Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 3

good. About then, I looked back towards shore and saw him. No, not one of the guys at the table. The one who'd been asking Flaco about me. Dark figure against the sand, white Speedos. Kind of freaked me out, because hell, he was about to figure out I was the last person he wanted teaching him how to sail.
    But you know, when confronted with shit like that, I hurl myself headlong into the fire. Figure might as well fuck up in style as leave any room for doubt. So yeah. Practicing my moves, and I decided, hell, now was as good a time as any to try out my Vulcan.
    Got a good bit of speed, the pop went nice. Concentrated on the board, my form, but when the sail came around I lost focus. Big surprise. I'm a distractable fuck, remember?
    Out of the water, boom coming fast, and I must've been wondering if the sun was hitting my shoulders just right, because my hands got all tangled during the change, the wind caught the sail, and I went flying ass over peanuts.
    Shit. Water hurts when you hit it hard. But I came up laughing. Always do. Grabbed the board and clung to it for a moment, catching my breath. Something brushed against my leg and I yelped like a girl. Yeah, fuck you. It felt big. When I clambered back up onto the board, I realized I must've caught my shin when I went airborne, 'cause watery blood was coursing down my leg. Idiot.
    I peeked back towards shore. Sure enough, my mystery man was gone.
    ****
    The gig at the resort is only five days a week. Doesn't pay especially well, either—aside from the occasional windfall tip, that is. So weekend nights, I pick up shifts at the local queer joint.
    As if there was more than one along this stretch of road. Nope, just us.
    El Viejo—that's what we call the owner, and yes, he is old—hires armed muscle to keep an eye on the place, because sometimes shit can go down that's kind of freaky. You think it's bad stateside; it gets a lot worse, here.
    Aw man, Chulo's is sweet though. Right on the beach, got a patio and outdoor bar, walls up the sides to protect the eyes of neighbors, because though the wildest shit usually goes on indoors, you can't count on that. A couple rounds of Sauza, and gayboys on vacation can get pretty uninhibited. So can the sisters, for that matter, though there aren't so many of them and they mostly just applaud. Add into that mix the local mariposas , ready to do damn near anything, anywhere, for the chance that a sugar daddy might take them home.
    Wasn't our busiest night—that would be Saturdays—but we weren't doing half bad. Drinks flowing, Lady Gaga blaring from the sound system, raucous laughter and the dull roar of feet on the dance floor. A warm salt breeze freshened the air.
    It was D/s night. Theme, you know. Second Friday of each month. Not that Chulo's was any real kind of leather bar, just the only queer place along this stretch of coast, so it played up shit now and then. Plenty of regular guys in tonight, but lots of collars and chains and paddles, too.
    Don't really get off on the games, myself. I play 'em, sure. Hard not to when you tower over everyone around you. I get the size queens and big-eyed looks that say make my rape fantasy happen . So yeah. I'll play light—even do the butt-plug and spank bit if the guy doesn't come off as entitled. If he's been generous. No, not talking about cash flow. Blow me.
    I agreed to play submissive once. Only once. Just—hell. The guy was cool enough at first, but I swear, I felt like a horse being chirped at by an angry squirrel. And the ball squeezing hurt. Nothing sexy about it. Fucker.
    I'm just not into the scene. No offense if you are. Fun to watch, though. Even hot, especially when you see the flush crawl across a boy's chest. See his breath going shallow. That's a turn-on.
    But tonight, I wasn't watching. Too damn busy. We'd lost a bartender a couple weeks ago and were breaking in Alex. Alex came with half-ass experience, working in a posh hotel in Tijuana. He knew his shit, but knew it slow, and now he looked frazzled, trying to keep up. Sweet thing; Latino twink with a round bubble-butt, bedroom eyes and pouty lips. A dark curl kept dropping down into his line of sight. He kept shoving it away. Probably didn't even know he was doing it.
    I shook up a Mai Tai with my right hand while I poured a shot trio of Dos Lunas Añejo with the left. Reyes, Chulo's Friday-night waiter, set those up and carried them away as I poured the frothy pink stuff into a hurricane glass and stabbed a