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"of harmless thoughts"

By Tom Murray

We are sitting by the side of the road irrigating the fields with our fluids. The hot Spanish sun pulls sweat from our pores and the heat from the pavement. The coils gust upwards like packs of invisible snakes.

Earlier this summer, Carlos had suggested hitching to Pamplona for the running of the bulls. "The San Fermin", as it is called. His father lectured us about the dangers of hitchhiking. A guise for any father's fear his son would get hurt by a bull. Yet, this son was only following in his dad's footsteps steps. By all accounts, Mr. Martinez had a celebrated youth that he continued to celebrate.

Sparing ourselves the sermon - and sparing access to one of Carlos's family cars - we are not in Pamplona today. Rather, we're stuck in the desert under the blazing sun. There hasn't been a single opportunity to extend our thumbs. Not once. This summer there really aren't any cars on the road. When one does come by, it never slows down or stops. Recent Basque violence has frightened the good people of Spain. Within my first week in this sun-baked country, a bomb woke the entire neighborhood while blowing a busload of police-cadets to bits. Such ruthlessness made people afraid to travel, let alone pick up unshaven youths trudging along the highway.

Eventually, an English business woman had mercy and pulled over. We gratefully slipped into her air-conditioned car and sped off across the brown veldt. When our paths separated, she reluctantly left us in another desolate spot. Carlos tried to get into her pants but didn't get very far. Looking back, it was hardly surprising. We looked and smelled bad.

It was getting dark and there was nowhere to go for shelter. I was ill-prepared wearing only shorts and a t-shirt and carrying my fiddle, by then extra baggage. Carlos was equally equipped and had his guitar - even heavier. Nonetheless, he thoroughly enjoyed my being annoyed with everything.

We stood there for an hour kicking rocks at each other. That eventually turned into whipping them with intent to annoy. Carlos nailed me a few times in a row. I wanted to kill him. He, being the light, lithe one, easily avoided the attempts on his life.

That night, the temperature plummeted. I woke close to dawn with teeth chattering. My eyes opened to the sight of Carlos lighting tumble weeds. They caught fire instantly and burned to ashes in the same time it took to light them. He was running around like a madman, throwing dried weeds onto the precious flame. I smiled knowing he was as miserable as myself and lay back pretending to sleep.

As the sun cracked across a sharp plain, we hit the highway a mere two feet from our beds. After an hour of standing and sitting and standing, a lorry appeared in the distance billowing sand. To our relief, the driver pulled up and grunted for us to climb aboard.

"We don't have far to go," Carlos informed me after a short exchange with the driver.

A half hour into the ride, the driver started talking. He told us how, earlier, he ran into some 'action' while on the road.

"Prostitutes hide behind the bushes and wait for our trucks to come by. When they see us, they come out and pretend to hitch hike. That's what I thought you were till I saw you up close."

Although my Spanish is weak, I heard this man refer to his prostitute in the male gender. And, I couldn't help but notice heroin scars on his bare arms.

He saw that I noticed his arms. As if that was an invitation, he stared back at me, dropping his gaze to my groin. Blood flushed to my face and I started to sweat. My usual reaction to things like this. Did Carlos notice? I sat still and forced myself to look away.

Carlos explained, "we are musicians going to Pamplona to play at the festival. You can drop us off just outside the town limit if that's ok."

After talking for a while, the driver asked us to take out our instruments and play a song in the truck's cab. Carlos insisted there wasn't enough room.

Eventually we pulled over at a fairly modern gas complex. I headed for the bathroom with a bursting bladder. The driver came barging in after me.

Grinning affectionately, he pulled up to the next urinal, but stood back far enough so I could see everything without looking down. Laboriously, he pulled out a long, thick penis and let it dangle a bit over his pants. Leaning against the back of his feet, he arched exposing his stomach and black hair. As we urinated, he tried to catch sight of me and mine. He was the typical young, Spanish male, always looking for something.

I tried to ignore him and pressed forward against the urinal to block his view. But, even as I tried to force the pee out of my body, to my horror my penis evolved into an erection. How was I going to zip up without his seeing? Waiting, smiling, the driver smirked as if he knew. As no one else was in the bathroom, he reached over and pulled me back. As I turned I dribbled.

He jumped. I zipped up, turned and ran out.

Back at the truck, I waited and waited with Carlos. Actually, I hid behind Carlos. Eventually, The driver came out with a big wet stain on his pants.

"Problems?", Carlos snickered.

