WATCHING BRAD
Part 212
It was a nice walk back up Church Street toward the lounge where Peter would be playing. We liked it there. The service was excellent, the décor was comfortable and relaxing, and the music Peter played in the background was mostly very soothing. The atmosphere was entirely conducive to a pleasant night of conversation without having to shout to be heard over speakers the size of Cadillacs. And the waiters were seriously cute.
We didn't get to the lounge until later that evening, though. Our delightful, leisurely stroll up the crowded street was interrupted when we detoured into the bar where the wet T-shirt contest was being held. We'd decided that, even though Brad and David weren't going to participate, it wouldn't hurt to drop in and take a peek at the goodies on display that evening. The night was supposed to be David's treat, but Brad and I insisted that we pay our own cover charges to get inside. At twenty bucks a pop, it was too much to expect David to foot the bill himself. In due time, we were each stamped on the back of our right hand with a blue-inked star and handed one half of a small, numbered ‘Admit One' ticket. "Don't lose it," the doorman warned us. "You'll need it later." He stuffed the other half of the ticked through a slot in the top of a plastic margarine container. I tucked mine securely into my shirt pocket.
It was pretty crowded inside - and very noisy - and we had to stand at one of the few remaining tall tables that was just big enough for us to set our drinks on. Dancing was out of the question, mainly because most of the dance floor was occupied by a rather large, carpet-covered platform where, I assumed, the contest would take place. A small, round, colourful, inflated wading pool was set in the middle of the platform and a small rectangular table held a supply of bottled water and a stack of white terrycloth towels.
We didn't really talk about anything important or memorable as we waited. There was so much noise from the crowds and the pounding music that it wasn't worth getting laryngitis trying to be heard above it for the sake of discussing last night's dinner. About twenty minutes into our wait, David and Brook went to the bathroom together. Brad and I remained behind to hold our table. We would go when they came back. Brook, however, came back alone.
"We found an empty table near the dance floor," he said he twitched his head to indicate a spot over his shoulder. We looked and there was David, grinning at us and flailing both arms over his head to get our attention. Brad started laughing out loud and I was grinning as Brook reached for their drinks. He paused a moment to glance over his shoulder. "Damn fool!" he said loudly when he saw David's antics. "Looks like he's standing on the table. Better get back there before he falls off and busts his head."
As if on cue, a startled expression swept over David's face as he suddenly bent himself backwards in a desperate attempt to maintain his balance. He failed and had to jump. Brook went rigid and I could hear him gasp. I wasn't too concerned, though. After having witnessed his display of acrobatics in the kitchen of the old house that afternoon when he was retrieving Lindsay's bridal bouquet in the jar on the countertop and the stove fell through the floor, I knew he'd still be in one piece when we reached him.
Sure enough, he reappeared a few moments later, but now at an altitude where the air wasn't quite as thin. Apparently he was standing on a chair this time.
"Damn fool," Brook repeated, but his full lips were curled up into a relieved smile on his face as he grabbed the beer bottles. We grabbed our own and followed Brook through the crowd. As I had guessed, David was standing on the chair. He climbed down and sat in it instead as we broke through the pack of swarming bodies and joined him.
"Idiot," Brook said to him with a smirk. "Trying to break your neck?"
David shrugged it off. "Aw, hell no. I fell on some guy in leather pants. He broke my fall. Sure was a lot more fun than landing on the floor, I can tell you." He raised his beer bottle to his lips but let it linger there long enough for him to add casually: "Or on a cow." He took a few swallows of his beer then. "Come to think of it," he concluded, "he kinda smelled like one."
I was glad I didn't have a mouthful of beer. Brad wasn't quite as lucky and three nice little fountains of bubbly brew came spurting out of his lips and nostrils.
We made David clean up the table as Brad and I went to the bathroom to take a much-needed pee and to mop up the beer from Brad's shirt. I enjoyed doing that. My own private wet T-shirt contest.
Eventually, the music came to an end and the contest was announced over the speakers. David jumped up from his chair and rushed to the left side of the platform and grabbed a spot so he would be able to see. With our drinks in hand, we abandoned our table to join him there.
