Remote Controlled Boat

NOTE: This story contains gay sex. I repeat (for those who missed it the first time and in a desperate attempt to stop those people who insist on complaining about such content, even though I've always mentioned it ahead of time); THIS STORY CONTAINS GAY SEX. Some of which is between people of vastly differing ages. However, there are NO sexual encounters involving anyone under the age of 18. But still; THIS STORY CONTAINS GAY SEX!!!!! As such, if this is not your thing, please look for your entertainment elsewhere and please do not criticise the existence of GAY SEX in this story in the comments, although I welcome (indeed, I expect) criticism of the quality of the narrative itself.

NOTE 2: This story is fictional and inspired by a tale in a book I read some twenty-odd years ago, though much changed and from the point of view of a completely different character.

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As I look back on it now, the whole thing was so obviously a setup that it amazes me that we fell for the thing hook, line and sinker. The remote controlled boat. The "battery failure". The convenient Airbnb. The games. The stories. The rest of it. All a complete setup. And we fell for it like a noob at a World Championship Poker Tournament!

I had lived in the rental property a few miles from our university in the north of England, with three of my long-term friends, for just under a year when this happened. Of the four of us, I, Jamie, was the youngest and the only one still only 18, though I would turn 19 just over two months after that fateful day. My housemates were Connor, Robbie and Sammy. Never Samuel ("only my parents get away with calling me Samuel") and definitely never Sam. Never! To this day, I don't know why!

It had been extraordinarily lucky that each of us - all of us having been friends for ten years or more - wanted to attend the same university. We were all doing a Sports Science degree for various reasons inasmuch as each of us planned a different career, but the course worked for all of us.

It wasn't the most prestigious university in the country, all of those were in the south, but what it lacked in prestige it made up for in the fact that the people who went there weren't stuck-up twats! We had all agreed that, since the course was the same all over the country, and the university we ended up going to still had a very decent track record, that was good enough.

The academic year had been harder than we had anticipated, but it was now over. Although each of us would be going home to see our families over the next few weeks, this was that blissful time between the end of academia and the long, boring days of being moaned at by our families for not visiting them more often (seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was that same moaning which was the main reason that we didn't visit them more often!)

Bright was the sun and glad were our hearts as wander we did through the leafy green park a mile or so from our rented domicile, never fearing the dark fate that would befall before the day was through.

(Did you like that? Very prosaic, wasn't it? Bullshit. But very prosaic!)

Pointless prose notwithstanding, the weather was very warm and sunny and the four of us were in t-shirts and jeans as we walked through the park doing nothing more than people-watching. The park was a favoured haunt of ours as it was large enough to be popular with those living nearby, but still small enough that the majority of people from the nearby city a few miles away didn't pay it any attention. It was pleasant to walk around, had a lovely man-made lake in the middle of it and, on warm, balmy days like this, often had young women lounging in their underwear or bikinis soaking up the rays. It was this last fact that was probably the most important - at least at the time.

We had been ogling the young women around the park for about half an hour (being of the opinion that, if they didn't want people seeing them in their skimpy outfits, they shouldn't be wearing them) when we found ourselves at the lake.

The lake itself was maybe a quarter of a mile across and was basically a large concrete upside-down dome reaching maybe six feet deep in the middle, but only about six inches deep on its edge. When the primary schools let out for summer in a few more days, you wouldn't be able to get close to the lake without practically over falling little kids paddling around the edges and scaring their parents shitless with worry that little Timmy might get a few inches too deep and drown himself, although such an occurrence had, as far as I know, never actually happened.

But today, the lake was mostly empty. There were a couple of young people, like ourselves, wandering around the edges and, sitting on a bench on the far side of the lake, the guy we had taken to calling "Homeless Nick", a man whom (we knew) was no more homeless than we were, but who apparently had an aversion to cleanliness and a scraggly beard and hair that made his plaintive pleas for money a little more believable. I always felt he might have been a bit more successful if only his little paper begging cup wasn't a) from a well-known - and expensive - coffee shop chain and b) always brand new.

