Death on the Beach
Zeeland is a collection of islands nestled in the delta of the Rhine river. There are beaches, and the nearest one from our house is—or was—ten minutes on the bike. Zeeland was famously gereformeerd then—prudish-Calvinistic—and there was no animo for the naked beaches they had up north near Amsterdam. So, our seashore had changing facilities, clapboard cabins with a fore room, closet hooks, doors, locks, and a plank running along the wall of the main room serving as a bench.
I had just turned twelve. Something had happened to me during the winter, and when I went for the first swim of the new season, something had happened to the dude -not always the same one- that was hanging out there. You would show up, he’d gaze at you, conspicuously, then disappear into the dunes. In previous years I had ignored him, but this time I couldn’t fail to pay attention. His gaze did something to me. It was like a loopy ditty in my ear that followed me as I biked home. And I knew I wouldn’t tell Mom.
The next day was sunny again. I returned from school, grabbed my things—a plastic bag from SPAR with my speedos and a dirty towel—and went back to the beach. Fatefully, the gazing dude wasn’t there.
These changing facilities, yes. Shy as I was, I would always make sure that I wasn’t entering the wrong cabin, or walking in on somebody forgetting to lock the door who would then be standing there with his pants half-down and his tiny dick, looking embarrassed or angry and later show up in my dreams. So, I would check out the place first. Doors had to be open, obviously, and no clothes please, or other signs of life.
Well, the door was open, and there were no clothes. I entered. But then—I have still trouble explaining this to myself—there, on the bench, sat this guy. He was three or four years older, maybe sixteen. He was naked and half-aroused, his hand around his dick, stroking, staring at the wall, seemingly oblivious to my intrusion. And I—who would normally have fled in panic—I got so overwhelmed by the goings-on in my shorts, I couldn’t move. I go totally hard, just standing there, the erection doing to my shorts what a wild, enraged beast might do to its cage.
I wasn’t a newcomer to spontaneous erections, but this, this blast down there, I stood there, speechless, bulging, petrified. And the guy—I’ve endlessly replayed the scene in my mind—the guy knew what he was doing. This was his shtick. Everybody not into this—not mesmerized by his act—would turn around, embarrassed or offended, and say ouch, or excuse me, or you dirty boy, and run away. But twinks like me, poor victims of their glands, they’d stay in place just long enough for the guy to turn his head and look at us with warm, assuring eyes, full lips, and a smile that came up on his cheeks like the rising sun. He was beautiful.
He let go of his dick, got up, locked the door, undid the belt button on my shorts, pulled them down past the hard-on—the waistband hobbled by my boner up to a certain point, then, released, snapping back into position like a recruit facing his drill sergeant—and, wasting no time, he grabbed my thing and squeezed it. He squeezed it nicely with the right amount of touch. He didn’t care about my T-shirt, and I don’t remember how we got rid of it, but soon I was stark-naked, feeling his dick against my belly button. And that did it. I came on the spot. I came for the first time in my life, my dick pounding under his grip, ropes of creamy milk spouting from the pee hole and ending up on his abs. My first E-JA-CU-LA-TION, folks, unbelievable, the sense of each pulse of jizz feeding the next pulse, the whole world ablaze, and myself riding the flames like—take it or leave it—like a kinky arsonist in a kinky comic strip pretending to douse the fire with his cum. And all this at the tender age of twelve. I never felt as important in my life again.
Now—the dude didn’t expect this. He said something like sorry, or you must have been urgent, and when I told him this was my first time, not just my first time with a guy but my first time überhaupt, he couldn’t believe it. He shook his head and said shit, shi-it. “If I’d have known, I’d saved myself for you.”
“You’re my fourth dupe today; I’m spent. I’ve been stroking for half an hour and here, look at it, it’s still half-limp. It…I won’t go anywhere today.”
Now, I wasn’t yet woke. I had no concept of my queerness, no idea what I would be missing without his cock up my ass or down my throat. Yet, something in me was disappointed, or looked disappointed, for he said: “I owe it to you.”
“What?” I asked.
“You brought your things? In a bag?”
“A plastic bag?”
“Right,” he said. “Get me the bag.”
The SPAR bag was still outside; I unlocked the door, grabbed it, locked the door again. He turned it upside down, my things falling on the floor.
And then he said, “Check it out, gaspersex,”—pulling the bag over his head, the SPAR logo right over his face. It was a small bag, and you could make out the contours of his map under the supermarket logo, the nose, the cheeks, the chin. And where his mouth was, the convenience-store plastic showed a dent, as if he was gasping already. I had no idea of gaspersex, and this was before the internet or Pornhub, but somehow I knew what to do. I got on my knees and swallowed his dick. It wasn’t really hard, his tool, but he—he couldn’t say anything, obviously—he thrust his pelvis and began to fuck my mouth. And it worked. He got larger and larger, expanding into my throat, past my tonsils—my gag reflex taking a leave—and my own dick, still hard and heavy like a cannon, went off again. I came several times during the next three minutes, I believe, while he was fighting for his own orgasm—and eventually his life—ravaging my gorge, thrusting, trilling, shaking, percolating, tumbling, gasping for breath, his hands holding fast to my shoulders, stooping, falling over—and his cock convulsed deep down my throat.
He had come, and now he was dead. I pulled the bag off his head: yes, he was dead, his blank eyes, still open, staring at me from his netherworld.
That’s basically it. I should have done something, call an ambulance—we had no cell phones then, never mind—or race home and tell Mom. Well, I didn’t tell Mom. There was nothing in the papers, or on local TV. Next time I went—I forced myself to go back a few days later—there were no clothes, no smells, no police tape or anything, and his body was gone. The gazing dude had resurfaced, though. I took a deep breath and followed him into the dunes.
Michael Ampersant was a finalist of the Lambda Literary Awards with his first novel, “Green Eyes.” His short stories appeared in Temptation Magazine, The Bear Review, Bunbury, And Gay Flash Fiction. His second novel, “This Is Haven,” came out last year.
Heather Sinclair is a Berlin-based Freelance Illustrator & Animator. MFA in Computer Graphics and Interactive Media from Pratt Institute (Brooklyn, NY) and BA/BFA in Writing & Illustration from New School Eugene Lang College and Parsons School of Design (NYC & Paris.) More than 20 years experience teaching art & animation to children and adults. Available for editorial or children’s book illustration, educational animation, print graphic design solutions, character design, and storyboarding..