Thirteen entrants had signed up for the contest but only a few were worth mentioning here. All thirteen men wove their way through the mob and gathered at the base of the stage at the foot of the steps. Each man wore a crisp, white, terrycloth bathrobe and a pair of teal blue flip-flops. Two men climbed the two steps of the raised platform; one grabbed a microphone from the stand at the back of the stage and the other went to stand beside the table where he began twisting the tops off several of the bottles of water set there.
"Gentlemen!" said the announcer into the microphone. "Let's have a round of applause for our courageous contestants!" With a sweep of his hand, he indicated the thirteen men dressed in white bathrobes standing in front of him. The barroom erupted into a riotous cacophony of clapping hands, stomping feet, and piercing whistles of all sorts and frequencies. Brad whistled with his finger and thumb in his mouth. David whistled without any fingers at all. All I could do was to put my lips together and blow, but I knew nobody could hear it, so I just clapped louder and shouted ‘woo-hoo' a few times.
The contestants, meanwhile, did a slow pirouette as they waved and smiled at the mass of anxious men surrounding them - except for one young man. He turned and waved, but he looked too terrified to smile. I got the impression that he might be having second thoughts and didn't really want to be there. Too bad, really. He was one of the best-looking guys there and had the finest silvery-blond hair I've ever seen. He became my instant favourite.
For the most part, they were all good-looking men. Most of them were younger, but a few were closer to my age and one gentleman looked considerably older that I was at the time. However, even hidden beneath the bulky bathrobe, he appeared to have a body that would put mine to shame. It was clear that he took care of himself. I was suddenly very glad that I had all my clothes on.
The announcer put up his hand to call for silence and the uproar quickly faded away. "My name is Kyle and I'm your emcee for the evening."
Like the other employees in the bar, Kyle was probably in his mid-twenties and decidedly handsome. He reminded me a lot of John Stamos during his
Full House days. I noticed about a dozen white bar straws protruding from his shirt pocket. Their purpose would quickly become apparent.
"First things first. The rules." As Kyle announced the contest guidelines, he counted them off by holding up the appropriate number of fingers. He extended his index finger to begin. "First of all, contestants will be called up to the stage one at a time in no particular order." (He patted his shirt pocket and the straws.) "We'll have a little chat so you get to know them a bit and then I'll call out a three-digit number. That number will match the last three numbers on one of the tickets you guys got at the door when you came in. The other half of those tickets are right here in my pants pocket. The person whose ticket matches my number wins the privilege of watering down his boy."
There was a lot of cheering and, as I glanced around, a lot of frenzied searching for ticket stubs. My hand went to my shirt pocket, making certain mine was still there.
Kyle raised his middle finger to join his index finger. "Next,
no groping!" He lowered his hand to waist height, turned it outwards, and made a squeezing motion with his fingers and thumb as he if were copping a feel of a man's crotch bulge. The crowd immediately displayed their displeasure at this news with a wide variety of expletives from mild ‘Awwws' to every four-letter word in the book. The announcer called for silence and continued. "We're not fooling here, guys. Any gropers will be tossed out the door on their asses and they won't be coming back in. You can touch your guy anywhere else if he says you can - even his underwear - but keep your hands and fingers off any obvious man bumps, no matter how tempting they might be! Got it? Good. Don't forget it and no-one will get hurt."
A third finger was extended. "Last but not least, no nudity. Not even a quick flash." Again, there were moans of displeasure. "Yeah, I know, guys, but we've got to keep our boys in blue happy." He paused for a moment to raise himself onto his tiptoes and wave an arm in the direction of the opposite wall near the door. I craned my neck and saw of Toronto's best standing there. "Hi, guys!" he called out to them. To us, he continued, "As long as they're happy, they won't shut us down." Kyle looked down at the contestants then. "Remember, guys. Keep it in your tighty-whities." To the audience, he said, "And you guys keep your hands
out! of their tighty-whities, no matter how tempting their toys might be!"
Kyle went to his tiptoes again and grinned over the heads of those gathered impatiently in front of him. "Did I forget anything, officers!?"
A husky voice came from the direction of the door. "Nope. You're good."
"Great," said Kyle. "Oh, and thanks for coming, guys. While you're waiting for the contest to start, you might want to check out that painting behind you." He paused momentarily to mime lifting the painting and pointing behind it. "It would be well
worth your time, if you catch my drift." He turned his head slightly, opened his mouth into wide, yawning grin, and gave two extremely exaggerated stage winks before tapping the side of his nose and nodding his head conspiratorially. "Say no more. Say no more." The crowd broke into wild cheers and whistles and thunderous applause which rivaled that for the contestants. The police officers, of course, took it all in jest and laughed along with everyone else.