And, for a change, two old men - probably in their mid-sixties - who we didn't know. One of them was much shorter than the other and held a remote control in his hands. The two of them were intently watching a large, scale model of a battleship, that was currently going around on the lake.

"That looks like the

Yamato

," Sammy opined. We didn't argue. Although we all loved our history - and World War II was a particular passion of mine - Sammy was the authority on naval vessels. As such, we were pretty sure he was likely to be correct.

"Very good, son," the man not controlling the boat said. "You know your ships!"

Sammy knew his ships. He also was extremely shy and hated being praised for anything, blushing profusely whenever it happened. As such, he now turned a pretty impressive bright red. The rest of us laughed at him, good-naturedly. We all have things that embarrass us.

"Did you build that?" Robbie asked, winning the Jamie Award for Dumbest Question Of The Day (a highly prestigious accolade that Robbie won almost every day).

"Who the fuck else would have built it," I countered. "Noah?" It was Robbie's turn to blush.

"Yep," the old man said, his accent clearly not local. "Took us about two years give or take."

"It's huge," Connor said, winning the Jamie Award for The Most Obvious Statement Of The Day (a far less prestigious accolade, it must be said).

"One three-fiftieth scale," the other man said. "Near enough." It looked it. I guessed the model as being about a metre long.

The man with the radio, still concentrating on the boat, gave us a friendly grin. "I'm David," he introduced himself, "and this lanky piece of piss next to me is Mike."

"I'm only lanky because you're a short-arse," Mike retorted. "Imp."

"Giant," Dave countered.

"Dwarf," Mike said back.

A pause. "Giraffe," was Dave's poor attempt at a comeback.

"Fairy," Mike said.

"Takes one to know one," Dave answered. The rest of us smiled. Clearly, these two guys knew each other well and the name calling was mere banter. The idea that these two might be closer than just good friends never occurred to me. Of course, I knew there were gay guys, I knew a few of them myself, but I had never comprehended the idea of an old, gay guy, although I couldn't explain why.

The six of us watched the boat going around the lake for a few minutes. Having an audience, Dave pushed the boat to its limits including performing a couple of tight turns that appeared to come close to capsizing the large model, but it was well-balanced and I doubted there was much real danger.

The model had a fair turn of pace, too, kicking up a decent wake that caused the odd duck floating on the lake to flap their wings in a decidedly miffed way. Dave was quite an experienced controller, however, and kept the boat itself well away from the ducks on the surface.

Slowly, I found myself stifling a yawn. Remote controlled boats are all very well, but they get boring after a while. At least RC planes can do tricks, but an RC boat just goes around and around. Even the little puffs of smoke that came out of the funnel lost their wow-factor after a minute or two.

I looked around. Robbie was also looking a little bored now and Sammy wore a smile that we both recognised as being as forced as they came. Only Connor was still giving any indication that he was still enjoying himself and even he was starting to flag.

Suddenly, Dave called out; "oh, shit!"

"What?" Mike asked. He looked at the remote in Dave's hands. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Dave," he continued, "not again!"

"It's only been ten minutes," Dave said back. "That battery's brand new! It should last longer than that!"

I looked at the model, which was now about a third of the way across the lake. Dave had turned it to face us, but it was slowing noticeably. Still more than twenty metres away from the edge of the lake, the boat stopped completely.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK," Dave moaned, pushing the movement stick on the controller up as far as it would go as if that was going to help. "Useless fucking thing!"

The thing about lakes is they have no current. As such, the boat was now stranded in the middle of the water. On a more blustery day, the boat would have been blown to shore given a little bit of time, but there was very little wind today, though what there was was quite cold. The

Yamato

floated around, slowly, on the few waves caused by the limited wind and occasionally from the ducks ducking and that was it. At its current pace, it might be a couple of hours before it made it to the shoreline.

"I'll get it," I said and, before anyone could say anything, I had kicked off my trainers and trainer socks and stepped into the lake.

I immediately realised my mistake as I was still wearing my jeans. Still, I didn't like the idea of wandering around the lake in just my boxers, especially as there was a small audience around the lake, drawn in either by the model boat itself or the cursing of Dave and Mike when the batteries went flat and the boat ended up stranded. Therefore, I headed through the lake to the boat.