As the driver climbed aboard, he snuck a shy smile in my direction. Unfinished, I still had to pee. I guess I would have to wait.

As the truck got under way, we soon saw signs for the festival. Feeling both excited and relieved, Carlos reminded the driver that we wanted to be let off just outside the city. The driver tried to persuade us otherwise.

"I'll take you and your friend wherever you need to go," he pleaded.

I think Carlos sensed I wanted out. He stood firm and 'insisted' the driver let us off on the road outside town. We were dropped off promptly.

Stepping from the cab, the whole gay spell faded like a fart on a windy day. Nonetheless, I was disturbed at how easily I could be sexually drawn to some strange man. It was dawning on me, apparently, I'll look at anything that moves. What did Carlos think I wondered? Did he see what happened?

Like most northern towns, Pamplona still percolates with ancient things, Roman streets, expansive plazas, and slow days. During the San Fermin, however, the slow days evaporate for two weeks.

Before we started toward town, I ran behind a bush where Niagara Falls let loose.

"Ahhhhhhh"

"Didn't you just go to the bathroom," Carlos asked?

Moving on, he led me through an old gate heading for the main square where the other young people usually congregate. Young and old huddled in doorways resting up for the day's party. One doorway hosted a group of blond-haired, sun burned Scandinavians. They were piled one on top of another in sleeping bags. I spied one milky Viking with half slit eyes. Sitting with his back to a shop, he watched me go by, following my walk. I looked back, once, twice. White teeth crept across his blond face.

I smiled back. No danger there. Again, I couldn't help it. Being the age we were, the smell of cum was oozing from all pores. And, Carlos further helped out by pushing his own brand of sexuality right at me.

"Ian, look nice titas. Lets go over and talk to them."

Then he'd smile good naturedly, knowing they weren't terribly significant to me. But, it just didn't matter. That's what boys did. Carlos even cruised the dog ugly ones. Essentially, it was the way it was. Boys like to talk about the prospect of sex.

My libido had been gearing up ever since I 'de-planed' in Madrid. When Carlos met me at the airport with a joint and a sly smile, I felt myself instantly whisked away from the prodigious land of Kathy Lee Gifford and Howard Stern. A door that should have been well oiled, blew open as if for the first time. I slowly, painfully, shyly realized that my appetite for boys was not a passing phase. I wanted a lover, not just a friend. I wanted to be intimate, but didn't have the faintest clue how to go about doing that.

I had come to the right place. Although a Catholic country, Spain has a sun baked culture that truly embraces sensuality. Spanish men are forthright about their cat calls and Spanish women return them with coy looks. Blatant staring from boys like the one leaning against the door was a common occurrence. It was what baited me and led me through the barbed wire. What happened in the truck stop, however, was too much, too fast. Even so, I knew deep down, I had to force myself to look around.

Of course, years of lying to yourself are hard to get past. When I was back in high school, I was convinced that any attraction to my own sex was completely abnormal and prayed I'd grow out of it. "It's my bi-sexual phase. Everyone goes through it."

All the while, everyone sensed something was different, especially my parents. There was too much evidence pointing to the truth. Things like how I became a reclusive Howard Hughes, only playing Monopoly with my little brother.

And college wasn't much different than high school, except for the absence of my parents and the entrance of Mary Jane. That first year, I made friends with a group of girls in my dorm. Sensing a friendly disinterest, they allowed me to join them. They soon learned how un-boyish I really was. But, to protect me, they never talked about this outside the circle.

Picking them up for a night out, I'd arrive and they'd always be sitting in their turbans smoking. Never ready. The cigarette, bath, cigarette, make-up and cigarette was a lengthy process forcing them to run late for everything.

Their boy friends, of course, didn't know what to think about me or my easy friendship with their women. In the beginning, they took it as competition. But, that was the beginning. Quickly, they suspected what the girls knew already.

Eventually, these boys concocted a blundering scheme putting up the cutest of them to seduce me. After two evenings of drinking and rubbing against each other in the bar, I agreed to go back to his room in the 'House'. As he leaned toward me, I would move towards him until our lips touched. Then we started tongue kissing. It was nice and slow. He was a good kisser.

Thinking my dreams were finally coming true, I saw my new-found friend gruffly get up and bolt from the room. It was an Oscar winning performance worthy of a Baby Jane. Of course, his fellow conspirators were lying in wait to give me a fat lip.

