Pornography

Spray flew as waves crashed over the rocks and the boys ran through the surf, sprinting headlong towards the makeshift finish line, now only metres away. They were drenched, sea water and sweat mixing a potent cocktail on their lithe, tanned bodies. They thought they were alone. Then again, I thought I was too, perched above them on the rocks, field glasses trained on them as they raced.

I'd seen them before. They were there every morning that summer, early, while the sun was still tolerable, training: running, swimming and body-surfing mostly, but sometimes they'd bring boards or surf-skis. They probably had their sights set on some surf-lifesaving comp, but really they just seemed to do it for the fun, for the pleasure of their bodies and being together.

There were three of them. Scott was the smallest and cutest, with blond hair and the world's most perfect calves. The next was Mike, who was tall and dark and the fastest runner. The other only came sometimes, and I didn't know his name, but he had a ute which they would bring their boards in. He was very average-looking on land, but in the water he was perfection, never a move out of place, grace and beauty at all times. He was like a dolphin, sort of, or one of those mythical sea-beings: Triton or a merman.

They were totally at ease with the sea and each other, very protective and affectionate. At first I thought they might be brothers, but it was more physical than that, more sexual, really; and they didn't look at all alike.

I would come and watch them whenever I could. At first it was just a whim, really. I saw them one morning when I was out walking and watched, captivated. I wandered back the same way the next day, just on the off-chance, and there they were. It was wonderful to watch, to vicariously share their pleasure in themselves, their physicality. They were like dancers, almost, or performers anyway; their whole way of moving and of just behaving told a story of their excitement, their joy in what they did and their love for each other.

When they were still there the fourth time I knew I was hooked. That's when I started bringing the binoculars. It became the focus of my day, an adventure beside which the rest of my time was dull and boring.

Each morning I would arrive early and carefully choose a position to get the best possible view without giving myself away. I would be buzzing with anticipation, terrified that they might not come, sure that they would. It became obsessive, like an addiction; if I missed a day I would be anxious and irritable, waiting for my next dose. Only being there, watching them, could make me feel whole again.

They would sprint up and down the beach, driving each other faster and faster, to new extremes. They swam sprints, timing each other; or took long endurance swims, right out to the limit of my vision, to where the buoys marked out the sailing lanes. When they did that I would be gripped with fear, having visions of the rip carrying them away forever or sharks devouring them; but they understood the ocean, it was their territory in a way, their friend. It was as if they could read the currents easily and make the waters do their bidding. They would swim confidently, recklessly, out into the dark blue void; and then back with equal ease, buoyed up by the loving embrace of the sea.

All this I watched and remembered, but I longed for more. They treated each other like lovers, would hold hands and grapple and hug; but they always seemed to be holding back slightly from kissing and fondling and sucking; from the things their body language said they were really doing when they were only running and swimming.

So there they were, racing across the sand, and Mike was winning, of course; and then he and Scott were tumbing together and lying on the sand gasping for breath while the surf splashed around them. The other one wasn't there this time. I was there, of course, among the rocks, watching, as always.

The sun was getting higher and hotter, but the water was keeping them cool. Mike was leaning forward, stretching his legs; and Scott was behind him, massaging his shoulders. I gazed intently at those fingers as they probed and rubbed. Mike pushed back against his friend's hands, working out the aches of his muscles. And then suddenly Scott's arms were around him, and Mike was craning back, searching for his friend's mouth, entering it with his hot tongue.

I was stunned. I couldn't breathe. I tried to watch, but my hands were shaking, I couldn't hold the binoculars steady. My cock was hard and painful inside my shorts, the muscles of my stomach and chest clenched painfully. I sucked in a breath, my eyes swimming. What was happening to me? Was it the sun? Surely it couldn't just be the boys kissing. I'd been waiting for it so long...

I forced myself to relax. I forced myself to breathe. Steadier, I looked at the boys again, binoculars still trembling a little.

The surf was washing around them, as they lay together, Scott on top, still kissing, hands all over each other. My mouth was parched as I watched them strip off their speedos. I could feel the sun on my head and the glare from the waves burnt my eyes. Their tongues lapped at each other. I could imagine the saltiness of their skins. I was aching for release, and dry, and hot, and dizzy. I couldn't watch, but I couldn't stop watching.

Mike had his legs up on Scott's shoulders now, and Scott was sucking him hungrily. There was sand in his mouth, I knew -- I could feel its grittiness between my teeth -- but he didn't care, he was too wrapped up in his friend's -- his lover's -- body.

I felt obscurely cheated. It wasn't meant to be like this. Not painful, like this, not with sticky beads of sweat trickling down my neck and the tension and the brightness and the urgency of my straining cock. Not with them alone down there, not just the two of them, where was the other, why wasn't he a part of this scene, why wasn't I a part of it? Why had they changed the rules, suddenly?

Mike was moaning, now, his hands clenching and unclenching in Scott's hair, his fingers tangling. His beautiful, hard, taut, long body was tense as a bowstring, shaking from the tension. His eyes were closed, his mouth wide open. Scott's fingers snaked inside, and Mike sucked and slurped at them as if his life depended on it, and who knows, perhaps it did.

I gazed on, dazzled by the light, hurting, oh so thirsty. I reached into my shorts, started stroking, to ease the pressure, but it wasn't working, I felt like my cock was blistering and my hands were rough and abrasive. The binoculars were shaking badly now, but I could still see them, I could still see.

Mike was convulsing, tensing and then releasing, shorter each time, ready to come. Scott kept sucking and stroking, blond hair plastered down over his eyes in a salty curtain, bobbing his head faster and faster. There was sand in his eyes now, too, and in his throat, and his whole universe tasted of salt, but he was sucking, sucking and Mike writhed and then with a shout he came and I wasn't seeing something, what wasn't I seeing, what?

Scott swallowed and swallowed as Mike erupted, shuddering now and groaning, and Scott stayed there as Mike softened, tasting, feeling, just enjoying the sense of his lover against his tongue and the beautiful thighs wrapped around his head. There was no hurry.

But there was. There was a hurry. I couldn't drag senses back to myself, I was trapped in their lovemaking, and there was something I needed to see, needed urgently to recognize, it was there on the edges of my vision, in the margins of my mind. I could see my own pulse in my eyes, and I could feel the sun on my skin, but that wasn't it. I could feel my thirst. No. The rock was rough against me, and my croch still cried out for attention. No. No. No!

I dropped the binoculars and they clattered down among the rocks, down a crevice, disappearing from sight. I tried to focus. Scott and Mike were just boys on the beach, in the waves.

There was a shadow. On the rock. Not mine.

The sun was behind him, but there was no mistaking who it was. He reached a hand out towards me. I tried to take it but was still unsteady.

"Come on," he said. "It's the heat. You should be more careful." I tried again, and he held my hand tight in his, helped me to my feet.

"The sea'll help cool you off." (He's a bit clumsy on land, but perfection in the water.)

We slowly made our way down to the beach, where Scott and Mike lay together in the waves.
Posted by matt at November 7, 2003 12:44 AM