The Surfer Stud Secrets

SURFERS PARADISE:

GOLD COAST, QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA

WEDNESDAY MORNING: THE DAY MY LIFE CHANGED

The rising sun hit the shutters of my bedroom windows, and I turned in bed to watch it throw moving stripes on the polished wood floor.

 Another day, another dollar. Another reason for living. Another chance to be who I was.

Skipper Trent, Private Eye, smoothest snooper on the Gold Coast. Not yet thirty and nobody’s stud. Another moment to congratulate myself for taking the risky dive into my own business, and another chance for a hot cock workout before I rose to greet the sunshine:

Life’s for thrilling

In my world, it’s the way to play. Dead set!

My hands roamed over my naked body, my fingers teased my nipples then traced a line from my furry chest to the fuzz that topped my over-eager flagpole. Man Time!

Are there horny guys on the planet who don’t surrender to this urge? If so, they don’t know what they’re missing. I rolled over on my back, pushed the covers down and hit the countdown for a steamy session.

My hands cruised the firmness of my fit frame, fondling and teasing.

My head was filled with images of horny macho bodies, and my fingers inched towards my rosebud . . .

Go, Skipper, go!

My head rolled back on the pillow, and my eyes were closed.

It was shaping up as a good one!

I was all primed to fly to the Milky Way when the door buzzer buzzed. Fuck!

No way! Maybe they’d go away!

No such luck! It buzzed again, and again, and again.

Okay, I got the message, it was urgent. I got off the bed, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, wrapped it around my flanks, crossed my spunky little living room and opened the door; just enough to see who was on the other side.

I looked straight into the dark chocolate eyes of Clay Garrison! The one and only; Fucken hell! I copped the full early-morning blaze of his creamy face, his wavy deep-caramel hair, and his teaser grin. He wore a trendy off-white shirt, a casual brown jacket and sandy stove-pipe jeans that tapered down to his light-brown high-top boots. Skirting his waist was a wide leather belt that negated any suggestion of body flab. Oh, man!

How many times had he been on my mind when I’d been feeling horny? Don’t ask!

One problem. Clay didn’t play. Not with horny studs like me. What a waste; all that beef and all that gravy and it was not on my menu. Eat your heart out, Skipper!

Clay was one of those plainclothes boys, a detective in training on the force; around the same age as me, late-twenties, somewhere, a real bundle of jock joy, a spunk bucket and the dude of my dreams: Wet ones!

And he friggin’ well didn’t play! Did that stop me from having lusty thoughts?

Did it stop me from coming on to him, hoping he’d pick up the ball and run with it?

Maybe one day I’d get lucky. Yeah! Maybe one day the sky would fall in.

Clay gave me a straight look and said, Morning, Skipper.

He waited until I croaked out a reply, then said, Can I come in?

Mate, it’s five-thirty in the morning.

This is important; A-One important.

Important?

Are you going to let me in?

I was conscious of what my towel was hiding but what the hell! I opened the door anyway.

Clay walked in. I closed the door, faced him, and to divert attention from my tented towel I blurted out a sharp question.

Okay, Clay, what’s this about?

It didn’t work. He looked down. I was sprung!

He eyeballed the tented towel and grinned at me. You’re up early.

Happens every morning, man.

He held the grin. Sorry, mate.

No problem. It’s a bloke thing. I’ll take care of it later.

I’m sure you will.

Yeah, but you’re not here to talk about my pleasure trips, are you, Clay?

No.

What are you here for?

Official business.

At five-thirty in the morning?

I know you’re always on the job early. I wanted to catch you before you got going.

Okay, you caught me, now what?

 He got straight to the point: Do you know Alexander Sullivan?

Everyone knows him. He’s the Mayor of the Gold Coast.

And everyone thinks he’s clean as a whistle.

Because he is.

What if he’s not?

Are you telling me he’s not?

I’d like to find out if he’s not.