News traveled fast. From then on, it was difficult to strike up friendships with other boys. My girl friends, however, could have given two shits about this gay indiscretion. They were reading Freud in freshmen studies and were becoming enlightened as to the forces of human nature. I wasn't a threat.

Of all the girls, my best friend was Erin Brookshire. She was the one to whom I lost my virginity. Famous for an obnoxious, New York City lifestyle, Erin couldn't understand why there wasn't a host of 'nail salons' on College Avenue.

One of her boy friends was a Mexican from the wrong side of Appleton. When he came around, looking hot as hell in his sleeveless tee, I'd keep him occupied as Erin applied eyeliner. I wanted him to like me but didn't want it to be too obvious. Since he didn't know I was black listed, it was an opportunity to interact with my own sex without the baggage. He flirted back like guys can, as long as sexuality really isn't on the line.

After one stormy night of alcohol, Erin and I wound up lying on my marsh-mellow bed, side by side. Totally fucked-up and thinking there was an opportunity to lose my virginity, I wanted to prove once and for all I really wasn't gay. So I gave her a gentle kiss.

She responded with her tongue. The ensuing make-out session came somewhat naturally. Then, like a robot, I took off her dress. Seeing her private parts face to face, I realized this was a big mistake. She was so foreign to me. But, I didn't want to disappoint. Forcing myself down on her pubic hair, I tried licking the area.

There was no withering of pleasure on her part either. It must have been my cat's mouth tongue. I looked for where my penis was supposed to go. After banging it against her stomach, I finally slid it in and fucked her in a quick flurry of movement. After the orgasm, I asked if she was a virgin. She laughed, knowing she had actually broken my hymen instead.

During the last year of college, I slowly extended my circle of friends to the Europeans at school. They basically ignored school society and pined away for their home countries. They felt everything in America was pretty much the same as Europe but inferior in some way. I'd hear, "Why do the same cars that look sharp in Espain, look dumpy once they're sold in America?" You'd think about what they said, and more often than not, they'd have a point, even though you got sick of hearing it.

Their lanky shy leader was a boy named Carlos. We became friends over late night jam sessions in the cool Wisconsin evenings. Ice cold Miller and home grown were staples for them, with an occasional acid party thrown in to spice things up. There was no such thing as a European who either didn't love to sing or wouldn't try to force you to love to sing. With graduation quickly approaching, and the prospect of our musical fun ending, Carlos invited me to stay with him in Spain.

Safely in Madrid, I soon began to recognize clues of a gay world around me. It was as if someone turned on a switch. Boys were looking at me and I tried to look back without feeling like a sodomite. I'm pretty sure Carlos figured out we had different interests. He probably already knew it back in school.

Trudging through the streets of Pamplona was definitely the heart of the adventure. Getting closer to the center of town, the streets became crowded. People jammed around trying to see the bullpens. They all jockeyed to get a better view. Adrenaline squirted into my blood as we encountered the first trappings of this dangerous rite. Real bulls, huge, shiny black. People would be running in front of them for amusement. A far cry from the tamer thrills of VH1.

The influx of a crowd provided an opportunity to ditch Carlos. I knew he was horny too, so it wouldn't be a big disappointment if we lost each other. Then, he could work his magic. I was beginning to understand his cycles. What's more, we were fed up with each other thanks to our hitchhiking experience. So with a silent acknowledgment of our explorer's agreement and a standing commitment to regroup in the main square the same evening, I slipped behind a person or two and was on my own in no time.

At this twenty-four hour festival, the bars are always open. This morning, they were certainly crowded. Some blared traditional Spanish party songs, while others played dance or rock.

I wound my way to a small, lovely tree-lined square. Just ahead, a group of Spanish matrons hopped into a little dance with arms interlocked. Acting like girls, they merrily sang an old favorite.

As I listened, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Startled, I turned and beheld a young, Spanish male. With jet black hair and a broad, smooth face, he looked to be around nineteen or twenty. I caught my breath and forced myself to look up at his smile. It literally dazzled in the sun. Asking in good English, "excuse me, but is that a violin case?" -- he pronounced the first "i" of violin as an "e" - "veolin".

Wearing a heavy troubadour costume with a black cape, he was sweating a lot. Each section of the costume, front, back, top, right leg, left leg, was of a different color. His short collar was black velvet. Armpits heavily stained, this costume was definitely not suited for Spanish summers. I had seen the same sort of clothing worn by Madrid's troubadours who worked tourist spots.

