The Day It Rained Fish A. Horniman
I was in Acapulco the day it rained fish. You see, fish get picked up by a hurricane out in the ocean somewhere and then when the storm hits land, they come down with the rain and the streets are covered with them. Not big fish, just little fish. Like anchovies.
That was when I was with José Angel. I called him Joe Angel. And really when he flexed the muscles of his back you would imagine that wings were growing there. And when he held me in his arms and I held onto his broad shoulders, his unshaven chin would rub against my face as his mouth searched for my mouth and on finding it, his tongue would explore.
He was a fisherman. Sturdy and strong, in his early thirties. The muscles on his chest echoing those on his back, the strength of his arms, his biceps, the soft flesh of his pits, the power in his hands.
"Nothing else to do when you're out for weeks at a time on a fishing trip," he would say.
"Best enjoyment two men can have together..." he would add.
"Two men?" I quizzed him.
"Sometimes more," he'd say with a wink.
"You get fucked?" I asked him.
"No, no way. I am not maricón."
"But you like to fuck..."
"Boys, men, even big fish!" he joked.
"We go fishing, I take you out. I fuck you."
"Like a fish?" I asked.
He laughed.
I watched him at the wheel as the ocean rolled beneath us. Admiring his bronzed hairless body as it swayed with the motion of the waves.
He told me about the first time his father took him out. "It was spring. There were six of us on the boat. Five experienced fisherman and me. A couple of miles off shore they all took their cocks out and started jacking each other off. Five big juicy cocks, ten fat hairy balls full of fishermen's come and they jacked off into the sea. I joined in of course."
"For the goddess," they said.
"The Virgin of Guadalupe?" I asked.
"No," he replied. "For the goddess of the ocean. Her real name is forgotten but fishermen have been doing this for ever, since before the Christians came, shooting their spunk into the sea to fertilise it, to bring a good catch."
He told me he fucked a man for the first time that night
"You prefer men?"
"Yes, but I am not maricón. I fuck, I am not fucked."
Joe Angel. The first time he fucked me. Taking his time to open me. Taking me through the initial pain as my ring stretched to accommodate the girth of his cock. Turning me into a vessel worthy to receive his fuck. Then driving himself into me over and over, his powerful hips, the thick corded muscles of his thighs.
"You are open now."
His arms around me pulling me closer to him.
"Beautiful ass!" he says.
His chest against my back as his hips thrust and thrust.
"Nobody else," he said afterwards. "Only me. Only my cock. You hear?"
"I hear," I replied. "I don't want any other cock, only yours."
He smiled, his eyes searching my face, and kissed me full on the mouth, his tongue as if searching for something inside me. My mouth, another hole for him to fuck. For him to deliver his sweet salty seed. My mouth dripping with it.
The first time and every time.
The first time. His thighs spread. His shorts bulging. I longed to touch. To hold the softness of him in my hand, to feel him stiffen.
"Go on, if you want." And I did. His eyes closed as I explored between his thighs. And yes, the inevitable thickening. His breathing, rougher. Then undoing the top button of his khaki shorts, my hand inside ¡oh dichosa ventura! the heat of him, the damp of his balls, and soon his cock, thick and hard as a man's cock should be. My hand round it, pulling the skin back, teasing the knob.
And his hand touching me, opening my legs for him. No difference between us. Neither better nor worse than the other. Each lost in desire for the other.
My fingers vainly trying to claim the girth of his cock. His fingers probing, exciting, wanting entry.
"Yes!"
"Are you sure? I'm big, I don't want to hurt you."
"I'm sure but slowly,"
Over and over I replay that first time in my head. Over and over, feeling his fingers inside me then the blunt head of his cock as I yield to him, willing myself to accept him, saying to myself, "Yes I want you, I want you inside me," opening to him till his cock is mine, and my ass and my whole body are his.
Lips finding lips. Eyes resolutely closed. His touch both comforting and exciting; soothing yet arousing; soft strokes, hard slaps. His action inside me, by turns gentle and loving, animal and brutish.
But however much I looked into his eyes, I could never see inside him. It was as if he wore dark glasses, as if no one was there. At least no one with a soul. Is that what he wanted from me, what he was searching for in me? My soul?
And then there was the morning when the boat didn't return and it rained fish. And that was that. Maybe the storm took them or a current dragged them out to sea. I like to think they survived and landed along the Peruvian coast, or maybe found an island, somewhere with turtles and palm trees.
Women sit by the shore lamenting the dead as they have done for generations. Wives, mothers and sisters. For as long as boats have gone out, for as long as fishermen have fought and propitiated the sea.
I am not allowed to join the women of course. But in my heart I sit with them, keen with them, sending my prayers, my thanks to my angel, my Joe.
END
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