Although the bottom of the lake was concrete, it was still a bit slimy and slippery and I nearly lost my balance a couple of times as I wandered towards the stranded model, but I managed to stay upright.

The bottom of the lake sloped gently downwards and I hoped that the boat would be close enough not to have to get too deeply in, but about two metres from the edge of the lake, the slope became more severe and I got to that point that all guys know, when the bollocks are just hanging above the cold water. If you know, you know.

I was still a good few metres from the model when I got to this critical juncture and so, with a deep breath, I dropped my middle into the water. I gasped as the cold water struck my balls and they desperately tried to crawl up inside me to keep warm. The moans from the male audience members told me that they all knew the torment I was now going through.

Still, it's only a couple of moments of shock and, before I could worry about it, I stepped on.

I almost got to the point where I thought I would have to swim to the boat, but I managed to reach it whilst still on my toes with my underarms just above the water. It was now that I realised just how big the model was. I couldn't put my hand around its hull to grab it and I was ultimately forced to grip it using both hands like a pair of tongs and haul it towards the shore. Once I had swung it around so that it was in front of me, I was able to push it from the back and that was much easier.

As I approached the shore, Connor - who was also barefoot now - jumped in and helped me haul the boat in. Connor was shorter than me and his bollock soaking came a bit closer to the shoreline than my own had done. Between the two of us, we manhandled the model to the shoreline and held it in place whilst Mike and Dave wrapped a couple of nylon belts underneath it and hauled it out of the water and into a foam-filled box. Sammy and Robbie helped Connor and I out of the lake.

"Jesus, fuck, that's cold," I said. I hadn't felt the cold water that much whilst I was in it, but now I felt really chilly. At that moment, a small cold breeze hit me and I shivered a little.

Mike and Dave were in the process of thanking Connor and I when they saw me shiver. Connor also started to feel very cold and all thoughts of thanks came to an abrupt end. "You boys live far?" Mike asked.

"Dutch Avenue," Sammy answered. The blank looks from Dave and Mike indicated clearly that they had no idea where that was. "A mile or so," Sammy added.

"You'll catch your death before that," Dave replied. "Come along with us. We've got an Airbnb just outside the park."

I was very unsure about this. If I'd been on my own, or even with just one other guy, I'd have politely declined. But there were four of us and only two of them and our combined ages probably totalled a couple of decades fewer than theirs. The four of us looked at each other. None of us was certain.

"We've got beer in the fridge," Mike added.

I still nearly said "no", but another cold breeze hit me and that - along with the promise of beer - convinced me to take these two up on their offer. The four of us nodded to each other.

"I assume you're old enough for beer," Dave put in. We nodded again.

As I look back, that was a loaded question. The legal drinking age in the UK is eighteen. The age of consent is only sixteen. Therefore, if we were old enough to drink, we were clearly old enough for... other things. Asking us if we were old enough to drink avoided any unpleasant accusations of child assault without making that obvious. By god, I was thick back then!

"Come on," Mike said. "Let's get you in and warmed up and dry."

After Dave and Mike secured the box, which was bolted to the trailer, the six of us headed out of the park. Another wave of discomfort hit me as I realised we were exiting the park on the opposite side from where we would normally have done had we been going home. But I was getting quite cold now and I my teeth were starting to chatter, so I kept my worries to myself and carried on.

We exited the park, crossed a small road, walked down past about four houses whose values probably all topped a million quid and we arrived at the house Dave and Mike were staying in. It wasn't as swanky as the others nearby, but was still doubtlessly worth close to half a million.

We walked up the driveway towards the house. Dave took the trolley to the back of a converted minivan along with Sammy and Robbie, who held the doors open for him as he pulled out a ramp and pushed the trolley into the van. Dave told them to leave him whilst he secured the trailer, so they joined Mike, Connor and myself as we walked into the house.

