A collection of Gay Short Stories
James Orr
Copyright 2011 by James Orr
Smashwords Edition
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Dedicated to Sam
Book design by Sabaijai Designs
ISBN 978-1-4658-2117-1
TIME TO GO
THE SANDCASTLE
ALL INCLUSIVE
FOUR SQUARED
JUST ANOTHER OLD MAN
MOTHERS DAY
PARALLEL BARS
THE LIE
THE BLACK DOOR
A CLEAN BREAK
RAY
He picked up the solitary birthday card and read the verse once more. A sweet verse, about wishes and hopes, yet totally unsuitable. He put the card down not even bothering to stand it up and screwed up the envelope.
Fred often thought about death. Almost every day in fact and today his eighty-third birthday was no exception. He found it astonishing that he had reached the grand age of eighty three, but he imagined most people felt like that.
As he walked passed the large mirror above the fireplace, he glanced at the reflection. He wasn’t at all vain but he didn’t believe that he looked his age, and most people seemed to agree with him.
He had put on a little weight in the recent years, to be expected he thought, but his face remained the same as when he had been forty, a high forehead, smoky grey intelligent eyes, and a small delicate mouth. He had a strong straight nose which gave the face power and gravity. His hair, which he was proud of, was strong with only a few streaks of grey at the sides. Although he was not tall, he had a strong neck, a straight back and held his head erect which gave the impression of height. Perhaps he would die like Shakespeare had done on his birthday. That would satisfy his innate sense of order and tidiness.
After all he thought there couldn’t be much longer to go as he rearranged the potted plants in his small basement patio. Rather than lift them, he pulled them along causing them to scrape against the flagstones. The area was not large but he tended it with loving care. Not being able to carry much from the garden centre he made do with odd pots he found around the place and from the waste ground at the end of the street. There was a large tin drum in the corner that must have contained oil or something similar in which he stored rainwater and a few chipped but quite usable black ceramic pots he had found recently on a skip.
The annuals he used were ones he described as ‘paying their way’, geraniums and begonias flowering all throughout the summer. He had tried clematis once or twice but they never seemed to catch on, not enough sunlight he thought. After all we all need sunlight for healthy growth, he thought.
Leading up from his basement was a flight of well worn stone steps, covered in moss, leading up to the gardens belonging to the people who occupied the larger flat on the other side of the building. He envied them their space but cherished his privacy even more. He noticed that most of the daisies had withered and needed deadheading, so he did that and then gently watered his favourite white agapanthus.
It so reminded him of his childhood garden.
His father had been the village doctor and they had lived in a modest thatched house in a small hamlet in the county of Surrey. One of the rooms on the ground floor had been converted into a small surgery. There was a large garden at the front with a winding path to the front door and at the back a vast garden surrounded by woods.
He paused, watering can in his hand as he tried to recapture the joy of those days so long ago. He saw in his mind’s eye a little boy of seven dragging his father by the hand to examine some new bloom that had just flowered at the bottom of the garden.
There’s was a typical English cottage garden, known for its whimsy and lackadaisical use of fruit trees, shrubs, evergreens and vegetables intermingling with a multitude of flowers. No space was wasted, everything had a purpose, whether it was to provide food for themselves or the various woodland creatures that visited and yet create a pleasant aroma and add beauty. Accented with weathered picket fences and outbuildings, birdbaths and birdhouses, the garden was an extension of the home with places to sit and relax or entertain friends.
Vegetables were mixed in with flowers and the more texture, colour and size the blooms were the better. It was always full of delphiniums, hollyhocks, foxgloves, sunflowers and asters.
And he saw his mother in her floating white summer dress coming down the steps from the terrace, carefully carrying a tray with home-made lemonade and ginger biscuits on it.
Once his minor gardening duties had been accomplished he allowed himself to settle into the old wicker chair, plumping up the worn needlepoint cushions before he sat down, next to the kitchen door and relax before he thought about his lunch, a sandwich probably with an apple or a banana.
He smiled to himself happy that he was spending the day alone with his memories as he wiped his hands down his brown corduroy trousers.
Some might have thought him sad but they would have been wrong.
He was conscious of the light, and although it was late September the sun was still quite bright and warm and he easily slipped into a kind of doze.