Not what?

As clean as everyone thinks.

Damn! The reason for Clay’s visit hit me. Jesus! You want me to investigate the Mayor of the Gold Coast?

He raised his eyebrows and gave me a questioning look.

"Come on, is that it?

You’re a Licensed Private Investigator.

He pulled one of my business cards from his pocket and read it to me. Skipper Trent; discreet investigations; private and reliable. Trust me.

I shook my head. The mayor is out of my league. Wayward husbands, yes. Unfaithful wives, yes. Alexander Sullivan? No. You’ve got the wrong boy!

‘Discreet investigations’, that’s what your card says.

So?

So this is as discreet as it gets.

The mayor for Pete’s sake!

You’re mistaken about being wrong for the job. You’re perfect.

Perfect how?

You’re well connected.

It’s my job to be well connected.

He persevered. I’m not asking you to do anything dodgy.

Then what are you asking, and no bullshit.

Can I sit down? This could take a few minutes.

Sure. I’ll put something on. I whipped the towel away and gave him a good look at what it had been hiding. It was hard to miss, even when it was on the way down.

He gave me the once-over and looked up at me. You’re in great shape, he said.

I work at it, mate.

I purposely turned around, so he could get an eyeful of my butt. It had been admired by the hottest guys around, and even if it didn’t excite him, I wanted him to check it out. He’d told me I was in great shape and I wanted him to see how in shape my butt was. Picture perfect!

I won’t be a minute. When I get back, I’ll make some coffee.

Great, said Clay, and parked his sexy rear in one of two vintage club chairs I’d picked up in a pre-loved charity shop for a quarter of what they were worth.

I exited to the bedroom and toyed with the idea of hearing the details of Clay’s visit in revealing tight whites and a T-shirt, but I decided to be serious and got into something sensible. Denim shorts, a blue shirt, and Reeboks.

I checked my reflection in the mirror, tidied my mop of hair a bit, went back into the living room, crossed to my neat kitchen and revved up the coffee machine.

I make great coffee. He took it black, same as me. I sat down opposite him on the matching club chair and eyeballed him. Always a genuine buzz!

He sampled the coffee and gave it a rave.

Nice, but I wasn’t interested in a review of my coffee.

Okay, I’m all set, let’s have it."

He took a breath and gave out. Man, it was one heavy story.

The department had picked up on whispers that Alexander Sullivan, the supposedly squeaky-clean Gold Coast Mayor could be involved in something sleazy, not just sleazy but Big Time Sleazy; like cavorting with spunky teenage surfer boys. The lads were allegedly paid to show off and pose for photographs in various stages of undress and arousal. They were then offered more money to go all the way. As the whispers had it, Sullivan was only one of several well-known professional gentlemen engaged in this cheesy sport.

My question. Are these surfer boys old enough to know what’s what?

All overage, and all old enough to know exactly what they’re worth.

Wannabe whores in other words.

And that’s why this must be kept quiet, said Clay, The Gold Coast is a family holiday resort, and it can’t afford a sleazy gay-for-pay sex scandal that implicates the mayor and men who are likely to be in his circle of friends.

Great story. Maybe you should sell it to Walt Disney.

What do you mean?

You said alleged. Is there any proof? Do you have anything concrete? Any leads at all?

Two of the lads suspected of being involved were questioned, but they hedged on details.

They couldn’t identify anyone?

Wouldn’t identify anyone.

They could have made it all up.

What if they didn’t?

Do you think they were on the level?

Very possible. They were cheeky little shits.

How old?

Both north of eighteen.

Not only cheeky but smart.

Look, Skipper, if the story is true, boys like these willingly take money to strip off, pose for pictures, whack off, and agree to open up for the big one, all for rich and randy older guys, including the Mayor of the Gold Coast.

It not against the law, mate.

Maybe not, but imagine what the media could do with it.

I imagined all right! Okay, I see your point. Are you keeping an eye on these two?