Like many things in Spain, a costume like this was a reminder of old times. Musicians and storytellers lived nomadic lives, traveling from town to town in the same clothing as this boy. It advertised the musician's troupe to his audience, whether they be bored farmers, the local the castle or the bishop's palace.

Sounding sure of himself, he said, "My name is Marco. I am also a musician. We come from Barcelona to play at the Grand Hotel, outside in the cafe. Right now, I'm going to a place where I can make some good money for just a few songs. I see your case. We could make much more if you play with me."

His presence and straightforward request seemed believable. But, the way he forced me to look at his eyes was a little unsettling. Veiled intention burned off his brown skin. I was sure that music was just an excuse for something else. Forcing my eyes to meet his, I grunted a nervous acceptance of the offer. He nodded, picked up his instrument and started walking.

He asked if I was from England. I told him that Chicago was my home. I said "Michael Jordan" and mimed shooting a basketball, indicating I was from the same home as the greatest bull of all.

"What's your name," Marco asked?

"Ian."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty two".

"I love you Americans with the hair of gold."

Acting the older hustler, even though he looked a lot younger, Marco slipped his arm into mine and led me through the narrow streets. Catching the scent, my fear evaporated as other forces kicked into gear.

We stopped at a huge corner bar with gray walls that had brightly colored triangles painted on them. Fashionable lights hung at the room's corners. Of course the bar was full. It's wide doors and windows had been thrown open so you could see across to the other street on the opposite block. Like many taverns in Pamplona you had to step down to enter.

Marco nodded to the bartender who broke away from a group of customers to clap him on the back and plant a kiss on his cheek. He said in Spanish, "Why is it we see you only once a year and only during San Fermin. Don't we treat you well enough?"

Marco smiled slyly, "You know Pacito, it's never money, rather it's the awful wine you serve." They both laughed like old friends. Marco introduced me as "Ian from Chicago." Paco provided a genuine smile. Marco explained that I was a 'veolinist'. As he steered me to a small stage in the middle of the bar, I noticed people looking at us, especially at Marco. I unpacked my instrument.

I was well prepared. Living in Madrid with Carlos Martinez and his worldly family had provided the opportunity to make music almost every day. During the hot, languid afternoons, we sat around parks and played songs for small change while everyone worked. At night, his parents were forever entertaining. All of their parties ended in some kind of sing-along that we orchestrated. That was our rent. Mrs. Martinez barely tolerated me but for that. To her, I was a lazy rich kid and a bad influence on her son.

Surrounded by Spanish music, I soon learned how to milk the fiddle for those minor sounding, Moorish melodies. I also adjusted my country style to the fast tarantella numbers that get people up and dancing.

Marco had his instrument out and strummed a few chords.

I caught a note to tune to. The bar crowd got louder. But, Marco still took his time to get situated. Then without much warning, he belted the introduction to an old drinking song. I put bow to string and jumped in scratching for the beat. After the first two lyrics, he nodded for my break. I took off on a gritty swing on my low strings, throwing around blues licks at every opportunity.

After the first verse, we started to have an effect on the crowd. Heads began to move. People stopped talking. Coming around again to the beginning of the final verse, I looked over at Marco expecting him to sing again. Instead, he stepped back and let me take another round. By the last chorus, both of us were roaring. Marco was extremely skilled at strumming lush rhythms. He gave me a quick glance and set up the song's "tag". We ended simultaneously on a short note that made us seem like old pros. There was a moment of surprised silence from the crowd, and then applause and MAJOR pounding of drinking glasses. It felt like a western.

"Alright now," I heard.

"Look, these boys can play."

Riding the applause, Marco spun the chords into the next tune, a love song famous in this part of Spain. The crowd sighed with pleasure and so did I. They all began to sing with his sweet voice and I kept it low and lush so as to not interfere. By the last verse, people passing on the street had stopped and took up the tune swelling the space.

After finishing a short set, Marco took a hat from his backpack and passed it round. The hat came back heaping with currency. Paco, the bartender, motioned us to the bar and uncorked a bottle of Rioja wine that had a stained label. He was beaming and congratulated Marco on finding "el veoliniste" to which Marco blushed. Paco mumbled something else in his ear while glancing over at me. Marco shook his head. Paco then poured two glasses, set the bottle down and left.

Taking a gulp of wine, I looked at Marco. I was amazed at how a young guy like this could appear so full of confidence. Basking in performance after-glow, Marco looked at me with an expression that said he was pleasantly surprised by my playing. He moved closer so our shoulders touched.