Kyle continued. "Seriously, guys. Our Boys in Blue work hard enough in this city and they keep us safe here in our own little corner of it. Don't give them a reason to break a sweat, okay? Okay. Play nice and we'll all get along just fine. Now, the contest ends when all our fine young gentlemen are thoroughly doused and as bare-assed as we can get them and then you will vote for your favourite with your applause and we'll narrow the field down to five semifinalists. . ." (he pulled a flat, palm-sized gadget from back pocket of his jeans) ". . . with this handy decibel reader right here. Then we'll have a final vote to pick our three winners. So, if we're all ready, let the games begin!" As the crowd cheered yet again, Kyle pulled one of the straws from his shirt pocket and studied it carefully for a brief moment. "Number eight?" he announced, "would you join me on the stage, please?"
A fist of one of the contestants shot into the air accompanied by a resounding "Yo!" and the young man pounced up the steps and rushed to stand beside Kyle, bouncing with unabashed excitement on his toes and punching the air with his fists as he grinned widely at the crowd.
Holding the microphone between them, Kyle asked, "Your name, please?"
"Jay."
"How old are you, Jay?"
"Twenty-one."
"And what do you do?"
"U of T, Kyle."
"Don't call me ‘Kyle', Jay. Until we sleep together, the name is ‘Sir', okay?"
"Sure," Jay replied. "Whatever, Kyle."
"Aw, hell. Just kiss me and we'll call it even."
And Jay did, wrapping his arms tightly around our emcee and bending him over backwards as he pasted their lips together. It was a long and noisy kiss and there was a whole lot of tongue play going on if my guess was correct. Of course, the audience went wild again until the face-sucking kiss finally ended and Kyle came up gasping for air and clutching the lapels of Jay's bathrobe just to maintain his balance. Then, looking at the police officers, he said, "Hey, can I borrow a pair of handcuffs? I want to take this one home with me."
Already, I wasn't regretting the twenty-dollar cover charge. I was having a ball.
Back to business, Jay kept his bathrobe on until Kyle reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a stub from a ticket, reading off the final three numbers to the audience: "Four sixty-seven."
"Yeah!" came a voice from somewhere behind me and a man about my age and twice as big around ploughed through the horde of bodies and onto the stage. He introduced himself as Art and, after receiving another ‘hands off the crotch' warning from Kyle, we all watched as Jay quickly and unceremoniously divested himself of his bathrobe, tossing it to the young fellow standing beside the water table. He stood there in his teal flip-flops, a thin, loose, pale blue T-shirt, and a pair of tight, matching boxer briefs whose pouch contained a sizable, nicely-contoured, but flaccid package.
As Jay stepped into the rubber pool, Art snatched up a couple of bottles of water and, without much ceremony or finesse (but with a decidedly lewd grin on his face which reminded me of a stereotypical ‘dirty old man') circled Jay and emptied the bottles over his head and shoulders. We watched avidly as the water ran down his chest and stomach and, eventually, his crotch, turning the material darker and plastering it to his body until the finer contours began to appear. At Art's request, Jay pulled off his soggy T-shirt and did a slow pirouette as Art soaked his underwear with one more bottle of water.
Art's performance was certainly lacking in spectacle, but Jay was the real star of the show and the crowd cheered him along just the same. I cheered and clapped just as loudly as everyone else.
At the end of the performance, Art practically fell off the stage and Jay stepped out of the pool, accepting the proffered towel from the young man beside the bottle table. As he stepped to the back of the stage to await the conclusion of the contest - as indicated by Kyle - Jay used the towel to wipe his face and hair, then wrapped it loosely around his neck, standing there in his flip-flops and soggy underwear and allowing himself to drip all over the carpeted stage.
And so it went, one-by-one. One contestant (Number Three) chickened out when his number was called, leaving an even dozen contestants and another (Number Eleven) was disqualified when he outgrew the tiny thong bikini he was wearing, but contestants Five and Eight were particularly notable.