Memories and images came flooding back into his mind from the past.
He thought of his marriage to Betty, a kind but dull woman. Nevertheless the marriage had survived until she died prematurely aged fifty. He missed her companionship sometimes but in truth her death was a relief. He had become her constant nurse during her illness, refusing the continuous requests for her to go into a care home.
After that, there had been several lovers, one a very special one. Chuck, an American, but at seventy he thought it was right and appropriate to bring that part of his life to a close.
He also fondly remembered his only child, a little boy, who died three weeks after he was born. They had named the boy Harry after his father. He had kept a few treasures from that time in an old shoe box locked away in the sideboard. The pain of that loss had been so intense and unsparing that eventually he suffered a complete mental breakdown. He went to stay with his older sister, now since gone, for several months.
A door slammed suddenly, somewhere in the building, which broke his reverie and he was surprised to find tears edging their way down his cheeks. He scrambled for the large white handkerchief in the frayed sleeve of his cardigan and wiped his face clean.
“Silly me,” he uttered.
When he glances at his watch, it had gone midday already. Time for lunch he thought as he tried and mostly succeeded in pushing away the dark memories of his lost boy as he thought of him. He had never been the weepy self-pitying type and he was definitely not going to start now.
As he got up to go inside and make his sandwich he saw out of the corner of his eye an object flash past him and crash on to the ground at his feet. He looked down and saw scattered soil, a broken terracotta pot and the remains of a red geranium.
I thought that might happen he said to himself as he stood back to get a better view of the window sill from which the pot had obviously fallen. As he looked up the window it opened further and a young man’s face appeared.
“Are you alright?” he shouted down, “I’m terribly sorry I did mean to secure the plants but I haven’t quite got round to it.”
“Yes, luckily I’m fine but you might have killed me,” he replied and added, “I hope that wasn’t your intention.”
He grinned and said, “No, I’m not in the habit of killing people I don’t know.”
“Well then shall I risk introducing myself?”
“I’ll do the same, he said, “I’m Toby Evans.”
“How do you do and I’m Fred Hanson. Now then would you care to descend to the lower depths and rescue your plant and join me in a cup of coffee?”
The head disappeared immediately and Fred presumed he was making his way down to his flat. He was right, for within less than a minute there was a gentle knock at his front door. He walked slowly along the hall and opened it. He didn’t like haste.
Standing before him was his new neighbour. The first thing that struck him was his great mop of hair. It was the most striking shock of red that he had ever seen on a man. The pre-Raphaelite paintings that Betty loved so much immediately came into his mind. His complexion was as one would expect from a red head, creamy white with freckles dotted everywhere, especially on his nose. And again, as one would expect, his eyes were green, a dark almost black green, like seaweed when it’s wet.
His face was a renaissance face, long and thin with a flattened quality to it. Fred thought he looked like a figure from a tapestry and he almost expected to see him dressed in velvet brocade with golden buckles.
But of course he wasn’t. He was wearing a worn out dressing gown that virtually hung off his narrow shoulders.
He smiled the smile of an angel he thought as he invited him in.
“Well, now you can clear up your unfortunate plant while I put the kettle on.”
“Cool,” he said as he ventured out onto the patio and Fred disappeared into his kitchen.
As the water came to boil he poured it into the glass cafétiere as he heard Toby whistling outside. If only coffee tasted as good as it smells, he thought. The tune was familiar to him but he couldn’t quite place it.
As he fetched the milk from the fridge it came back to him suddenly. It was a music hall song his mother used to play to him sometimes on Sunday evenings before he went up to bed. How strange he thought, that a young man of today should know it. How intriguing he was.
He picked up the tray and went down out onto the patio. He settled it down on a small battered and worn table that had certainly seen better days and gingerly eased into the wicker chair.
“This china belonged to my great-grandmother,” he said proudly.
“How do you take it?”
“Milk, no sugar.”
Toby sat on the basement steps opposite him hugging his coffee cup to his chest. He surprised Fred by telling him he was not in fact a new tenant but a friend who was looking after the flat whilst the owner was away. He went on to tell him that he was an actor, out of work but hoped to go to Ireland in the autumn to work. Except that he didn’t say autumn, he said ‘fall’, which Fred remembered was an American expression.
