A Summer of Guiltless Sex

By Dan Skinner

Two very different men, from two walks of life find common ground for an exciting and unique adventure. It'd not been a great beginning of the summer season for either Bill, a young bridal store clerk, or Ted, a college student working as a lifeguard at the apartment complex’s pool. They'd both been dumped in their respective relationships and were still looking for “the one.” Their chance meeting at this low ebb in their lives and an off-the-cuff remark about what they both needed as a temporary solution to their physical needs, lead to a unique and adventuresome pact between the two. They agree to be what's lacking in each other’s lives. They begin a journey of self-discovery. One that will only last the length of the summer and will forever change their lives and ideas about love and friendship. One season of guiltless sex.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Skinner
• Release date: Apr 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311711168

Dan Skinner

I'm a single gay man living in the Midwest... I write because I consider myself to be an old-fashioned story teller. I've been a photographer for half my life specializing in male romance cover art. My dream is to one day live on the beach with my dog and continue to tell tales that inspire and entertain.

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A Summer of Guiltless Sex

By

Dan Skinner

A Summer of Guiltless Sex

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

Published By: Dan Skinner at Smashwords

Copyright © April 2016 Dan Skinner

All Rights Reserved

Edited and Formatted By: Ally Editorial Services

Cover Art By: Carlos Gonzalez

Cover Photo By: Dan Skinner

A Summer of Guiltless Sex is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any Resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright

Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, Dan Skinner.

No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without permission from Dan Skinner. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights and livelihood is appreciated.

DEDICATION

For Dirk (aka: Muse)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

ABOUT DAN SKINNER

ALSO BY DAN SKINNER

TRADEMARK ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER 1

I’m not going to mince words: I’m bad at relationships. I have no clue why, so I’m defenseless in that department. I run out of fingers when counting how many I’ve had, yet not one of them has lasted longer than the expiration date on a milk carton. With one possible exception… the one that wasn’t supposed to be a relationship at all. And it’s that non-relationship that I most fondly reminisce as having been the most rewarding one of all.

I was twenty-two and in the deep throes of a predictable depression brought on by the dissolution of my latest experiment in bi-monthly partnerships. I drank beer and wallowed in my misery, listening to sad music alone in my apartment. I blamed the ex, of course, because I wanted to remain faultless when things kept failing. I was too good, too kind, too forgiving. At least that’s what I told myself, and to some extent, it was true to a fault. I did sacrifice a lot, continually trying to bend and shape myself into the man someone else wanted me to be. I lost myself in all that trying. I said things that people wanted to hear rather than what I truly felt; I did things because I knew it pleased them, though it made me uncomfortable. I don’t believe it was an act of desperation, more so the genuine belief that if I wanted true love, I would have to compromise myself. Looking back on it now, I realize it was an indication of my low self-esteem. No one wants to love someone who doesn’t even like himself.

I looked in my mirror and was able to see someone desirable by average standards. I was in shape, but not overly so. I had pleasant features, even if they weren’t striking, or as one ex described me: inclined to make me memorable in a police lineup. I dressed nicely, was well groomed, and had impeccable hygiene. I consider myself to be intelligent, a belief confirmed by my ability to seduce people with glib conversation when my looks weren’t setting off fireworks for them. At parties, I wasn’t the person swept off lustfully to a dark alcove for a sexual escapade, but I was the one they chose when they needed a partner for Trivial Pursuit, so the gods had favored me with one attribute which kept me from being dismissed altogether. Those less fortunate than I could be found quietly making friends with the dog in the corner.

I’d really wanted the most recent relationship to work out. He was beautiful. He was smart. He had a great job. I liked being seen with him because it gave me hope that all those who’d previously dumped me would see us and realize I had value; that they had missed out. I wore him like a Rolex into the clubs and restaurants. My smile couldn’t have been any more affected; my body language couldn’t exclaim sarcastic retaliation louder. I fawned over him; waited on him like a servant.

I began noticing his disaffection in the second week of our relationship. I’d done everything in my power to try and prove myself to him. I nearly gave myself lockjaw from the frequency and enthusiasm with which I fellated him. God knows, I always asked what he wanted me to do to please him. I sat on his dick and bucked like he was the biggest bull at the rodeo. I grunted and groaned and moaned like every drop he pumped into my ass was more valuable to me than pure liquid jewels I could cash in later at the pawnshop.