Number Five was, to be completely honest, an conceited, arrogant asshole who sent shivers up my spine. He didn't even wait to remove his bathrobe. It was off and lying on the floor at the bottom of the steps even before he climbed onto the stage. He wore nothing but a skin-tight, white T-shirt with a Superman emblem on the chest and the flip-flops given him by the bar. The T-shirt looked to have been intentionally long to begin with, but now it looked as though it had been stretched even longer so that it reached almost mid thigh. So, how did I know he wasn't wearing any underwear? Because his average-sized hardon was pointing at twelve o'clock and was held firm against his stomach by the tight cotton T-shirt.
Completely ignoring Kyle, he struck several b****uilder poses before flexing his muscles and kissing each of his biceps, lifting the hem of his T-shirt to levels which threatened to expose all his goodies. Twice, Kyle had to reach out to tug the hem back down. The guy certainly worked out. That was clear. But he concentrated only on his chest and arms and ignored everything below the waist. His legs were long and spindly and grossly out of proportion to his upper body. My first thought was of a massive torso perched atop a pair of chopsticks. From where we stood, I could clearly see that my father had a bigger butt than Number Five did.
Now, you may be wondering why I'm so hard on Number Five when David is almost as bad at times. There's a big difference between David and the asshole on the stage. With David, there's no pretense. He is what he is and what you see is what you get. Unfortunately for him, though, there's a less of him than average and what sometimes comes off as arrogance is nothing more than David trying to prove himself to everyone and (I firmly believe) to himself as well. His cockiness comes from a simple lack of self-esteem and not arrogance. But that was changing. Even in the short time we'd known him, he was putting himself down less and less every day and he rarely mentioned how short he was. It was like he didn't feel that he had to prove himself as much anymore. Either that or he felt that he had proven himself to those who mattered and the rest could just go to hell.
It was doubtful, however, that Number Five would
ever change and poor Kyle could do nothing but wait until he was finished showing off.
He called himself Enrique, rolling the ‘R' off his tongue for an inordinate and almost painful length of time as he flashed two rows of blinding, bleached-white teeth which practically glowed from the black lights pointing down to the dance floor from the ceiling above. Except for an obviously fake tan, he didn't even look Latino. I suspected that Enrique wasn't really his name and I seriously doubted that he would even be able to name a single Latin-American country. He couldn't keep his hands off himself, either. As he spoke with Kyle, his hands were constantly roaming over his chest, arms, stomach, and - yes - even his cock.
When Kyle warned him to keep his hands off, Number Five grinned his dental-plan grin and reminded Kyle that he hadn't said anything in the rules about the contestants touching themselves. Kyle glanced helplessly toward the officers and I, too, looked in time to see one of them shrug his shoulders and shake his head back and forth whilst making an almost inconspicuous masturbatory motion with his hand. To Number Five, he said, "Well, just be careful, ‘
Enr-r-r-r-r-r-r-rique'." (The way he said the name was a blatant sarcastic dig at Number Five's arrogant manner, but it was lost on the guy. If anything, he looked pleased that Kyle had inserted more than one ‘R' into it.) "We wouldn't want you to get tossed out on your ass." He quickly glanced at Number Five's backside. "Especially considering the fact that there's a complete lack of padding back there."
Somehow Number Five thought that was a joke and came back with, "Oh, a bit jealous, are we Ky?" And then he laughed right along with everyone else oblivious to the fact that they were laughing at
him and not Kyle's joke. The guy was so full of himself that he had no clue that most of the guys in the bar probably would have preferred to have been sitting on the sofa at home watching Homer Simpson on television. I know
I did, and I can't stand the show. He also didn't see the daggers Kyle shot out at him for taking such liberties with Kyle's name. It was clear to everyone, though, that ‘Enrique' wasn't about to get a kiss to make things even.
I went with Brad to the bar to buy another round of beers for us during his dousing. We walked very slowly.