Seated low down caused his dressing gown to open to reveal his genitals. Fred couldn’t help but notice how large his penis was. It hung thick and long over two full balls. Once or twice it jumped involuntarily.
As the afternoon wore on Toby began to ask him some very direct questions which he found slightly disturbing but thought that perhaps it was the way young people communicated. He had little experience of them.
When he accepted his second cup of coffee he surprised Fred even more by asking him if he ever thought about death. Although shocked by the question, he did answer it and told him that he had only been thinking about it that very morning.
“Good,” he said smiling.
“Why good?” Fred asked with a puzzled look on his face as she stared at the celestial green gaze of Toby.
“Well,” he replied taking a sip of coffee before he went on, “It shows that you are preparing for it. That seems good to me.”
“You seem to know a lot about death for one so young,” Fred replied.
He put down his cup and then stood up.
“I may look young,” he said in a deep gravely voice “But I am as old as time.”
He then burst into hysterical laughter so out of control that he almost fell over, causing the dressing gown to fall fully open and reveal his erect cock.
He picked up his coffee and drained the last few drops from the cup before crashing it down on the saucer. They both sat in comparable silence for a few minutes. Eventually Fred broke their state of idle and pleasant contemplation.
“Well young man, I am sure you have plenty of time in front of you before you have to face the music, as they say.”
He hoped that the remark would signal to him that their coffee break was over.
He looked at him in an odd way that he could not read and then he leapt to his feet. He straightened, pulled down his dressing gown, and gave Fred a sudden sharp look over his lower lids.
“Yes I hope so,” he said as he crossed the small distance between them and ended up standing directly in front of Fred.
“Do you like what you saw,” Toby asked, looking down at Fred.
“Very nice indeed,” Fred answered.
“Do you want to suck it?” Toby asked.
“I’d like that very much.”
The dressing gown belt was loosened and fell to the sides. Slowly it slipped from his shoulders and fell to the ground. Toby was now naked with his cock pointing northwards.
Fred licked his lips then flicked his tongue out to touch the head of the cock. Opening his mouth wide the cock slipped inside comfortably.
"God, you are torturing me," Toby screamed. Fred swallowed the cock with the accuracy of a pro. Several moans escaped from Toby's mouth as Fred sucked his cock, urging him to go faster. He started to thrust his hips when Fred went down so his whole dick was engulfed by the tight throat. "Fuck you are good!"
"Toby’s breathing started to get heavier as Fred increased his speed. Toby was no longer thrusting as he was filled with intense pleasure.
"I'm going to cum soon if you keep that up," Toby said through moans. He tried to stop Fred before it was too late, but Fred just kept going until the cock started to pulse. Toby let out a deep guttural moan as his cock started spraying cum down into the back of Fred's throat.
He tried to swallow as much as he could, but a little dribbled out of the side of his mouth.
Toby picked up the dressing gown and put it on.
“I’d better go now,” Toby said as he was climbing up the steps.
“Don’t forget your geranium,” Fred said, “of course you will have to re-pot it.”
“Yes, yes of course I will,” he said as he quickly returned. He scooped up the plant and its broken pot and then was gone.
Later as he washed up the coffee things in his kitchen, he couldn’t get the young man; Toby was it, out of his mind. In some ways he seemed so much older than his years, twenty or twenty one he imagined. His remarks about death had made him think about it again, carrying on his earlier thoughts from that morning. He wondered sometimes about the actuality of it.
How would it happen?
Would it be a long and painful illness, or would it be over in a flash, maybe a heart attack or a stroke? He had always hoped that he would be conscious and aware of what was going on. The last great adventure of life and he hoped he would be.
He put the dishes away, picked up yesterday’s newspaper and went back to the patio to enjoy the last rays of the afternoon sun.
As he stepped out of the door something made him look up to the flat above and as he did he saw, almost in slow motion, a geranium pot tumble off the window and float down towards him. Time seemed to stand still. He knew the pot would hit him and that the blow would kill him.
The young man’s words rushed back to his final moments about laughing at death. So, that’s what he did and died with a smile on his face.
He fell down heavily and banged his head against the hard surface with the remains of the geranium scattered around him.