My first clue that the romance was fading came, when in the middle of one of my more valiant performances, he stopped fucking me to take a call from his ex. He excused himself and went to the bathroom to talk privately. Of course, I had to prove how understanding I was; not allowing him to see that his dismissal bothered me. Until I heard the dirty talk of phone sex and saw the shadow of him masturbating in the space at the bottom of the door. The idea that my ass riding his dick was less appealing than a filthy phone call and rubbing one out with his own hand crushed me. I listened to him complete the act, riding the rollercoaster of emotions I’d been on so many times before. First, the pain, then the anger, whipping me back and forth until the numbness set in.

He left that night without kissing me goodbye. The usual See you tomorrow, became I’ll call you. A clear sign that it was over. There’d be no more calls from him and mine would never be returned. A passive-aggressive ending seemed to be more gentlemanly than a smack down, but it definitely had less closure. So I drank and wallowed in my Michael Buble collection. Life sucked. Being gay sucked monkey balls.

We all have internal conversations in these moments of despair. Dialogue of the sort that can’t be shared with a family member, and certainly not with a friend, because it’s tantamount to admitting you’re a loser. So you chug the first two beers to get the quick buzz, you sing a few bars of one of your favorite love songs and you begin to rationalize why bad things happen to such an infinitely good person. You try to will your mind to divine a future where you have someone who actually stays, but your track record is so bad the notion ends up as crumpled as the empty beer can in your hand. You realize that you have to step back for a while. Not just because you don’t want to be seen solo again, but because the doubts have set in anew and you have to find a way to rebuild yourself, strengthen yourself enough to go through it once more.

Luckily, summer had burnt its seasonal opening on the Midwest with the first week of ninety-degree temperatures. There were more things to do outdoors, away from the eyes and wagging tongues of those acquainted with me in the community. While in the clutches of another of my too frequent embarrassing episodic attempts at love, my job in a bridal shop afforded me sanctuary during the weekdays from those who knew me.

The apartment pool had opened and it was a nice respite, perfect for people watching and catching up on reading. Throwing on my surfer trunks, a towel around my shoulders and the new Jack Reacher novel in hand, I headed down the short path behind the complex to the oak tree enclave surrounding the pool. Being the weekend, with the temperature and humidity as uncomfortable as they were, it seemed the entire population of the community had gathered around the blue rectangle. I found an empty lounge chair and pulled it to the corner farthest away from everyone.

The sun beat down and I was quickly coated in a sheen of perspiration. I lay on my stomach, hoping the sweat wouldn’t dampen the pages of my book as I read. Before long, in spite of the noise of the crowd splashing in the water, or perhaps because of it, I fell sound asleep.

When I awakened, I could tell a significant period of time had passed, first by the tenderness of the flesh on my back, and also by the shift of the shadow cast by the pool house. They now left the nearly empty pool completely shaded. Less than half a dozen of the apartment dwellers remained, looking drained and near ready to call it a day. The resident lifeguard and pool boy, who I recognized from the previous year—a name that started with a T but eluded me, was pacing around the empty aqua rectangle engaged in a spirited phone conversation. From the snippets I could hear, it was a girlfriend and, as seemed to be the case whether gay or straight, there was relationship conflict.

He was a handsome college boy who I forced myself to pay little attention to since he had all the earmarks of someone patently straight and a natural, though invisible, partition existed between his world and mine because of that fact. I knew he was older than eighteen, because that was a legal requirement for the apartment lifeguard, and his build looked muscular enough to carry anyone from the water. His hair was blond and longish, his eyes as light blue as the pool itself, and he had that open-faced Huck Finn type appearance so many guys in the Midwest seemed to possess. I’d learned enough about him from overheard peripheral conversation the year before to know he was a college swimmer; his specialty—butterfly, and it showed in his broad shoulders and strong arms.

With groggy fascination, I studied him from behind my sunglasses as he strode quickly around the pool and spoke urgently into the phone. His sun-browned face appeared frustrated, but it didn’t detract from his features or sleek movements. His tan skin was an eye pleasing contrast against the red and white trunks he wore with the word Lifeguard emblazoned across the seat. Needless to say, it drew attention to his ample, well-formed ass. Most of the time, I only allowed myself a fleeting look at him. It