to pause between shots to regain my composure. Meantime, I couldn't help wondering if this kid had any idea at all of the enormous impact he was having on me -- or my dick, for that matter. There was a large wet patch on my jeans already. Surely he couldn't have been that naive.

"Too bad you won't be around to show me the pics," he sighed as I removed the floppy from the back of the Canon.

"They're on this disk. This is a digital camera. And I've got my laptop with me." I explained how the whole digital thing worked, and how I could make a copy on disk for him to keep.

"Awesome, man! That is just so fucking cool! Can we see them now?"

I looked at my watch. "What time is dinner?"

"Oh, shit! We'd better get inside or mom'll bust a gut."

The food was simple but delicious. Pot roast, steamed vegetables, freshly baked bread, real butter and home-made beer to wash it all down.

"Well, I've been brewing my own for some time now, B. Reckon I've just about got it perfected. Better go easy, though," Mike chuckled proudly, "it's 10% alcohol."

As we ate, I answered the usual questions about life in Australia. "It's similar to the US in culture, I guess, but it has its differences. It's far more sparsely populated. We've got less than 20 million people in a country the size of continental USA." I went on to explain that kangaroos really didn't hop down Sydney's streets, that we celebrated Christmas in 90 degree temperatures on the beach, and that some of our outback farms were bigger than the state of Texas.

Kurt, dressed only in his board shorts, was more interested in asking about the surf, which prompted a harsh rebuke from his step father. "Damn waste of time, if you ask me. That and your arty-farty painting and dang screechy fiddle." He looked over at me. "I suppose the boy's given you the usual tour of his room. Hope he didn't bore you."

"Quite frankly, I found it all fascinating." My honest but obviously tactless remark put an immediate and chilly end to the dinner conversation.

Kurt finished his meal quickly, excused himself from the table and walked up the hall leading to the beach. I thought it indiscreet to follow him immediately, so I stayed for dessert, then helped Grace with the dishes. Mike had wandered off to another part of the house.

"I'm sorry I upset Mike."

"Don't be. It wasn't your fault. It's just that he's disappointed in Kurt for not helping out at the shop. Music and art don't pay the bills, I'm afraid."

"And what do you think of your son's talent?"

"Well, he's the spitting image of his father -- his real father. But he's a dreamer like Harry was," she lamented. "Besides, father and son business is men's business and I don't interfere. Lord knows it would only make things worse around here."

I'd convinced Grace to allow me to put a $5 bill on the table, took two bottles of beer from the fridge plus two fresh glasses and went looking for Kurt. He was a lone figure sitting on the beach just a few yards from the shore break. He had his arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees. As I approached, I couldn't help noticing how his lats accentuated the width of his muscular back which narrowed abruptly at his small waist. The sun had only recently set and the orange/purple glow from the horizon was absolutely magic. A scattering of cumulus cloud added to the romantic effect, while a gentle sea breeze cooled the peaceful evening air.

"I didn't think you'd come," he said, turning his head and smiling.

I sat beside him on the sand and poured two beers. "I didn't wanna make it too obvious to your folks." I took the pouch of Dr. Pat out of my shirt pocket and casually rolled a smoke. He declined my offer of a cigarette, put his sexy lips to the glass and sipped for a moment.

He was gazing out to sea, deep in thought, before he finally spoke without looking at me. "You're so lucky being free and independent, B. You can do what you like, when you like, how you like. Right now, I wish I was you."

I didn't know where the courage came from -- maybe it was the incredibly beautiful atmosphere of the pounding surf and the soft glow of the colorful sky; the solitude of two friends sitting on a deserted beach; the increasingly strong affection I was feeling toward my new companion -- but somehow I managed to say exactly what was on my mind. "Well, Kurt, if you were me right now, you'd be sitting alongside somebody very special in a very special place."

He smiled briefly. However, a full two minutes elapsed before he spoke again. The vacuum had given me time to wonder if I'd said the wrong thing. Apparently I hadn't. "All the guys around here think I'm some kind of weirdo because of the music and painting thing. Oh sure," he shrugged, "they think I'm a cool surfer and all that shit, but you're different. You really appreciated my stuff this afternoon -- I could tell. And for some reason, I was able to do all that kooky stuff while you took pictures ... hey! The pictures!"

"Finish what you were saying."

"Huh? Oh, well you thought it was fun too. I mean, like you were totally cool about it. My dorky friends around here would have totally freaked if they'd seen all that stuff I was doing." He stood up and wiggled his hips like some crazy hula dancer. "So, man, let's go check out the pics on your laptop! Woohoo!"

"Settle, Kurt. Easy, mate. Just let me enjoy this special time. Wait 'til it gets dark." I poured another two beers. "I want to make the most of every precious second here."

He sat down beside me again and raised his beer. "Here's to my good ol' Aussie mate, B."

