It was a great little summer rental. I had one of two small apartments in an old beach house, at the back, with a tiny bathroom, a tiny bedroom, and a tiny kitchenette, all shiplap, uninsulated windows, and the unmistakable smell of "old person's cottage." Mismatched utensils, mismatched towels. My job allowed me to work remotely, and I was tired of looking at the same four walls in Chicago, so why not rough it for a while? On the beach?
I had West-facing windows looking out onto a backyard of white Florida sand, man-made dunes on either side positioned for privacy (although there was plenty of space between my location and neighbors), a small trail through tall grasses that lead out to a private beach, and at this time of the year (summer) the sun looked like it was dunked into the Gulf of Mexico every evening to keep its blue waters warm overnight.
The beach house's one common area was the laundry room: two old washers, two old dryers. Access was with a key that was strung to a kitschy key chain that had "Florida" painted on it, sitting on the kitchen counter when I arrived.
One week into my stay, an early Tuesday morning, I took this key with me so I could do some laundry, the surf quiet, the beach empty, the sun just tipping the palm trees at the front of the house in orange highlights. I put a load in and sat at the top of the two steps leading to the room, scrolling through the first batch of the day's emails on my phone while the machines clanged their work.
From the trail out to the beach came a young man, late 20s. He was shorter than me, crafted like a swimmer, his bright white skin tight over the kind of taut, angled musculature you get in a twenty-something: an exquisite piece of lanky, hairless androgyny. His blonde hair was long and slicked back, his face feminine, warm. He wore sandals and a blue speedo that seemed two sizes too small, displaying what seemed to be a curt little package between his thighs.
"Hello," he said, breezily.
"Morning," I said, looking up from my phone.
"Beautiful day."
"Sure is. You get out into the water already?"
"Oh, no," he said. "Too early yet. Just out for a morning stroll. I'm Gabriel."
I shook his hand, introduced myself.
"You're in the back place?" he asked, nodding back towards my apartment.
I nodded. "You in the front place?"
"Yes."
We parted ways with the regular platitudes, and I watched his tiny little backside and angled shoulders as he headed around to the front apartment: he had a cute tush, and as he turned the corner towards the front door to his apartment, glanced back and smiled.
~
The next morning, I woke up to my usual routine: coffee and whatever emails I'd received from our foreign accounts overnight.
I mindlessly pressed my finger on the coffee-maker, and stepped to the windows, throwing them open to let in the first light of morning. I stretched with a yawn, squinting at the brightness, and then saw Gabriel, again coming from an early morning beach stroll, standing there staring at me.
And I was in the window, naked.
I stepped to a more modest position and waved back. Gabriel gave a wry smile as he stood there, looking me right in the eye, and then nodded and kept walking towards the front.
I put on shorts.
An hour later, I was sitting outside, clacking away at my laptop as he walked back to the beach: same tight, blue speedos, same sandals, shirtless, pale and lean.
"Another stroll?" I said.
"Yeah, unless you have another show for me," he said, holding his hands behind his back.
I laughed and wagged my finger at him. He shrugged with a pouty look on his face, and went out to the beach with a quick wave.
I was hard. Hard for this thin young man, hard for that wry smile, hard for his little dick. I let my mind wander into his bed for a moment, but shook my head out of it. "Work," I thought. "Work."
~
A few days later. The sun had just sunk below the horizon. I had just closed my laptop from a day of emails, and put my feet up, stretched. Then, a knock at my door.
Gabriel.
"Do you have a key for the laundry room? I can't find mine."
