Barefoot Storm

Chapter 3: Day 3, Chests Touch

Chapter 3: Day 3, Chests Touch

Mondays are food collecting days in downtown Barefoot Beach. I eat breakfast, read the latest release of the Barefoot Beach Telegraph, a local newspaper, in my white boxer-briefs, drink a cup of straight coffee, and get a shower. Following the warm spray, I dress in a pair of shorts, sandals, and a canary yellow tight T-shirt, which shows off my nicely crafted pecs for downtown queer guys to ogle, crave, and want to touch.

The bungalow at 436 Buoy Way is walking distance from downtown Barefoot Beach. There is no reason for a bike, moped, or golf cart to use, although I have all three nestled at the bungalow. The walk is less than a mile long and the day is strikingly beautiful.

Barefoot Beach Market is a giant open cabana with ethnic sellers of Floridian fruits, palatable fishes, and other varieties of foods. The floor is sand and the stalls are filled with an assortment of tropical hues and flavors.

I search out mangos, one of my favorite fruits, pass the pineapples, oranges, and kiwi. My escapade leads me around an end-cap filled with fresh figs and pecans and I accidentally run into the lifeguard, colliding my world with his. Our chests touch. Hard n*****s graze the fig display. Crotches meet and our lips almost lock. Our heads just about conk together and our noses stop millimeters apart. I say, “Excuse me,” but decide not to pull away. Although I should, I like being next to the lifeguard’s naked chest, totally into his looks, adoring his n*****s, strong shoulders, and the abs that line his stomach. I take in his succulent masculine smell, which is tainted with Ivory soap, light perspiration, and a spicy cologne applied to his chest, perhaps even his n*****s.

The lifeguard doesn’t pull away from me and says, “Mr. Darlington, I’m sorry.”

“You know me?” I question, caught off guard by his knowledge of my name.

He can step backward if he wants to, drawing his bare chest away from mine, but he chooses not to. Instead, he lets his private parts mingle with my private parts, nods his dashing blond head, and says, “Everyone in Barefoot Beach knows you.”

I reach out with my right palm and touch his left hip. Why not? He doesn’t seem to mind our closeness. And I certainly don’t mind being forward when it comes to handsome, young men such as him.

I ask, “Why does everyone know me?”

“Barefoot Beach is a small community. People tend to talk. You’re friends with that wealthy woman who lives on Dune Way, Barbara Mullen. And you have that multimillion dollar security company in New York City. Storm Executive Security. The two of you donate a lot of your cash to the community and are high society in Barefoot Beach.”

“Who are you?” I ask, interrupting him.

“Trent Long. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Darlington. I saw you on the beach the other day and I wanted to introduce myself, but I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Storm,” I provide, clarifying what I wish to be called. “Please, call me Storm.”

He backs away from me and I drop my palm from his firm hip. He reaches for my limp hand, lifts it with his own, provides it with a shake, and says with a beaming white smile, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Storm.”

“Likewise,” I say in a rather arrogant tone, probably being far too forward.

Our handshake ends, and Trent says, “If I can help you with anything during your summer stay, you can find me on the beach, exactly where you saw me two days ago.”

He can already help me. I want him to come back to my bungalow with me, strip out of his copper-colored trunks, lean over my kitchen counter, and spend some quality time with me.

“Thank you, Trent. I’ll definitely do that if something comes up.”

He does a south-to-north head motion of my body, studies me, and replies, “Sorry I bumped into you again.”

“Honestly, it was nothing. I rather enjoyed it.”

He doesn’t respond to my truthful comment, though. He escapes my world just as quickly as he entered it, gathers up his provisions in the market, checks out at the cash register at the front of the cabana, and returns to his life on the beach, or wherever he calls home.