Barefoot Storm

Chapter 8: Day 7, Runner

Chapter 8: Day 7, Runner

Although the strip of beach behind my bungalow is private, I see the lifeguard running in a morning’s fine spray of summer rain. He is only twenty feet beyond the verandah; a few yards away from my beach world.

Once again he wears his copper-colored trunks, barefoot and bare-chested, and sports his chiseled body for my meager pleasure.

Immersed in his activity, I study his beauty from afar. My stare takes him in from head to toe. This time I am positioned at my sliding glass doors in the kitchen: hair hangs over his beaming blue eyes; muscled shoulders and stomach flex with every move he makes; nicely sculpted pecs rise and fall as he runs; hairy legs and his beautiful trail of hair between his taut navel look delicious; Lycra trunks hug his narrow waste. He looks sexy as ever, like an athletic model or film star on the private beach, perhaps mine for the taking, but only if he’ll let me have him, of course.

“Stunning,” I whisper, intoxicated by his attractiveness. I think, He’s beneath me according to Barbara. A commoner, even if he’s just a few years younger. Someone I shouldn’t be interested in because he’s a lifeguard. Poor. Maybe lazy. Probably a child in a man’s body. Immature. Unfit for my needs. Of a lower class. A nobody.

He turns me to though, and causes a boner to rise in my shorts and pre-bubbles of semen to leak into my cotton underwear. Lust develops. s****l likeness. I enjoy devouring the running eye candy and I don’t even really know him, but I want to get to know him. Today. Tomorrow. Someday soon. I find him interesting: his ultra-white smile and blue-blue eyes; the way he hasn’t shaved and sports a heavy scuff on his cheeks; the way his hair waves and sweeps over his semi-hidden eyes; how he obviously cares for his body, keeping fit and trim. I want to know more about him, too: his teaching, how he became a lifeguard, and why he stays in Barefoot Beach when he could travel the world with his good looks. Frankly, I crave to learn everything about him and long for a s****l fling with the man.

I don’t care if Barbara thinks he’s beneath me. This doesn’t matter to me. I’m not the type of man to judge another man for his status or how much money he makes. Before my education at Temple and starting my own company in security, I had nothing. Before New York City and my success, I was a nobody and a commoner too. I was Trent at one point in my life, and not too long ago.

Trent Long waves at me, spotting me at the sliding glass doors. The lifeguard raises his right arm and provides a simple wave of his hand, and he smiles, which I find exhilarating and breathtaking. His attention warms my soul and organs and causes a ripple of deep satisfaction to circulate between my thighs. Bubbles of sporadic elation shift up and through my spine. My n*****s swell with pleasure at the sight of his interest in me. Oxygen is inhaled, but barely. And my legs tremble as he recognizes me, and makes contact with me.

I wave back at him; one simple arc of motion with my right hand on this side of the door’s clean glass; separated by him, but so close; yards away from each other.

Such a distance doesn’t matter, though, because we bond again, surface from our private lives and seem to come together. His action is the most simple greeting regarding the physical language between men; a cordial wave is acted out by us, or maybe even something more, I’m not sure.

Trent vanishes down the beach. A sliver of his body is last seen approximately one hundred feet to the north. He bolts across the sand in his bare feet. And he glides away from my world once again. The man is out of sight this time, but not far from my mind. I find him reachable still, within range of my longing, attention, hunger, or even something stronger. I know for a fact that he will become mine; intuition tells me this. And this tempestuous and questionable longing for the stranger’s skin will come to an end, finally.