With the wine running its course, I gently pressed back, but only a little. Perspiration beaded above his full lips. I wanted to lean forward and put my mouth there. As if reading those thoughts, he quickly kissed me and whispered, "Ian you are as lovely as you play."

Trying not to fall off the stool, I quickly looked around to see if anyone noticed.

Talking in hushed tones, he said, "I would not believe you are an American, listening to the way you play. You have learned Espanish rhythms and melodies very well. And at the risk of sounding European, I believe the way you play lets me know a little about you. For instance, you are always leaning on the blue notes of the scale when major leads work just as well or better. That suggests you dwell in life's sadder realm. I tell you that it's not healthy to live in that corner for long."

"What do you know about sadness," I mumbled to myself.

Marco gave me an eye then poured another glass of wine. Was my unhappiness so obvious? Hoping to smooth over the impression that I was a wreck, I lit a cigarette that had hash in it.

Unlike American joints, the Spanish combine their hash and tobacco. Coming off Moroccan boats, hashish can be purchased almost everywhere, on any corner in Spain. Back in Madrid, when Carlos first gave me one of these joints, I coughed hard as the smoke was so thick with the hash resin. He called it a "peta". Carlos and his friends prided themselves on rolling these origami like joints. Some petas were designed with long conical shapes. Others evolved into round balls with stems. Nothing went to waste, even using portions of the Marlboro package to construct the Phyllis Diller like stem. After a few weeks of this, the sleepy buzz grew on me. The problem of course was that the tobacco simultaneously grew on me too. But, we looked cool and were happy looking cool.

I motioned to Marco with the joint. He took a deep drag and blew smoke rings.

"Maybe we can make more money tonight?"

"What ya mean by that?"

"Ever walk the streets?"

Witnessing my expression, Marco said, "Aye mama, I was only joking. You are far too serious my friend. What I really meant is that the tourists here have fat wallets and they become generous as they get drunk. If you wink your eyes a little bit, and throw in a smile here and there, you can double the tip, and that's coming from men. We'll have some fun spending their money."

My head was getting light as the hash took its slow effect. Meanwhile, the wine helped inhibit my paranoia. I smiled foolishly as understanding began to flow. Yet, just when I started to ease back and see what I wanted, the reality of other people in the room made me duck down, hiding from those who were pointing at the two "fags" in the corner. Sensing this, Marco backed away.

Gently, he said, "I think I know what's going through your head. It's ok. Take a look, nobody cares. They're all busy with their own conversations. And remember, we're the musicians. They expect deviant behavior from us. Come on Ian, we're lucky to have run into each other. Let's get out of here so we can be by ourselves."

I tried to change topics, asking him about running with the bulls.

"Running makes for a dangerous morning", said Marco.

"However, much like playing music, having sex, or any of the other things that we do where instinct rules, an incredible rush comes with the experience. If you want, we'll go together tomorrow morning. I know a safer way to run."

Moving like he was ready to go, Marco then said, "you know Ian, before we leave let's divide up the take."

Marco methodically counted the cash from his hat and handed over my wad. We slipped out of the bar without being noticed. He told me that he took proportionately more since the gig was his. Still, I walked away with about forty bucks worth to add to my pack of traveler checks.

Outside the bar, the sun was hot and the air clear. The warm light felt good on my neck after last night's freeze.

Pamplona is an old town. Located in northern Spain, many of the buildings are a cross between French houses and the traditional red tile roofs of Spain. The streets are all cobble stones and I never saw a moving automobile, although cars were stacked on top of each other on the sidewalks.

As we walked, people recognized Marco. His 'fans'. Marco seemed to enjoy introducing me. I tried to smile and look like somebody. These locals smiled back checking me out from behind their dark lashes.

After an hour of this, Marco said he was getting tired of running into people and that if we were ever going to be alone, we should have a picnic out in the fields. "We can also take naps and rest up for the evening gigs."

On our ascent to the north gate, we found ourselves on a narrow street leading into a small plaza filled with people. It was crowded and the focus was on a tall granite monument. Ahead was a group of citizens and tourists forming a queue.

Before I could figure out what was up, the crowd got loud as a young drunk climbed to the top of the monument. Everyone in the plaza jammed closer together and the noise turned to a roar. I got on my toes and was able to see a group of men with locked arms at the bottom of the monument. Hushed, the drunk leapt, arching into a perfect swan dive. Everyone screamed with delight and sighed as the boys below caught him, their interlocked arms cushioning the landing.

Marco said that sometimes, the divers panic and don't arch, so they drop like bombs against the street. "Bashed brains spoil the fun every time."

