Close Up 1

He wasn’t looking. He was talking to a woman sitting at a table across the pool from me, but he was looking sideways at her and giving me a full-frontal view, so I snapped off a few photos. I captured the whole effect of him, just out of the pool, body beautiful, with beads of water glistening off his body in the sun.

Then a few close-ups. One of his male-model handsome face: reddish-blond hair, square jaw, clean-shaven dimpled chin, gorgeous smile. Another of his torso: muscular, but not musclebound, beefy for a guy probably in his mid-thirties, swirls of the reddish blond hair around his pecs, descending in a line down his sternum and flat belly. A hint, possibly, of a fringe of pubic hair in the same color, but what I could see of that was probably just wishful thinking. And then a close-up of his pelvis. His suit wasn’t a Speedo, but it pulled nicely across his crotch. I think in a blow up I could get the curve of the cock and balls.

I didn’t know his name. I called him Mr. Wonderful, and I had been fantasizing about him ever since we’d both been coming to the pool of the Beaufort Christian Academy in the mornings before the classes started.

The school had the best pool for swimming laps to be had in the Beaufort, South Carolina, area, and, through contact with the English department chairman here, Kate Hamilton, my publisher had arranged for me to be able to use the pool. Apparently, others in town had the same arrangement, as there was a group of us out here swimming laps in the mornings before classes started.

I usually used lap time as a time to pull down inspirations for my writing—I wrote coming-of-age books; two kinds of them in genres I kept strictly separate by pen name. My Christian theme young adult books got me invited to book festivals and bookstore signings. My coming-out-gay books made more money. My publisher wanted more of each but said New York City had become too distracting for me—that I needed to get away.

Taking a long-term rental in the isolated town of Beaufort, South Carolina, off the beaten path of almost anywhere between Charleston and Hilton Head, seemed a good place to get away from the New York swirl.

“It’s picturesque; a sleepy little southern harbor town. Movies are made there,” Sara, my publishing house representative, said. “There should be inspiration aplenty.”

She’d been right. My muse had latched onto Mr. Wonderful, here, mornings at the academy pool. It had blotted out any inspiration I might have for Christian-themed coming-of-age novels. I could feed my gay coming-of-age muse, though.

To be blunt, I ached to fuck Mr. Wonderful. I didn’t even know anything about him other than he looked sexy in a bathing suit. I just knew that I fantasized about having him under me and being inside him.

I swam laps to clear my mind and let story ideas filter in. But he was usually in the pool swimming laps at the same time. All I could think of while I swam, with him one or two lanes over, was how many positions I could put him in. That certainly wasn’t a Christian theme. And it wasn’t a gay coming-of-age theme either. We both were way beyond the coming-of-age stage. Both of us were somewhere in our mid-thirties.

Now that I had taken the photo shots of him, I was obsessed with getting them printed. I had already set up a darkroom in the old bungalow in Fiddler’s Cove I was renting, because I wanted to indulge in my photography hobby as well as get two novels written to check off my contract with my publisher. Still I waited.

I waited until I saw Mr. Wonderful leave the pool area and then I followed him into the locker room. He was in the shower and I got in there too before he left. His body was even more beautiful naked than with the swimsuit on. Our bodies were comparable. We’d both stayed in shape. His hair was that reddish-blond color all the way to the trimmed bush. I was dark haired. We probably had the same covering of body hair, which was slight and more a frame for our pecs and a trail down into our pubes, but mine was black and curly, so more noticeable.

We were both slim hipped, with pert buttocks and distinct hollows below the hips. And we were both hung. We could make beautiful love together, trading off who did what to whom. I was so turned on by possibilities that I had to turn away from him or he would have known it.

I deeply regretted that I couldn’t somehow get a camera in to the showers and memorialize his naked body. I dreamed of taking a close-up of his cock and balls while just inches from them and before taking his cock in my mouth.

I drove straight home to the bungalow in Fiddler’s Cove, which was south of the Beaufort waterfront and around the curve of highway 802 going on to the Marine training base at Parris Island. The house, a one-story Carolina-style bungalow clad in weather-beaten wood, was on a longish dirt and gravel drive off the road to Parris Island. The house was set off on its own just above the water and up against a bend in the Beaufort River, looking back at the Beaufort waterfront. It was the photogenic view of the town waterfront at various times of day from here that had sold me on the house.