Yes, but I think they’re on to it.

And they’re being careful, right?

Real careful.

Do they have families?

Yes.

What do their families think?

That we’re picking on them for no reason.

How come these kids were questioned?

They were picked up for disturbing the peace in the Cavill Mall.

And were they?

Almost like they were asking for trouble.

You’re not charging them?

It’s a minor offence. Besides, we want them to think we’re off their case.

What made anyone suspect them of being involved with older guys?

Something one of them said to the policeman who picked them up in the mall.

Which was?

You better watch it, copper. We’ve got real important friends who can bust your arse.

Were any of these important friends identified at the police station?

No, but both kids were cocky about it. Pardon the pun.

Cocky about what?

They hinted that their big-time friends had influence at City Hall.

That’s it, a hint?

All we’ve got.

You want me to investigate Alex Sullivan on flimsy evidence like that? Was his name mentioned in the police station?

No.

Then what the hell are we talking about?

 He waited a second or two. The story got out.

"What do you mean got out?’

There was a leak. Obviously someone in the police station overheard the interview, heard the words, City Hall, immediately linked them to Sullivan, and juiced everything up.

I haven’t noticed any media pick-up.

There’s no evidence. It’s only a rumour — so far!

And Sullivan’s name has been mentioned in the rumour?

Among others, yes.

Damn!

No kidding. This is serious.

All right, Clay, looks like we’ve got a tiger by the tail here.

I paused to think things over.

This was not my every day peep report, like tracking down some bloke with a philandering dick or soft-shoeing a wanton tart dealing from the bottom of the deck. This was big enough to blast the mayor right out of office, maybe into the clink with a mob of horny gents who could never be called gentlemen. On top of that, Gold Coast tourism could hit a major downer.

I could see the headlines: ‘Mayor’s Stable of Surfer Boys Exposed!’

I had another question. Apart from the two uncooperative little shits, is there any other evidence of any kind?

He nodded. All unsubstantiated, but the whispers are revving up.

What happens if I find out they’re true?

We’ll move to keep everything in the closet.

A convenient cover-up, you mean.

You got it.

How tacky can it get?

Don’t ask.

How come I’m the lucky choice for the job?

I suggested you.

Because I’m well connected?

Yes.

With guys who play with other guys, right?

More or less.

I took a long pull on the black coffee. Great! I had the picture. The guy I have the hots for, a guy I met at a boring party about three months ago, and couldn’t get out of my head, pegs me for a sleazy gig because he thinks I’m familiar with the business of man meets boy, cons boy, and uses boy to gets his rocks off. Hardly flattering.

Clay was waiting for my answer. Before I gave it, I had a few more questions.

Why aren’t you investigating this? Why do you need me?

I’m tied up tight on another case. This one is going to chew a lot of time.

Who pays me and how much do I get?

Give me a quote.

Double my usual daily rate plus expenses. Not negotiable.

We have a deal.

Just like that?

If that’s okay.

Who pays me? Hard money, mate.

Hefty cash in advance. The rest when you say.

Who do I report to?

To me, direct. No one else, and no one else is to know you’re on the job.

No one?

My superior. No one else in the department.

I see, 007.

We’re messing with reputations that can’t be tarnished by suspicions. The evidence must be hard-edged. No slip-ups. The whispers could just be whispers.

But you don’t think they are.

I’m in two minds, and I can’t take chances.

One last thing, Clay. Was I the only choice for the job?

Yes.

You knew I’d take it, didn’t you?

I hoped you would.

Because you think I might fancy you?

Give me a break, Skipper. It’s not like that.

No?

His answer floored me:

Look. I know you like guys. That’s your business. But I didn’t think you’d approve of randy older men taking free-range advantage of teenage kids just because it’s okay for them to do it. Okay for them because they’re rich and important enough to think it gives them the right to have their fun, treat these kids like cheap whores, pay them to shut up, then pretend it’s all okay. I didn’t think you’d buy that, and that’s why I nailed you for the job. Did I take a wrong turn?