Pamplonans and their geraniums leaned from the balconies only a story above. Passing under a low arch, we headed toward a grocery tucked on the other side of the plaza. Our stomachs were calling.

Stepping though a screen door into the dingy shop, the proprietress nodded hello. Her coy eyes brushed us like a feather. Coolly, Marco ordered bread, cheese and wine. He paid for everything.

As the woman looked down at the register, Marco gently pulled at the belt loops on my shorts. She looked up. I jumped.

Noting what transpired, she put her hand up to calm. Then, in her best high priestess voice, she said, "I found my husband during the San Fermin and have seen love come to many more here at the festival. Why do you think blood is spilled over those bulls every year? It didn't start with tourists."

The woman smiled like the grandma she probably was and showered us with more of her Spanish wisdom. Other people came into the shop. Shuffling our change into the correct order, she mouthed the words while counting it out for Marco.

Once through Pamplona's old roman gate and onto the dry grasses and roads outside the town, we became younger as we became alone. Marco was my boyfriend. At least for the afternoon. Skipping. Walking. Running. Nobody was watching. Nobody caring.

"She's right you know," Marco said.

"The old woman?"

"In Espain, love making is part of our culture."

"Yeah, I know. I've seen how aggressive you all are."

"Not so much aggressive Ian," he said. "We're definitely not rough and clumsy like your people. We're much more the suave romantics."

"Really, you don't have to project yourself onto everyone."

"I'm serious. We love to charm. We love to chase. And over the years, this appetite has become second nature for us...has become imbedded in our genes."

"In whose jeans?"

"Yes, in my jeans. The whole thing is there."

"What the fuck good is it doing there?"

Obviously, I was infected, defective - whatever. I couldn't believe I was saying this to a member of my own sex. Marco also noticed the change and smiled like a wolf.

We walked a few miles. Then without warning, he pulled me off the road and up a well trod path where there was an ascent into the hills.

The trail soon became steep. When I turned around, I could see Pamplona's spires and her crumbling walls. Marco helped me over a series of ditches up into the final slope. I insisted I didn't need his help. But secretly, it was an opportunity to touch.

Upon reaching the summit, the path led to a thick forest. The lush trees seemed unnaturally verdant and the eucalyptus air was pure and serene. It smelled like Mass. Like musk. Like Marco. Does he sleep here I wondered?

We walked into the source of the greenery. Straight ahead chirped a cool brook that raced into a large pond. The pond spilled out like a terrace over the city. It was a fantastic view.

Marco said the pond was fueled by a Roman cistern.

Walking out on the terrace, he stripped off the sweaty tunic, revealing a smooth chest. Smiling at my expression, he waved me on.

"Come on Ian, take it off."

"Have you ever brought a girl here before," I asked?

"Ian! Why would I bring girls here? Denial is fucking you up. Admit to yourself what you want. And, you better do it within the next five minutes."

Marco nestled the wine into the water and kicked off his shoes. His pants followed, revealing a trail of hair from his navel down to a copse of black curls. In three gazelle-like steps, he dove out into the water.

After seeing his body, I was embarrassed to show mine, the product of my college years in Wisconsin. Beers and Brats. Worse yet, I was again horrified at how quickly I had become aroused. But, the sight of Marco's shiny body floating in the center of the pond somehow made my shorts fall down.

He screamed and cat called as I took off my clothes. Once naked, I walked to the side of the pond and dove in.

The cool water rushed through my ears as I plunged deep, surfacing on Marco. His hair glistened black in the sun. Marco put his hands on my hips, pulling me over. The water offered no resistance. Then, slowly we kissed. No French kissing at first, till gradually I opened my mouth. After some fumbles, my tongue started to connect. Realizing I was getting the rhythm, Marco slowed down.

We submerged. My hair floated everywhere like dried grass. The algae rumpused about. The show was on. His mouth was searching mine. It kissed its way down my neck, to the shoulders, round my nipples. I gave up completely as those fingers explored places I'd never been myself. Then, I started to give a little back moving my whole being into fourth, fifth gear. I wanted Marco to feel as good as I did. And, from the sounds he was making, I don't think it was a bad day for the rookie.

After finishing, we lounged on the hot rocks by the water. Marco had his arm draped across my stomach. He kept sneaking little peeks and wasn't hiding that his penis was hard again. I smiled satisfied for the first time in my life knowing that things had been forever changed, finally thinking my harmless thoughts.


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