Eventually he would be missed and some silent anonymous men would come and take him away. As they did, they would never notice, or maybe could not see, a face disappearing from the window above them. Nor would they notice one long red hair gently resting amongst the white flowers of the agapanthus.
Toby smiled to himself then was gone.
I was fooled by the beaming sun hanging over the sea at Bournemouth, on the South coast, as I looked out of my hotel window. I had imagined that a long walk in the spring sunshine would be pleasant, and perhaps begin to dispel the blackish mood that had hung around me all week.
I put down the book I was reading. I got bored quickly with novels so I’d switched to short stories instead. I would read a story, watch the air awhile, and read another. I would mark my page with a bus ticket and often listen to the sounds from outdoors – the swish of the cars, the voices of children in the gardens and the squealing of the seabirds as they dived and swooped.
Approaching the double doors, they slid open to allow me to go out. The entrance was carpeted with some nubby, hard substance, probably to accommodate wheelchairs. It made a strange sound under my feet.
Several elderly women, carrying large handbags, stood outside supported by various apparatus to keep them vertical, everything from sticks to Zimmer frames helped them form a circle around their leader. Each one wore a sensible coat and a see through plastic rain hat over their tight white perms.
But as I crossed the busy road and made my way towards the cliffs at the end of the promenade I realised my mistake. Billowing clouds were quickly darkening above the horizon and the wind was snatching at my jacket as I headed eastwards.
I had hoped that a weekend away from my family would help to lift my burgeoning depression, but the sound of distant thunder, and the slowly blackening sky seemed to echo my mood, not help alleviate it.
The beach was almost deserted; most of the holiday makers had long since retired back to their hotels, but as I looked into the distance there appeared to be one figure that was not moving quickly for cover as heavy drops of rain began to land on the pavement.
I was intrigued by this lone non-mover seemingly welded to a narrow strip of sand that came into view between the pebbles and the rocks where the tide had retreated.
A lone dog approached me, sniffed at my ankles then ran off towards the promenade, towards its owner, an elderly woman dressed in a red anorak with the hood pulled up over her head.
The figure on the beach seemed very small against the vast expanse of the sea, but as I got closer I began to see the reason for this. I was approaching a young lad.
As I gradually got nearer to him I could see that he was frantically digging up the sand with a rather inadequate blue and red striped child’s spade, and using it to surround an imposing castle like construction that he had, presumably, made. The idea of the wall was, I imagined, protecting the castle from its enemies which in this case was the sea.
As I got closer I shouted out to him, “Hello.”
He stopped digging and looked up at me.
“What do you want?” he asked.
I must say I was completely taken aback by the directness of his question, and the tone with which it was delivered. I thought he was about nineteen, maybe slightly older.
He reminded me of my own son who is just ten, although in no way did he physically resemble him. The most striking feature about him was his blonde, almost white hair which had been left to grow and was gathered into a pony-tail at the back of his head. His face was not really a young person’s face at all as it seemed to be overwhelmed by what appeared as concern and anxiety. Also I sensed wariness and even fear in him. However, I answered his question.
“Well I was a little concerned for you,” I said, “The weather seems to be changing for the worse, and it might be sensible to make your way back to town.”
Dressed in a white T-shirt and bulging speedos, barefoot with his shoes thrown to the side, he looked cold and fragile.
He looked out at sea for a moment or so as if searching for something, then returned back to his digging.
“I can’t go yet. Don’t you understand I’ve got to get this wall finished so that the castle will be safe and protected when the tide comes in?”
I was about 5 meters from him and from there I couldn’t make out much how much of the bulge was cock and how much was balls so I knew I had to get closer for a better look. I walked slowly towards him while glancing around to see if anyone else was a round. When I got about 2 meters away I could see the blonde hair on his legs and how that hair got darker the further up his legs it got and with his legs being open just a little I could see that bit of lycra what was under his balls between his legs, I was fascinated to see the stretching of that material and how it looked like it was working very hard to keep his private parts concealed. Up from there was one of the biggest bulges I had seen in my life. Since I had moved closer I could see that he dressed to the left, I could make out the shape of his cock and the size of his awesome balls. Above his cock the tie string from his speedo was poking out tied in a nice little knot. Above that was a skinny stomach and chest. I noticed that I had more definition in my abs and chest then him but he had me beat with his enormous bulge. He looked like he had shaved this morning but had just a little bit of regrowth.
