Up until now, I’ve only been brave enough to write in fictional prose. But there is one brief moment in my personal history, one short encounter that haunts me more to this day than any other. One true story that reminds me of what a beautiful thing love between two young men can be. Some who read the following might be offended, but what I’m about to write comes from my heart with all the love and sincerity that I can impart to you.
Although it pains me a little to say thirty years ago, the memory of him erases all those years. But thirty years ago, on a coastal highway seven miles north of Santa Cruz, beyond a set of railroad tracks, sits a beach nestled in a cove of sandy unstable rock. The beach is known as Laguna, I wonder what the Native American tribe that use to live in that region use to call it. The beach is kept smooth by a strong sea breeze and is separated from the cliffs by a small lagoon, a small body of water created by the runoff of cliff top dwelling farms. The lagoon is framed by a small grove of trees that shade a path worn in by people making their way to the beach. It is there under the trees and along the sides of the cove that some men fall short of the beach and into the arms of kind and affectionate strangers. Surfer boys continue on to the waters, but every so often visit the trees themselves.
It is to there I would frequently ride my mountain bike along highway 1 or on dirt paths etched into the cliff tops by the farmers that populated them. The packs of my bike would be packed with power bars, water, a beach towel, lube and Kleenex, you know, everything you need for anonymous sex on the beach. One of those paths lead down to Laguna Beach and to its slender forest of trees that had a view of the Pacific Ocean. It was there that I met…oh, what’s his name? He told me his name, but time has washed away that information. Come too think of it, if I could think of his name, I’d probably keep it to myself anyway.
I was looking for the kindness of a stranger as I unfurled my beach towel and laid it under the shade of a California Oak. These days I’m quite the bear of a man, but back then I was just a cub, but still with a big frame anchored to a foundation of even thicker mountain biker legs. After I pealed off my spandex, this bear set his trap for some not so innocent woodland creature by fluffing up my fatty as I lay down for an afternoon of recreation. After coaxing myself for a while, I caught the nude vision of a sweet and dark young thing, a shy little fawn of a creature timidly making its way to my waters edge. At first I thought him to be Hispanic, but as he closed in, I became uncertain of his heritage. Then it hit me like a strong wind, he’s Native American. His face was remarkable in its cuteness and youth and though his body lacked any real muscular definition, it was still voluptuous in its form. Our eyes played catch while I rose to greet him. As with two planets caught in each other’s gravity well, our bodies were set on a collision course. His body had the gift of being so young and gave off the musk of a puppy dusted with baby powder. He stood there as I reached out to him and took a deep breath as my hands traveled his body. His skin that was smooth and yielded to my touch, and as red as the soil his people sprang from. My lips slid across his shoulder as the tip of my tongue sampled his flesh. The taste of him was of a sweet saltiness that could only come from backing in the sun.
My lips found found his lips, lips that were moist and quick to receive me. The diminutive form of his body was quickly consumed by my hulking stature, like a stuffed animal into the arms of a child. My hands combed his scalp, his hair felt like shreds of black ribbons easily cascading through my fingertips, dark and sparkling with all the stars of a night far away from the city lights. After an eternity of this passionate embrace, I pushed away slightly to oxygen back into my lungs. I looked into his eyes, two bottomless wells of black that I fell into. Matching singularities that consumed my soul. Without a word, his body rolled around in my arms as he presented to me the two soft mounds of flesh that framed his tight and glorious hole. My throbbing member gracefully rolled over the first hill and came to rest in the valley between. And in that valley, I teased him for a while as my cock explored every inch of his undulating ass. Clear rivers lubricated his rift, creating a private playground for me to slide around on. Without guide or assist from me, my one eyed warrior found the gateway to his inner sanctum. He fit like a glove, so receptive and so warm and smooth inside was he. I was home. As I mounted him over and over again, his quivering lips turned to mine encouraging our passions continued.
He leaned into the tree and push onto me. I grabbed onto his shoulders and shoved into him. As I made love to him, and I do mean love, one fact ruled my brain, one simple act had washed away all inhibition and made the world and all its concerns go away, and one thought echoed over and over again as this fantasy came to life. “Holy cow, I’m fucking an Indian!”
That was all I could take and I pulled out to explode onto his back. Dizzy with euphoria, I nearly lost my balance, but hugged onto him for support. As my vision returned, I saw that he had left his essence as well on the bark of our tree that hid us from the sun and seven billion human beings. The beach towel that wiped away all trace of my trespass from his smooth back and shoulders became our bed for an afternoon of kisses, hugs, reflection and conversation. And this embrace remained steadfast and uninterrupted even as other men seeking quick gratification walked past us. And while they would find a quick thrill, I knew they not have the soul enhancing and rejuvenating experience that I had.
As the beach crowd thinned out and the sun made its way down to the distant horizon, my manhood raised with the hope of one more encounter. I reclined against our tree and he reclined into me. The supple buttocks of my loving brave hugged my raging cock and pushed it down into my ruffled beach towel as he tenderly undulated his hips. His hole slid across my shaft as his testicular purse dance on my ripe apple. My hands reached around his waist and kindly molested him in turn. I don’t know how many minutes passed, but at the same instant we cast our seeds to the wind one more time.
As the cool day surrendered to the cold of the oncoming night, we rose and cleaned off each other. Each leaning against the other as we dressed while gently exchanging glancing blows of affection. Hand in hand, and with my mountain bike in tow, we made our way up the steep trail and paused at the railroad tracks. He told me he had to head that way while I pointed in the other direction. One more lasting kiss and we were on our separate ways. As I lifted my bike across the tracks, I paused long enough to watch him walk down the tracks and look back at me. When he disappeared around the bend, I mounted me bike and headed home.
That day was one of the few perfect days of my life.
Living at home with our respective parents prevented us from exchanging phone numbers. Plans were lightly conceived to meat there again, but that never happened. Not a week goes by where I don’t at least give a passing thought to my native-American lover and what life would have been like if I followed him down those tracks. And maybe, that’s all for the better, not to have that chance encounter ruined by trying to repeat it again. Not to have that perfect moment, spoiled by the erosion that sometimes comes with a relationship. But honestly, I wish I had been given that chance to see if we could have withstood the test of time. And on the rare occasion when I pass by that beach every now and then, I keep a sharp eye for the sight of that red-skinned cutie and wonder, “What if?”