The house itself was both too big and too derelict for what I was used to, but I’d been told that there was nothing I could do to it that would impact on a security deposit and I had immediately seen how a back bedroom would be turned into a darkroom and that a sun porch on the back, overlooking the river in three directions and cooled by the wonk-wonk of a ceiling fan would be perfect for writing, so I took it.

I almost exploded out of the car when I got there and went straight to the darkroom. Not too long after I had blow ups of Mr. Wonderful that I could hang to dry and then I went to the kitchen to find a bottle of bourbon and a glass. I took a couple of swigs and then, carrying both glass and bottle, went back to my computer in the sunroom and sat there and pondered.

And pondered and pondered. I wasn’t in the writing mood. I was in the fucking mood, to be honest. That was the mood my publisher had wanted to get me out of by sending me out of New York. It had bummed a ride with me, though.

I couldn’t have Mr. Wonderful. At least tonight. Maybe sometime down the road, but not tonight. When the photos dried, I’d have some close-ups of him, I thought. I could pin them up somewhere and sit in front of them and masturbate—and no doubt I would—but not before they dried. I didn’t want to take the chance I’d mar them with a smudged fingerprint.

In the meantime there was the computer. I’d already made use of my subscriptions to a few video sites and, desperate, and not having found anything in cruising on the one street of bars and restaurants in Beaufort, I’d even looked into the local hookup sites on the Internet. I’d paid for it occasionally in New York. I wasn’t embarrassed to do that if I got value for the money. I’d been paid for it myself when I was younger. Indeed, my first coming-of-age gay books had been autobiographical, going from being a rent-boy on the streets of New York to an escort in my early twenties. There then had been the period of being paid in apartments and cars and travel rather than cash by sugar daddies. Now, at thirty-five, I got it by being interesting or recognized as an author. And sometimes I paid for it.

I would pay Mr. Wonderful for it if I had the opportunity. But I bet he’d be insulted. He’d either want it too or could get what he wanted elsewhere. And to have access to the pool he was swimming in, he probably had too much money already to need to fuck for money.

I’d found nothing in hookups on the Internet in the Beaufort area. There was Hilton Head and Savannah to the south and Charleston to the north. All three were lucrative sources for rent-boys and hookups. I had subscribed to the Savannah and Charleston sites.

I pushed everything aside and forced myself to put in a full day of writing. I denied myself more than one glass of bourbon, albeit it was a tall glass, perusing the hookup sites on the Internet or going into the dark room after the close-up photos of Mr. Wonderful until I’d written at least four thousand words to a Christian teen novel.

I won’t say I’m not disciplined. I was able to carry out my daily contract with myself—indeed it was just such negotiating with myself that kept novels of mine in the pipeline well enough for the synergy of moving buyers of one novel right on to buying one coming out when they finished reading the previous one.

It was getting dark when I typed the last of the four thousand words, though, and, looking at the dirty dishes on the table by the computer, I couldn’t even remember what I’d fixed myself for dinner.

I stood up and stretched. I was about to turn and go into the darkroom for the photos of Mr. Wonderful. But then I said, “What the hell,” out loud to the river flowing just outside the windows in the twilight, poured myself a slug of bourbon and tossed it off, and sat back down at the computer.

I went to the Charleston hookup site. It would show me some photos, but not many and no specifics on the guys unless I joined and filled in portfolio information myself. What the hell, I thought, and opened the application. It wasn’t so bad. I could answer truthfully, if generically, and be impressive enough, I thought. I’d tell the truth about the age off the top. No use spinning wheels, lying about that, and being closed down at the first face to face. Besides, bottoms didn’t mind going with tops that old. The problem was the other way around usually.

E-mail: I gave it. Phone number (optional): I didn’t give it. Height: six foot even. Weight: 185. Tell the truth about that as well. Build type: muscular. When you can say it, say it. Profession: novelist. That was true. That was an “advantage” answer too. Interests: writing, art, music, swimming, tennis, fucking. Race: Caucasian. Hair color: black. Smooth/Hirsute?: light pattern. Cut/uncut: cut. Cock length: seven and a half. Another area not to fudge too much with, and I was proud of mine. Finding by sight that you were off by a couple of inches meant a quick backout. Thick? yes. Preference: Versatile, but mostly top. Availability: Anytime. Location: Beaufort, S.C. Range: From Charleston down to Savannah; have wheels and accommodations. Comments: Horny and ready to rock your world. Rates/Willing to Pay: either; I’ve been paid; I would pay.