Our glasses clinked. We both took a gulp before I corrected him. "It's pronounced 'ozzie' not 'ossie'. But thanks anyway, my awesome Yankee bud."

"You really mean that? Like awesome?" He picked up a handful of sand and sprinkled it over his sexy bare feet. How I loved his feet. "I mean, I live in this fucking dumb little town -- well, except for the surf -- and you've been like all over. So how come this is so special?" He faced me and allowed me to absorb the wonderful innocence in his young brown eyes, the sun-bleached eyebrows, the tanned face that was peeling a little here and there, the full sensuous slightly-parted lips, the perfect white teeth, the unruly mop of blond hair that said so much about his wild spirit. "Well?"

I started to laugh. The more I thought about how this Adonis was so completely unaware of himself and his magic, the more I laughed. He was a god in a world with no mirrors. Then it occurred to me that perhaps Mike had shattered all the metaphoric mirrors in Kurt's world.

"What's so funny?"

"Actually, now that I've thought about it, nothing. But in order for you to appreciate how I see this beach and how I see you right now -- right at this very moment -- we'd need to swap places. I'm just so glad that the old Chev decided to pack it when it did. It was fated. It gave me a chance to meet ... no! a chance to be with one amazing young dude. I don't think you have the slightest idea about just how impressive you are, Kurt. Actually, that's part of your charm. I hope you stay exactly the way you are for a very, very long time."

We both became lost in our own thoughts as we sipped our beers and watched the light slowly fade from the sky, bringing another summer day to a gentle close. Perhaps, though, it wasn't so much an ending as a new beginning for two strangers whose paths, I felt, were destined to cross.

"Shit!" Kurt exclaimed as he stared incredulously at the image on the laptop screen. "Am I really that big?"

"Yep." I clicked on another pic. "See?"

"Whoa! That's totally rad! Hey, this is way cool! Lemme see the others!" He grabbed the laptop and proceeded to click through the pics. His reactions were a mixture of laughter and disbelief as each image scrolled down the screen. It was so funny to watch him observing himself in situations that were totally foreign to his normal behaviour. On another level, I assumed that he was enjoying seeing pictures of himself in a rebellious mode -- doing things of which his step-father would never approve.

At his insistence, I shot some more pics of him in van Gogh mode. Unlike the 19th century master, however, this tanned, wild-haired teen was as naked as the day he was born, but much more interesting now, of course. He held the palette in his left hand while he painted with his right. Even naked, he looked poised and professional. Indeed, he was himself an exquisite work of art. It was the little things that caught my eye -- like when he raised his arm to paint and revealed his armpit with its smattering of blond hair and soft, creamy skin that the sun hadn't touched. A few inches further down, his ripe, brown nipples were perched proudly at the edge of his magnificently defined pecs. And as he dabbed his brush on the canvas, his long, steel lat danced erotically over his ribs. Whenever he moved back from the easel to examine his work, his thick, soft dick swayed heavily while his buns tensed and contracted with each step. To say that I was completely spellbound would have been the epitome of understatement.

"You're a fantastic photographer, B," he enthused as he reviewed the pics on the computer.

"Well, I suppose you're an OK model for an amateur, mate," I joked. Our eyes met and, for a split second, there was a strange sort of communication lapse -- as if we both had something to say that neither of us had the courage to utter. It was gone in a flash, though, and we enjoyed another beer as we chatted and checked the pics again.

It was such a pleasant experience being with Kurt, I didn't want to sleep. I was hoping to enjoy his youthful exuberance all night long. But the beer put paid to that. We were both very sleepy by about 10pm and flopped onto our respective beds. We'd rolled the covers down because it was a hot night, and were in the land of nod within seconds.

"B?" I felt somebody shaking me. "B?"

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and eventually recognized my new friend kneeling beside my bed. "What is it?"

"Can I talk to you?"

"What time is it?"

"About 4am, but I need to talk."

"Sure."

He laid on his side next to me on the bed and cradled his head in his hand. "I've been thinking about this for the last few hours and I figured I just had to tell you some stuff. I hope you don't get mad at me." I waited for him to continue. "I couldn't help thinking about how cool it felt when you stroked my dick to get it hard for the photo." He paused briefly. "Can I ask you something?" I nodded. "Did you like doing that to me?" I nodded again. The butterflies were beginning to stir big time in my gut. "I was hoping you'd say that, B," he smiled. "Can I ask you another question?" I nodded a third time and began to wonder if this was a dream. "Have you ever had sex with a guy?"

The word 'yes' managed to escape from my lips. I knew exactly what his next question would be. By this time, the butterflies had gone absolutely berserk.

"Well, I've had a feeling that you liked me ever since we met -- y'know, like I just kind of knew, somehow."

