Not in your lifetime, he thought.
"Actually, I was thinking more in terms of exotic guesthouses. Know of any?"
"Probably more than I should. I've stayed at a few in my day. Ever been to El Rancho? There's plenty goes on all night in that little rodeo. I've been known to get pretty exotic there myself."
Brad knew about El Rancho. It was a long way from the Not-So-OK-Corral in both location and reputation. He let his gaze travel suggestively down to the man's crotch.
"I was thinking more of the private part of town. I heard there was a place that costs as much for one night as most other houses cost in a month."
The man's face showed genuine surprise. "Really? How much?"
"Thousands."
"And what do I get for my 'thousands'?" he asked, running a hairy paw across his chest.
"All you can eat, snort, and blow in one night," Brad answered, resisting the temptation to call him 'monkey nipples.'
"Book me!" he cried. "I never heard of it, but I'll try anything!"
Brad ran a finger up the inside of the man's thigh. The spandex swelled and twitched. He lifted the man's foot from his crotch and dropped it onto the sand.
"I'll let you know if I find it," Brad said, rising.
"Why, you're nothing but a cocktease!" the queen snarled.
Here, it seemed, was the inverse corollary to his father's advice on good looks and sincerity: if you want someone to go away, disingenuousness works best.
Brad turned back. "I guess I'm just an actor at heart. I could run your country for you, but I can't be sincere for the life of me."
He lingered on the beach for another hour, asking every man he met about the mysterious guesthouse. Most of them were genuinely friendly and he didn't even need to flirt to start a conversation. Knowing how gay men loved their gossip, however, he was amazed to discover that no one had heard of it. Obviously, Brad thought, it's as exclusive as it's meant to be. Probably why it's successful.
He sat on a piece of driftwood and brought out his binoculars, scanning the beach. The passing parade of men kept its eyes peeled for Destiny. Like most children, and Blanche DuBois at the end of her tether, gay men still believed in Magic. They were all waiting for the one magnificent man who would come to claim them and transform their lives from a shabby beach shack into a seaside palazzo complete with interior fountains, marble mantelpieces, perfect brunch guests, and a history that included 'the day Madonna came to dinner.' On straight beaches, where dreams are downplayed, they're mostly just waiting for lunch and the next beer.
Brad caught a flash atop one of the dunes. He focused the lenses and, to his surprise, saw a pair of binoculars trained on him. Right, he thought. Now I'm someone else's prey.
He watched the binoculars watching him. After a moment, their owner laid them down on the sand. Brad could make out a lithe young man in a baseball cap sitting cross-legged on top of the dune.
Brad turned back to the shoreline and continued to scan with his binoculars. The whole time he felt the hair on his neck rise with the presence from above. He turned and looked back. The figure sat there, arms outstretched and palms turned upward as though waiting for rain. The brim of the boy's cap obscured his face.
Brad stood and made his way toward the dune. He scrambled upward, stumbling now and then as the sand shifted and pulled him back down. Once he fell into a thorny bush and scratched his leg, but he brushed himself off and kept climbing till he reached the top and stood before the figure whose position hadn't changed.
The young man sat in a contemplative pose, head cocked toward the beach and the brim of his cap pulled way down. He was completely and splendidly naked, right down to the bare chest that had never felt a razor in its life and the notable dick resting on the sand between his legs. The tattooed outline of a horse's head embellished his trim stomach.
Whoa! Now here's a guy I could really go for, Bradford
"Actually, I was thinking more in terms of exotic guesthouses. Know of any?"
"Probably more than I should. I've stayed at a few in my day. Ever been to El Rancho? There's plenty goes on all night in that little rodeo. I've been known to get pretty exotic there myself."
Brad knew about El Rancho. It was a long way from the Not-So-OK-Corral in both location and reputation. He let his gaze travel suggestively down to the man's crotch.
"I was thinking more of the private part of town. I heard there was a place that costs as much for one night as most other houses cost in a month."
The man's face showed genuine surprise. "Really? How much?"
"Thousands."
"And what do I get for my 'thousands'?" he asked, running a hairy paw across his chest.
"All you can eat, snort, and blow in one night," Brad answered, resisting the temptation to call him 'monkey nipples.'
"Book me!" he cried. "I never heard of it, but I'll try anything!"
Brad ran a finger up the inside of the man's thigh. The spandex swelled and twitched. He lifted the man's foot from his crotch and dropped it onto the sand.
"I'll let you know if I find it," Brad said, rising.
"Why, you're nothing but a cocktease!" the queen snarled.
Here, it seemed, was the inverse corollary to his father's advice on good looks and sincerity: if you want someone to go away, disingenuousness works best.
Brad turned back. "I guess I'm just an actor at heart. I could run your country for you, but I can't be sincere for the life of me."
He lingered on the beach for another hour, asking every man he met about the mysterious guesthouse. Most of them were genuinely friendly and he didn't even need to flirt to start a conversation. Knowing how gay men loved their gossip, however, he was amazed to discover that no one had heard of it. Obviously, Brad thought, it's as exclusive as it's meant to be. Probably why it's successful.
He sat on a piece of driftwood and brought out his binoculars, scanning the beach. The passing parade of men kept its eyes peeled for Destiny. Like most children, and Blanche DuBois at the end of her tether, gay men still believed in Magic. They were all waiting for the one magnificent man who would come to claim them and transform their lives from a shabby beach shack into a seaside palazzo complete with interior fountains, marble mantelpieces, perfect brunch guests, and a history that included 'the day Madonna came to dinner.' On straight beaches, where dreams are downplayed, they're mostly just waiting for lunch and the next beer.
Brad caught a flash atop one of the dunes. He focused the lenses and, to his surprise, saw a pair of binoculars trained on him. Right, he thought. Now I'm someone else's prey.
He watched the binoculars watching him. After a moment, their owner laid them down on the sand. Brad could make out a lithe young man in a baseball cap sitting cross-legged on top of the dune.
Brad turned back to the shoreline and continued to scan with his binoculars. The whole time he felt the hair on his neck rise with the presence from above. He turned and looked back. The figure sat there, arms outstretched and palms turned upward as though waiting for rain. The brim of the boy's cap obscured his face.
Brad stood and made his way toward the dune. He scrambled upward, stumbling now and then as the sand shifted and pulled him back down. Once he fell into a thorny bush and scratched his leg, but he brushed himself off and kept climbing till he reached the top and stood before the figure whose position hadn't changed.
The young man sat in a contemplative pose, head cocked toward the beach and the brim of his cap pulled way down. He was completely and splendidly naked, right down to the bare chest that had never felt a razor in its life and the notable dick resting on the sand between his legs. The tattooed outline of a horse's head embellished his trim stomach.
Whoa! Now here's a guy I could really go for, Bradford
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