Then the kicker. Download photos—bare body shot, head shot, bare torso shot, cock shot.

God, they wanted it all. And they’d want it real. This wasn’t about cybersex; this was about face-to-face sex. And, it was OK with me. I didn’t see any reason to be scared of this. I hadn’t had any complaints—yet. I wouldn’t give the head shot in New York, but this was out-of-the-way South Carolina.

OK, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do this. I picked up my cell phone, went into the bathroom, where there was a full-length mirror on the back of the door. I stripped down. Holding the cell phone out of the frame of the picture on a stick, I snapped a full length. Then close-ups of my face and torso. They didn’t ask, but I did two dick shots—flaccid and hard. I didn’t have anything to hide there.

Application submitted and accepted and suddenly the world of gay male hookups in Charleston opened up to me. There were more than a dozen of them immediately. I’d just go through some of them tonight. I’d get more serious tomorrow. I was being distracted by going back and forth between guys in the search file and guys pinging on me. I got a dozen at once pinging interest in me and that was intruding in my own search of the files so much that I just sat back, sipping bourbon, and going over the expressions of interest.

I was leaning back on two legs of the chair, merrily watching the screen scroll through and rubbing my dick through the material of my shorts from the bluntness of some of the offers, with my cock going hard, when I whistled, set the chair back onto all fours, and muttered, “Holy Shit.”

It was him—Mr. Wonderful—but it wasn’t really him. It was what he surely looked like when he was in his early twenties. The smile was the same, though. The color of the hair was the same. He was slender, with a twink’s body. He claimed to be twenty. Nice face, no body hair, very nice shy smile, nice cock. He looked fresh. From his join date, he’d only been there for a week. His stats showed a high number of interests, but no references. He liked my portfolio—a lot, he said. Both my photos and profile made him hard, he said. He charged $50 an hour during the act and $20 for side hours, plus travel and entertainment expenses, and would come to Beaufort, but I’d have to come get him in Charleston. He was a student—art and dance—at Charleston College. He’d travel but he didn’t have wheels. He could meet me tonight. He’d love me to fuck him.

“Holy shit,” I exclaimed. I bent over the computer and banged out a bid. “Interested. Rate is fine. I’d bring you to Beaufort and take you back. Soonest is tomorrow, May 10th.”

A message came back almost immediately: “How about pickup and checkout at Dudley’s, 42 Ann Street at 4:30 afternoon? They open at 4:00. I’d have to be back at college at 10:00.”

I answered, “I’ll be there. Can you shoot a shot of you naked, jacking off, to my cell phone now? I want confirmation you are your file photos and I want to get it off on you before tomorrow. $20 extra.” I gave him my phone number. It was a crude request, but if I was going to do an hour drive to Charleston, I wanted to know he was serious.

“You first,” came the reply, “and I won’t charge for my live photo.” He provided a cell phone number. I went into the bathroom, straddled the toilet seat, jacked myself hard, took a cell phone shot, and fired it off to him.

It took a few minutes, but he sent a photo back. He had a nice hard on. And he sent a short vid, not just a single shot. After hyperventilating for a few minutes, I took the phone, went into the dark room and retrieved the torso and crotch shots of Mr. Wonderful, which were dry; took the phone and photos into my bedroom; and stretched out on the bed. Bending my knees, I propped the phone and the photos up on my thigh so that I could see them in the background while watching myself jack myself off. Then I masturbated myself to a nice-load ejaculation and dozed off.

“Tomorrow I get laid,” I whispered as I nodded off.

In New York, when I was selling myself, I got laid every night. Sometimes twice or three times a day. Here, in sleepy little Beaufort? Not yet.

* * * *

My first use of Ethan’s ass—that was the name the rent-boy gave me, Ethan—didn’t go real well. He kept clinching and telling me I was too big. I went for some time assuming he was being coy, the way rent-boys are prone to do. Rent-boys should be ready to take a big one. But I decided that maybe he was being literal, because I only got it in a couple of inches and he was impossibly tight and closing his passage down. He’d been fine with the sucking, so I guess my observation that he seemed fresh was more relevant than I’d thought.