He was right of course, and I wasn’t arguing. Okay, you’ve got your man.

He hit me with a wide, bright smile. You’ve made my day.

I felt like saying: Then make my day. Get out of your gear and into my bed for a few hours of intense guy-to-guy hide-and-seek.

Instead, I said, When do I start?

As soon as you can.

I was already thinking about a plan of attack. Clay was spot on: I was well connected.

He handed me a card. My private line, any time.

I memorised the number, repeated it to myself and handed back the card.

I won’t need this. Better if I don’t have it.

Very wise.

He finished the coffee, put the mug on the kitchen bench, hauled out a fat wad of crisp new folding money, put on the bench beside the mug, and walked to the door.

Thanks, Skipper, we’re in this together, and I couldn’t be happier.

Me too.

He shook my hand. Damn. I had it bad. The touch of his hand did things to me, but I didn’t want to think about that. Those feelings had to be put on the back burner.

No more flirting, no more innuendo, no more wishing and hoping. I watched him walk down the little path that led to my house and get into his car. What an eyeful! The fully-rounded buns of his beautiful butt, outlined in those tight sandy jeans, made my mouth water and I felt my cock stir. He was the stud of my dreams, and I’d been hoping for a connection that might bring me closer to him. I had no idea it would be a connection as dark as this.

Careful what you wish for, buddy!

I gave myself a nudge. I had to get my head sorted. I picked up the cash, counted it, rolled my eyes in sheer delight and stashed it away in a safe place. This was my kinda case! My love gun was demanding the workout that Clay had interrupted but it would have to wait. I sent a message to it to cool down and cranked up my brain instead.

Clay was right. This was serious.

Outside, the sun was still on the rise, clear and bright. It shone on the front walls of my sassy little cottage, an old-fashioned relic of what the Gold Coast used to be before it morphed into a glitzy playground for sun worshippers. Shiny highrises splashed all over the landscape like permanent hardons in glass and cement.

The Coast’s twenty or so miles of golden sandy beaches were still as they’d always been; still a showplace for tiny bikinis and bulging Speedos but the old-time family resort image disappeared as soon as the greedy developers saw the cash-cow potential of the beautiful virgin beaches.

My three-bedroom bungalow was tucked away in the middle of a nest of highrises at Southport on the northern end of the twenty-mile strip. It was bought and paid for, sitting on land that was worth a mint.

But I wasn’t selling.

I’d made my place over with tender loving care, tarted it up a bit, not too much, and converted the front bedroom into a super smooth office with all mod-cons.

It was all me and only me.

Skipper Trent, Discreet Investigations. No bullshit. No loose promises. No credit cards. No worries. No secretary. Nobody to answer the phone. Most of my gigs came via word-of-mouth.

I worked long and hard for my money, kept my promise to be one hundred percent discreet, and did well. I was good at what I did, and I knew the Coast like I knew my dick.

I grew up there.

TYLER EVANS:

THE STUD THAT GOT AWAY

My oldies moved to Cairns in North Queensland five years ago, they love the tropics, the Great Barrier Reef and the blue-blue water of the Whitsundays. They’re happy, and we stay in touch. I’m their only kid, and I bonded with the surf at an early age.

Loved it then; love it now.

I was a Junior Lifesaver at twelve. By the time I was eighteen I was fully-fledged on the rescue roster, a surf champ with a streamlined body and a fresh face. I rode the waves like Flipper.

I’m not sure if the all-male buzz of the Lifesaver world gave me a taste for other guys or not, but it happened. All those bouncing surfer boy cocks and hot butts in the clubhouse were hard to ignore. When they got hard, they were just as hard to resist. Jerking off together every night was the name of the game. There was a helluva lot of closet perving going on. Mutual tugging with a horny mate was acceptable, so was the spontaneous suck of a juicy lollipop, but it was all more or less regarded as innocent fun.