I decided to let my eyes do the talking. I didn't want to risk spoiling this most awesome moment with frivolous one-liners. He leaned forward and brought our faces closer together, then paused momentarily to study my eyes while his mop of tousled hair dangled in my face. He was satisfied that I was not an unwilling recipient of his advance and moved even closer until our lips gently touched. I felt as though I was floating, such was the love that flowed from this remarkable boy into me. He took my hand and placed it on his cock which, by now, was rock hard. I ran my thumb over its smooth, bulbous head and felt the wetness of his pre-cum. My stomach churned with excitement and anticipation.

I managed to untangle my face from his killer blond locks and dragged myself to a half-sitting position with my back against the bed-head. I asked the bronzed Adonis to kneel over my chest.

"What do you want me to do?" There was an element of excitement in his voice as if he were expecting something unusual and adventurous to happen soon. This wasn't a time for Shakespeare or some romantic metaphor. This was a time for down-to-earth, unabashed, no-nonsense language.

"Fuck my face, Kurt." I said softly.

His eyes lit up and a massive grin spread from ear to ear. He bent his throbber down so that it was level with my mouth. For a second or two I was able to study its frightening length and thickness and wonder how on earth I was going to open wide enough to accommodate it. Even his balls appeared large enough to contain sufficient juice to drown an elephant.

Miraculously, the first four inches or so of his monster managed to enter my mouth. There was no need to keep my lips tightly wrapped around his shaft -- they were already stretched to their limit! His pelvic motion gradually increased its tempo and, as I relaxed, his awesome dick managed to intrude deeper into my face. Every thrust caused me to gag but I didn't care. I wanted him to remember this as the best head he'd ever had or would have. My only mission was to please him.

When he'd gotten into a regular rhythm, I used one hand to massage his muscular ass and the other to fondle his awesome hangers. My tongue rode his knob and shaft as my fingers slowly worked their way into his ass crack and found his moist, steamy rosebud. After a few minutes, his first groan and arched back signalled the impending fireworks. I stuck my finger deep into his willing hole as his swollen head thumped the roof of my mouth. The first of his wads exploded like a canon and filled my mouth with the delicious taste of his juice. His hands gripped my head as his balls kept pumping their huge missiles of thick, sticky cream down my throat. I was still swallowing like crazy even after he'd fired the last of his awesome load. His body slumped forward while he held my face to his crotch and let his giant eight and a half shrink back to its lazy six in my mouth. Finally, I took it out and licked the last pearl of cum from its shiny pink slit.

Kurt had no words to say. He got off the bed, picked up the violin and played a few bars of Sad Lisa, then something else that was not familiar to me, but which was incredibly lovely and moving. What was patently obvious, though, was that he wanted to thank me with music rather than words. Several tears welled in my eyes and eventually led to my weeping softly. It was the most sensitive, beautiful and meaningful thank-you I had ever received.

"Last one in's a cock sucker," Kurt laughed as he ran down beach toward the shore break. I watched him kneel on his board and paddle out through the breakers. Meantime, I was content with a little body surfing. None of that fucking hero stuff for me, thank you very much. It did the job, though. I felt wonderfully alive and invigorated as I emerged from the surf after about ten minutes of being battered and bruised and swallowing half of the Pacific Ocean. I collapsed on the sand to let the early morning sun dry my skin while I watched the wizz-kid tame the waves. God, he was sensational. So supple, so precise, so astonishingly agile. He and that fibreglass stick were as one as they zipped and skipped and flipped over and under the waves. I waited until he was done surfing before I aimed the Canon at him running up the beach with his board tucked under his arm. The lens wasn't suited to long tele-photo shots so I didn't bother shooting him performing out the back. It was a pity, but them's the breaks. As he approached the camera, he looked absolutely sensational -- a free spirit -- an inspiration -- a living god if ever there was one.

"Well, let's see if she starts." Mike reached for the ignition and turned the key. After a couple of revolutions, the old V8 fired and settled into a lazy rhythm. "Sounds fine to me. Probably last a hundred thou."

"Thanks, Mike." I opened the trunk, loaded my bags and followed him into the office [such as it was] to pay my bill. It was extremely difficult to prevent the tears from welling in my eyes and my bottom lip from trembling as I settled my account. I'd hoped Kurt would have been there to say goodbye but he'd said he had other stuff to take care of. Damn, I was gonna miss that kid like hell. The thought of calling in on the way back to San Francisco was the only thing that kept me from falling to pieces. Was I in love? Maybe. Infatuated? Probably. In awe? Certainly.

About a mile down the road, I spotted a kid hitching. A surfboard was tucked under his arm. I slowed the car and pulled over. The kid put his board, violin case and canvas bag on the back seat, flicked the unruly blond hair from his eyes, then slid in beside me.

"I'm coming with you, B. Don't fuckin' argue."

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