It was small, cosy and pleasant. And, thankfully, it was quite warm inside. Mike became all business now. "Right," he said, pointing at Connor and myself, "you two; shower. Now. Down there, second on the right." He pointed down a corridor. "Chuck those wet clothes in the hallway and I'll get them in the dryer. On the back of the door in the bathroom you'll find a couple of dressing gowns, so you can put them on."

Neither Connor, nor I, moved. "Come on," he insisted, "don't just fucking stand there! Get on with it!" He looked at us again and probably didn't misinterpret the looks on our faces. "You're perfectly safe, lads, I promise," he said. "But get a move on or you will catch a proper chill."

"Yeah, come on," Dave added from behind as he came in. "I don't want to save your lives getting you inside only for you to die of hypothermia because you're afraid of a fucking shower!"

I was actually more afraid that these guys wanted to see me in a dressing gown that would probably be of a flimsy material and would also likely not stay closed. But I said nothing as, shivering, Connor and I headed to the bathroom.

If you've never taken wet jeans off, count yourself lucky. It's a fucking nightmare. In the end, I was forced to literally lift each foot a few inches at a time and haul them off bit by bit. They ended up inside out, but I was too cold and too wet to give a fuck. I stripped my tee and my boxers, threw them out into the tiled hallway and stepped into the shower. Connor did the same a few moments later, locking the bathroom door with the bolt first.

There was no funny business - neither of us even thought about such things. We were too busy concentrating on getting under the warm water and getting the chill off our skin. After a few minutes I realised that I was buck naked with one of my oldest friends in a shower and

now

I felt a bit awkward. Connor had his eyes closed up to this point, but he suddenly looked at me, realised he was as naked as I was, and went bright red. I was surprised to realise he could blush with his stomach, though his hands were covering his privates much as my own hands were covering mine.

We smiled, awkwardly, at each other and then I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a nearby towel. I wrapped it around me and headed across the large bathroom towards the door, where I proceeded to face the wall and dry myself. Behind me, facing the shower, Connor did the same.

Dry now, I grabbed one of the dressing gowns on the back of the door and put it on. My fears about the material were unfounded; the gowns were made of a good quality wool. The belt on the one I picked up was longer than necessary and tied comfortably around me. If I avoided too much strenuous movement, I would probably be fine. Connor reached past me and put the other gown on. Wordlessly, we opened the bathroom door and went out.

"Ah, here come the great rescue team," Dave called out as he saw us approach. "Come in, come in! Here, have a drink." He offered both of us a small glass with a deep, mahogany liquid inside. I didn't need to taste it to know it was whiskey. I looked at him a little concerned.

"Nothing to worry about," Dave said, misinterpreting my look. "It's just a little nip to warm you up."

This, at least, made sense. I sipped a small mouthful and was impressed. My grandfather had been a great fan of whiskey and I had stolen sips of a number of bottles when I was a kid. I couldn't tell brands by taste, but I could differentiate between cheap supermarket swill and the dear stuff, and this stuff was definitely the latter. I took another sip.

Connor had always been something of a Philistine. Rather than sip the whiskey, he had downed the whole lot in his glass in one mouthful. His mouth burning, he waved the glass at Dave with a clear indication that he wanted more. "No, no," Dave said, swiping the glass from Connors' outstretched hand. "Just a nip to warm you up, I said. And I meant it. Too much will get you drunk far too quickly and you'll have no memories afterwards. Just a huge headache." He grinned.

I left a small amount of whiskey in the bottom of the glass, though - truth be told - there had barely been a mouthful of the stuff in the glass to begin with. That weird comment about "memories" had me oddly concerned. I handed what was left to Dave. "Thanks," I said. "I do feel warmer!"

"Of course you do," Mike called out. He was sat on a sofa between Robbie and Sammy whom, I quickly saw, were holding cans of beer and grinning like two Cheshire Cat statuettes. "That's why the put whiskey in those little barrels on St. Bernard dogs when rescuing people lost in the snow. Not too much, mind," he added. "Too much alcohol will actually cool you down." He pointed, dramatically, at me. "That's science!"

"Is it," I answered, dryly. I was really starting to feel uncomfortable around these guys now, though they had been nothing but nice to the four of us. It was getting weirder all the time.