Now, Number Eight was a completely different story. About Brad's height, yet muscularly slim, Number Eight cut a fine figure and came a very close second to Brad in the ‘sexy' department. As he glided across the stage with a regal grace, he drew to a stop beside Kyle and turned to face us. The deep dimples on his cheeks easily matched those of Mario Lopez. He struck a rather anxious, shy pose, grasping his hands in front of himself at his waist. He was the fellow I mentioned earlier - the one with the silvery-blond hair - but it was distinctly natural. No hair that colour comes out of a bottle. It comes from Scandinavia, which was evidenced the moment Number Five spoke. His words were laden with a distinct Scandinavian accent, but carefully spoken and sweet-sounding. I could feel a very familiar warmth spreading throughout my body. "My name is Pehr, but you may call me Peter if you wish." He was clearly nervous and his voice was soft and mellow. Had it not been for the microphone, I doubt if we would have heard him.
Behind them, at the back of the stage, stood the previous six contestants minus the chap who got cold feet as it were.
Kyle put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze, and said, "I like ‘Pehr'. Can I call you that?"
"Yes," Pehr said with a slight blush which caused his ears and cheeks to turn pink. "If it pleases you."
"It does." With his hand still resting on Pehr's shoulder, Kyle moved closer and spoke almost confidentially into the microphone. "Now, Pehr, I'm not the brightest lightbulb on the Christmas tree, but something tells me you're not from around here."
Pehr's smile was delightful and that warmth flew through me again. "No, I am not. I am from Sweden."
"Ah, Sweden," said Kyle, giving Pehr's shoulder yet another gentle squeeze. "ABBA, Ingrid Bergman,
I am Curious Yellow, Greta Garbo, Ace of Base, A-Ha. . ."
"A-ha are from Norway," Pehr corrected him.
"Okay, they're from Norway. Sue me. All I know is that Morten guy had me pitching a tent in my panties long before I was even old enough to know how to whack it back down!" Kyle released his hand from Pehr's shoulder and did a brief but energetic version of
Take On Me:
Take on me, take me on.
I'll be gone
In a day or two.
"Sorry, folks. That's all I know," Kyle concluded to a round of thunderous applause. "I was too busy drooling over Morten to learn the rest of the words. Now, where were we? Oh, yeah. Sweden. So, what in hell are you doin' in Canada? I mean, that's a bit like moving from the Sahara Dessert to Death Valley."
"I am studying English," Pehr replied.
"Why? You're doing a pretty good job of it now."
Pehr smiled again. "Thank you. All Swedish children learn English in school," he explained. "It is the law. I came to Canada to attend college. I wish to learn how to speak it better so that I can go back home to become an English teacher."
"Well, that's very admirable, young man. I wish you the best of luck, both in your future and in the contest."
"Thank you," said Pehr politely.
Brad, who had been holding my hand throughout the contest, squeezed it to get my attention and said, "I like him. I hope he wins."
"I do, too," I told him.
Brad looked at me and smiled. "I figured you would." And then he kissed me. He was still kissing me when we were interrupted by a shout to my left.
"Bingo!" David shouted. Before I knew what was going on, David was already making his way onto the stage and waving his ticket stub in the air. Apparently, his number had been called. He hopped nimbly up onto the stage, completely bypassed Kyle, and went straight for Pehr, holding his hand out in greeting. I couldn't hear him, but I guessed that they each introduced themselves to the other then, as Kyle opened his mouth to speak, David released his hand and grabbed his shoulders, stretching himself up to say something into the Swede's ear.
"Well, nice to meet you, too,," said Kyle teasingly into the microphone with a mock ‘sour grapes' expression on his face. Then, tapping David on the shoulder, he said, "Hey! . . . Alright, you guys, either you break it up or get a room. Tempus fugit, eh?"
By that time, Pehr was nodding his head and he and David separated and turned their attention to Kyle.
"Hi," David said, his face still split by a wide, excited grin.
"Oh!" said Kyle with mock surprise. "So, I'm not invisible after all! You guys finished or do I have to bring out the hoses?"
David beamed and Pehr blushed again. "Nah," David said. "We're good."
"Well, that's peachy. Would I be imposing too much if I were to ask your name?"
"David."
"Oh, cool. Slain any giants lately?"
"No," David returned, "but I've bit a few in the nuts when they piss me off."
Kyle took an amused and reserved step back. "Gotcha. Ix-nay on the okes-jay." Then, putting an arm over David's shoulders, he leaned in confidentially and said quietly into the microphone, "Look, we've got a step ladder in the store room out back. Want me to have someone go get it and bring it out here for you so you can reach his head?"