I didn’t get irritated, though, because I’d been so horny and ready for it that the effort of spiking him and not having gotten any for a couple of weeks had me finished off with just that much. And, as I said, his sucking before that had been fine and had put me on the edge.

I had been so horny for the guy who looked like a younger Mr. Wonderful that I’d changed plans for the day.

When we met at the Dudley’s “anything goes” bar and had both confirmed quickly that we were who we’d been in the photos we’d exchanged and that that was just fine, I said, “So, you’ll go with me? I had the $50 out in two twenties and a ten and showed them to him.”

“Sure, that’s fine,” he said.

“I’ve got a room at the Motel 6 on Ashley Phosphate Road,” I said. “We’ll do it there. Then I’ll take you to dinner and drive you back to your college.” I picked the Motel 6 because it was only one star and my experience with Motel 6s and my observation of the neighborhood it was in was that we wouldn’t have trouble. I didn’t know if the rent-boy was going to be a screamer. I wanted a place where nobody would care if he was.

“A motel here? I thought we were going to Beaufort.”

“I couldn’t wait that long for it with you in a car with me,” I answered. That seemed to please him and it had the advantage of being the truth. Besides it was neutral ground. If this went sour, I’d just bail on him.

When we got out on the street and I took him to the car, a new Nissan 370Z sports coup, he whistled and said, “Nice ride, Chris.” He said like he was surprised, and I knew why.

I’d given him my real first name, but not my last. “It’s leased,” I answered. And it was—not because I couldn’t afford a flash sports car but because I normally lived in New York City and had no need for a car there. But so that he didn’t get the wrong impression, I said. “I didn’t book at the Motel 6 because I’m cheap, Ethan. I’ll take you to a good restaurant for dinner. I booked there because we’re using it to fuck, not lounge in, and we don’t want to attract attention. Lots of people use Motel 6 to fuck anonymously in, and the Motel 6 people respect that.”

That seemed to satisfy him. And no reason why it shouldn’t, because it was the truth. I kept looking at him to see him as a younger Mr. Wonderful, and the similarities were there—the ready smile and the graceful walk.

So, inside the room we stood and swayed against each other, feeling each other up as we kissed. I backed up and sat on one of the beds—it was a double—two double beds—and there wasn’t much room after what the beds took up—and he knelt between my thighs and went right for my zipper and my cock. He treated the cock right, although in retrospect I realized there wasn’t any deep-throating. Worked up quicker than I normally was—because it had been an unusually long time since I’d had it—I lifted and bent him over the bed when I decided I needed to back up on the work on my cock, pulled his trousers and bikini briefs down, pulled around to kneel behind him, and sucked his cock and balls and got his anus wet and, I thought, open.

When I stood and crouched over him and put my crowned cock in position, he closed right down on me and started the “God, you’re big. Too big,” complaining routine. He was trembling and panting heavily too.

He obviously wasn’t a seasoned rent-boy. Well that was OK. It was just as good to break one in. It just meant this was going to cost me more than the $50, though, because it was going to take more time. That was OK too. I just didn’t mean to leave until he’d taken it all. That was the main point here. He wasn’t trying to back out. He was making no effort to leave.

He clearly was upset after that. He knew he hadn’t given professional service. Personally, I was a bit thrilled I had had a neophyte to work with. I took pains to assure him we were doing fine—and that we weren’t finished. I coddled and cuddled him as we sat side by side on the bed. And I kissed and fondled him and exchanged small talk with him. He was calming down and relaxing. He stiffened a bit when I pulled him onto my lap and fondled and kissed him some more—and let him feel I was hard for him.

I didn’t want to try anything fancy until he was mellowed out and was opening to me, so, assuring him we’d take it slow and easy, I took him in a bent-over-the-foot-of-the-bed doggie fuck again. I took it slow, taking my time getting in the first three inches and working his cock to take his mind off what was happening in his passage. He struggled against me and cried out when, feeling him relax, I quickly fed him nearly three more inches in a thrust. Then I held there, embracing him and calming him down and giving him time to adjust to me before I gave him the last couple of inches and pumped for a good fifteen minutes like that—beyond his shoot off—before I released into the bulb of the condom. By then, he was just lying in my arms, loose as a rag doll, and moaning.