For me, it stopped being innocent when I developed a crush on the club captain, a twenty-one-year-old god of the waves who had also developed a crush on me. He lived on the Coast like I did.

On weekends, we took our life-saving responsibilities seriously. We jerked cock with our mates and messed around playing propellers with our joysticks in the showers, but in the clubhouse, the captain and I kept our lusty feelings for each other on ice.

Throughout the week, the ice melted big time. The captain’s name was Tyler Evans. His cock was a grade-A pleasure shaft, his butt was an object of visual splendour, and his Speedo tan was a major turn-on. Tyler in his birthday suit was enough to tempt the angels, and he sure made my wings flap. His folks were loaded, and he had his own pad in a section of their big-big house. He took me there on weeknights to watch surfer vids and check out the skills of the world’s best wave riders. That was the excuse, and it played well.

What we were really doing was checking out each other.

The first time I visited his pad, he confessed his lust for me in passionate phrases that put croaky old Shakespeare to shame. When he stripped down, undressed me, sucked me into next week and cruised my willing butt, I felt I was on the way to heaven. When I returned the favours, I was sure I’d finished the journey. Hot damn! We blew each other three times, and I still had to whack off when I got home. The curtain rose for me that night, and it has never come down.

Tyler tutored me in all the tricks of guy-to-guy pleasure, and I was a ravenous student. He was patient, gentle, loving and caring, and he had this cool soft-spot. He had a thing for old Hollywood movies. On top of his list was the golden-oldie, Casablanca; he bought it on Blue-ray, and we watched it together when we weren’t tangled up in each other.

The bit that got to Ty was Dooley Wilson warbling ‘As Time Goes By’ to Ingrid Bergman in Rick’s Café. He knew all the words; sometimes sang along in his deep manly voice and went ape for the ending when Bogie puts Bergman on the plane to Lisbon without him. In Ty’s view, Bogie did the noble thing. He sent the babe he loved away because the cause was bigger than both of them, as in:

The problems of two little people aren’t worth a hill of beans in this crazy world.

I used to think Casablanca was just a sappy old movie that made my mother cry before I saw how it put the grab on Ty. And whadda ya know? It put the grab on me too!

It still does; amazing how some things never go away.

Tyler was no passing fancy, not to me. He led me into the wonder world of man sex and taught me what he wanted me to know. During the early weeks of our catch-ups, I knew he was getting me ready for what he really wanted.

He fingered, teased and played with my teenage rosebud and triggered a need I didn’t think existed. The more he played, the more my need increased. He bought me a vibrator, not only to gratify my wicked tryouts at home but to ease the passage for the trip he was keen to take.

He didn’t hurry anything, but I knew what was on the agenda and I wanted it to happen.

The night it did I was ready willing and able. We were both naked on the bed. He caressed me, fondled me, sucked me and covered my body with hungry kisses. I played the game in some sort of lustful stupor, and when he mounted my trembling body and eased his wonderful hard cock into me, the world could have ended, and I wouldn’t have cared.

They say the dude who took the lid off Pandora’s Box to let the moths loose changed the world forever. Well, I can match that. The night Tyler opened my box he let five thousand butterflies loose, and I felt the flapping wings of every one of them. Chick-a-boom!

And once was not enough. Not for him and nowhere near enough for me. The first time was fast and furious, little more than an appetiser. I registered the second time through an intense haze of ecstasy and the third time was even better. Salvo after salvo of fireworks! The vibrator he’d given me had done its job. I knew how to take him. He was rapt, breathless and speechless!

When it was time for me to hit the road, he pulled on briefs and a T-shirt and drove me home. I was so turned on I had to have him again. He pushed his briefs down and clicked the seat back. I slipped out of my shorts and jocks to ride him cowboy in the car while he jerked