"You're sounding more like a giant every second, buddy," David said. He spread his lips tight and clamped his teeth together in two rather intimidating and menacing bites. I could feel my testicles trying to take refuge inside my body.
Kyle lowered his hand from David's shoulder and moved it protectively over his crotch as he took a step back. "Then I'll just get out of your way and let you have at it, shall I?"
David shrugged his indifference and said, "Suit yourself. I'm easy." Then he anxiously shoved his hands into his pockets as if he were searching for something. "Oh. Hey, Kyle. Could you spot me a quarter for the parking meter? I seem to be a little short."
It took a moment for Kyle to react, but when he did, his laugh was genuine and sincere. He knew he'd met his match and he showed by pulling David into a firm embrace and giving him several healthy and chummy slaps on the back with his open palm. When he stepped back again, he was still chuckling, "Good luck, guys."
Pehr still looked shy and nervous, but David took the bull by the horns so to speak and set about his task of making Pehr a contest winner.
Now, if there is one thing I've learnt since meeting David, it's to expect the unexpected. Still, no amount of expectation on my part could have prepared me for what would I witness that evening and I truly began to understand what it would be like to be a lover in David's loving, skilled, and very capable hands. I truly envied Brook.
David took Pehr's hand and guided him into the small pool before stepping behind him and standing at the four o'clock position just behind Pehr's right arm. Pehr stood a good head taller than our diminutive friend. Both of David's hands came to rest on Pehr's right shoulder and the room appeared to tumble into silence. Either the audience was suddenly eerily quiet or I was too entranced by what was occurring on the stage to hear them. I felt Brook stepping closer to me, nudging my left arm with his right. Brad pressed into me on the other side.
David said something unheard to Pehr who was looking straight ahead and seemingly more terrified than ever. I could see the young Scandinavian sucking in a deep breath, swelling his narrow chest to the point where the lapels of his bathrobe parted slightly to expose more of the snow-white T-shirt beneath. He closed his eyes briefly, then let out the breath and nodded his head once. Whatever was about to happen to him, he was ready for it.
David's right hand slowly slid off the shoulder and onto the upper chest, moving toward the opposite side. His extended fingers glided over the closest lapel and under the most distant one, continuing deeper and unseen until his entire hand was cloaked by the terrycloth. Pehr closed his eyes again.
The hand lingered there for a moment before beginning a slow, secretive trek downward, trailing over Pehr's chest and mid torso. His wrist parted the two wide lapels of the robe like denim falling away from a zipper being undone until the bow-tied belt prevented further passage. David then slid his hand out until his fingertips appeared and stole over the bow knot, then trailed down one of the dangling belt straps, sliding enticingly and dangerously over Pehr's crotch. I feared that Kyle would halt the proceedings, but he didn't. Nor did Pehr react other than to suck in an enormous breath through his nostrils and into his lungs and have his body go momentarily rigid. David's hand didn't stop until it located the very end of the strap. He grasped it firmly and tugged it slowly and gently. I watched as one loop disintegrated before my eyes and the bow collapsed and was gone. Only a half-knot kept the bathrobe secure around the Nordic youth, screening his body from our view.
Deft finger pulled the half-knot apart easily and the bathrobe fell loose. At last, Pehr was revealed to me. I was not disappointed.
As David's hand moved back up to the lapel, his left hand slid behind Pehr's back and over to the other side where it crept over his shoulder and grasped the collar there. When both hands were in place and ready, David slowly, carefully and rather sensuously removed the bathrobe, sliding it off Pehr's shoulders, down his arms, and then completely off, leaving an even more stunning Pehr standing there in his crisp, white T-shirt and snug, nicely-mounded designer briefs. Two tiny buds where the shadowed nipples could be seen poked out into tiny mountains each time Pehr took a breath and his swelling chest filled the T-shirt.
David folded the robe twice and set aside on the stage behind him before reaching out his arm to retrieve the offered bottle of water. Still standing just behind Pehr and to his right side, David grasped the open bottle in his left hand, resting it comfortably atop Pehr's left shoulder. I don't know whether Pehr was becoming more relaxed under David's calming ministrations or he was simply losing himself in the moment but he almost seemed to sag against David's chest when David's right hand moved back across Pehr's chest and came to rest between the two mounded pectorals there. His eyes were still closed and he seemed completely oblivious to the fact that he was standing in front of all those men. . . and me. . . in little more than his underwear.