His lips are slightly open and I was thinking how awesome it would be to kiss him, and maybe slip my cock into his gentle mouth. By this time my cock was as hard as a rock and I knew that at any moment there would be a wet spot of precum at the front of my trousers. I didn’t know if I should walk back to the other end of the beach as I didn’t want anyone to see me walking around with a hard on!
As I was thinking about this and looking at my new friend I noticed him moving just a little. Then his hand went down to his cock for a small adjustment. I knelt down on the wet sand.
I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Suddenly he jumped up and stood next to me. I turned my head and his speedo bulge was less then half a metre from my face. It looked even better up close! I could smell him, he smelt like the sea.
"Its hot out here on the beach mate, you could do with a drink."
He was holding two cans of coke and held one out to me. I looked up at him and then away at the water and said thanks. He sat down beside me and I knew he would be able to see my erection so I drew my legs out so that my knees where up under my chin and sat drinking my coke.
I felt him looking at me and felt very uncomfortable. He said "I think it’s going to rain soon.”
I nodded.
“Maybe we should go to the shelter,” he suggested.
There was a lone shelter, open on two sides not far from where we were. He led the way, leaving the spade behind.
When he sat close next to me I noticed right away that the bulge in his speedo had grown quite a bit.
He looked down and giggled "Sorry mate, but at least we match now," With this he looked down at my still hard cock. Oh my god I thought. This hot guy wants to fool around with me!
I didn’t know what to say so I just looked away. I felt him looking at me but neither of us said anything for a while. "You have a good body for a guy your age, do you work out?"
"No," I told him. "I swim in the local pool when I am at home,"
He said that he had wanted to swim when he was younger but had never learned.
My mouth was so dry that I didn’t think I would be able to talk if he said anything but what he said let me find my voice. "Is it ok it I touch your dick man?"
I still didn’t look at him and just said, "Sure if you want to"
I felt his hand on my knee and put my legs down. He moved his hand slowly up my thigh until he stopped at my bulge.
When his hand touched my balls I let out a little gasp. I couldn’t help it, it just happened. He didn’t say anything, just kept rubbing. He was so gentle and was cupping and rubbing my balls at the same time. Because I was hard my cock was off to the left and his hand moved to touch the shape outlined in my trousers.
Finally he moved his hand over to my cock. The second his big hand touched it I let out a low moan, he heard it and said, "It feels good doesn’t it?"
I couldn’t talk by that point and just nodded. He cupped my hard dick in his hand slowly and gently rubbed it.
"Wow," he said "You have a big cock there.”
He stretched back against the seat and spread his legs out.
"Its ok, you can do what ever you want," he said.
That was all I needed to hear. I reached my hand out and touched the shaft of his speedo clad cock with the tips of my fingers. His steel hard cock felt awesome with the tight material covering it. I rubbed his cock with my hand. It felt so good. I then rubbed my hand down his balls too then I cupped them with one hand and his cock with the other. While I was rubbing and cupping I felt his hand reach for my cock.
Picking up his towel he placed it on the floor between my legs. He then got onto his knees as he opened my legs wide.
He expertly opened my zipper and slipped his hand inside. Grabbing hold of my cock he pulled it free and gently stuck it through the opening. He kissed the tip of my cock. As his lips touched the head of my cock I let out a loud moan. This made him smile. He reached into trousers again and pulled out my balls. He licked them for a while then moved to my cock. He held it in his hand looking at it and slowly pulling the foreskin back and forth. I thought I was going to cum there and then. As i was about to tell him I thought I was about to come he lunged at my cock. He put the head of my dick in his mouth and moved his tongue around the head. I couldn’t sit still. This was the most intense thing I had ever felt in my life. It was warm and wet just like the other blow jobs I had had, but he was also licking the sensitive glands on my dick. I was squirming around the seat like a mad man. Just when I thought I was going to lose my mind he stopped and took my entire cock into his mouth. I let out a load moan again. He said something I couldn't quite make out but the vibrations of him talking felt good on my cock.