I was completely mesmerised.
And then the bottle began to tilt ever-so-slowly and ever-so-slightly. The clear, pristine fluid crept to the open mouth and began to drizzle out and down and onto Pehr's left pectoral which heaved suddenly with the contact. The water soaked the material immediately, turning it skin-toned and causing it to another skin contoured over and around Pehr's own. David's right hand moved there where the water dribbled, his palm flat and massaging the water into the cotton and spreading it around and over Pehr's chest. None of the others had dared to be so daring and blatant about turning such an event into such a show of sensuality and excitement, and this time I noticed the silence surrounding me. It was palpable. I could feel it everywhere.
It was magic. One hand poured slowly and the other hand travelled, palm to cotton-covered-skin, until the bottle was empty and the entire front of the T-shirt was soaked and carefully smoothed and clinging to Pehr's chest. His dampened briefs were noticeably distended and his chest and stomach rose and fell in rapid, panting breaths.
David dropped the empty bottle to the floor and stepped behind Pehr. A few moments later, his hands slid forward beneath Pehr's arms and onto his chest, coming closer and closer to each other until his fingertips met. Then, without hesitation, they began to travel slowly and surely down Pehr's torso, the fingers quickly angling themselves downward until they formed a large ‘V' pointing to and drawing nearer and nearer to Pehr's expanding briefs. Brook gasped beside me when David's hands slid over the waistband of Pehr's underwear, but his fingers suddenly separated at the very last moment and moved toward Pehr's hips. His fingers found and grasped the hem of the T-shirt and began the trek back up his body, peeling the soaked material away from Pehr's body. He raised his arms high over his head as David gathered the T-shirt into his fists and lifted higher and higher. Pehr's armpits came into view and, for a brief moment, the shaded impression of his face appeared in the cotton as the shirt was pulled over it until the neckband was pulled up and over and his cute, young face appeared again.
David pulled out and away, forcing Pehr to drop his arms once again. The T-shirt was released and gravity pulled it down and off Pehr's arms and hands. It fell into the wading pool at his feet and was abandoned, leaving Pehr standing before me in only his full, dampened briefs and his unseen flip-flops. Even with his eyes closed and his jaws clenching, I knew of only one other person more beautiful and exciting that Pehr, and that person was standing right behind me and holding my hand tightly.
David remained behind Pehr, still making himself as insignificant and unnoticed as possible. He had managed to make Pehr the star of the show without him having to do little more than to stand there and look beautiful while David did all the work.
After a short time, our friend and Brook's lover leaned out again to receive another bottle of water. Once hidden behind our Nordic god, his hands appeared as they had before, sliding out from between Pehr's arms and his sides. The bottle of water was held in his right hand this time, coming to rest against Pehr's smooth, naturally-toned abs. David's left hand flattened itself near its counterpart and began a slow, vigilant journey downward until his fingertips encountered the elastic band of Pehr's virginal briefs. The fingers folded into themselves and David's thumb found and hooked itself beneath the waistband, lifting the material away from Pehr's lower stomach and pushing it down slightly into a ‘V' shape enough for me to see that Pehr was, indeed, naturally blond.
And then the bottle leaned toward Pehr's body and water began to flow in tiny rivulets down his abdomen, over his stomach, and beneath the white, cotton briefs, slowly drenching Pehr's concealed and enticing jewels and personal treasures. It soaked into the cotton material, saturating it until it could hold no more and the liquid began to drip off the lowest expanses of his orb-shaped mounds and down Pehr's legs. It didn't stop until the bottle was empty.
I barely noticed David's hands retreating and disappearing out of sight behind the Swedish youth. I suddenly became aware that I was applauding and cheering, and I realised that I wasn't doing it alone. The noise around me was deafening and Pehr's image became a blur from the tears which flooded into my eyes.
It seemed ages before David reappeared from behind Pehr. He had a cocksure look of satisfaction and accomplishment on his face, certain that he had done as he had promised. He walked toward us, hopping off the edge of the stage and taking his place once more between me and Brook. I like to think that the cheers and applause and whistles were as much for David as they were for the beautiful young Swedish man with the heart-melting accent who still stood in the middle of the stage in front of me.
To Be Continued
I seem to have made a mess.
