The Nurse, by mattbuck Part 14
All comments, good or bad, are appreciated - email matt_v_jellicle@hotmail.com
Other stories I've written can be found on my website, in the fiction section http://mattbuck.sixwinter.com
The previous 13 parts to this story are at http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-nurse/
Usual disclaiming sort of stuff, I don't know McFly, I don't know their sexualities, this story is not in any way based on real life events. Oh, and it contains gay sex, so please make sure you're 18.
It was the Wednesday when my dad had a migraine and wanted to avoid travelling. Thus, the two of us got the car for the day, on the proviso that we kept our mobiles on and generally didn't crash. No joyriding, much as I want to see how fast the car can go. I managed to get a J-reg Micra up to 80mph once. Guess I just like racing cars too much.
We'd gone north the previous day, wet our feet at Aberglaslyn and then crossed the Menai Straits onto Anglesey, visiting Beaumaris Castle. That day, we decided to go west.
West of Porthmadog lies the Lleyn (pronounced kl-ain or clean) Peninsula, home of any number of past holiday houses, large vehicles on too-small roads, and huge banks of violently pink flowers. Oh, and quite a lot of pubs. We packed a picnic (cliche I guess) and set off, me hoping Danny would do a semi-decent job map reading. He had the OS map, and assured me that he could read it on account of doing the Duke of Edinburgh scheme at school. To me, that meant he should also be good at making up racial slurs, but he wasn't, so I figured he hadn't.
We'd been going an hour or so and only been lost twice when we came across a nice little place called Porth Towyn to have lunch. We found a car park (well... field), chucked a few quid into the honesty box and made our way down the lane. A footpath led us through a field of sheep (and the shit thereof), down a hill, past a camp site and into a cove. It was beautiful. Steep grassy hills on three sides with lovely golden sands, mostly flat and tideswept rather than the annoying dry powdery stuff that gets in your shoes. There were some rocks along the shoreline at either end of the bay, but otherwise merely sand occasionally blemished by seaweed. Most importantly, there wasn't a single person in sight. I love that sort of beach. We threw the mats down on the far side of the beach on the smooth sand and ate our lunch, watching the tide come in. Beside me, Danny stripped off his t-shirt. Sun, sea, sand (sandwiches) and sex? That could be rather fun, though it might end up with sunburn in some uncomfortable places.
He wiggled his eyebrows at me: this would be good. Picking up the pot of chocolate spread, he opened it, dipped a finger in and then brought it to his mouth, slowly sucking it off. It was one of those things that makes drool threaten to escape from between your lips. I did the only reasonable thing - I reached for the chocolate. It was really more liquid than spread after being out in the hot sun, but that was good enough for what I intended. I dabbed my finger onto his nipples, leaving two chocolatey swirls, then let him lick off the rest. If you'd asked me a year ago if I'd ever have Danny's tongue running over my fingers.... I bent down, locking my lips around his right nipple, sucking before letting him feel my tongue teasingly lick it clean from the outside in. I moved to the other, scraping my teeth across it slowly. Danny or chocolate Danny - I really couldn't decide which tasted better. I started lower, licks down towards his belly button as the hot sun beat down on my back through the dark t-shirt (a Franz Ferdinand one - the words are written backwards, like on an ambulance, so they're the right way round when you see yourself in a mirror). I was just starting to nuzzle his crotch when he pushed me away, lifted one cheek off the mat and let go.
"What?" I asked. "Why would I stop for that? You could fart in my fa..." then the smell hit me. "Okay, that one is bad." I sat back up and started wafting air towards him with one of the plastic plates. Danny just lay there looking smug. I like his asshole - it's rather cute - but you would not believe what a stink it can make. But then, his lips are delicious and kissable, but he can still swear like a sailor if he feels the need. Usually if phone calls from Fletch interrupt sex. The ones from Tom, Harry or Dougie he'd answer happily, but after the third time Fletch got us, he started turning off his mobile.
Danny's hands suddenly invaded his pants, pushing downwards, the baggy shorts dragging his underwear a few happy inches down the curve of his arse. Well, swimming shorts rather than underwear. Wonder how he'd look in speedos - a very nice bulge no doubt.
"Swimming?" I asked as he started pulling off his socks.
"Yeah, you coming?" He said, standing up and looking towards the water, shading his eyes with one hand.
"I left my swimming shorts at home." Home home rather than holiday home. We'd came up with a list of about ten forgotten items in the car before we even passed Gloucester.
"Oh. Well..." A fumbling at his waist and his shorts joined the pile of clothes on the mat. "...skinny dipping then?"
He wriggled his bum. I got naked.
We ran (in slow motion?) over the sands, into the ocean, holding his hand. Well, not quite that simple (what ever is?). We quickly ran out again when we discovered how much seaweed there was where we'd thrown the mat. The water was a bit cold too. I stood in the centre of the beach, Danny behind me humping me. I rather wished he wouldn't, as while it felt great to be doing it right out in the open with the sun warming my chest, it was getting rather exciting, and as any guy will tell you, running in that condition (without adequate support) isn't the most comfortable of practices. When I'd managed to pry him away from me (grab the popstar by the balls, as the saying doesn't go), we walked hand in hand along the shore, the silence only broken by the shwoosh of waves breaking and the occasional bleat of a sheep on the hill behind us. We walked until the walls of the breakers were no longer black with seaweed, roughly half way back to the footpath, then went paddling. Ever so slightly freezing. We waded deeper until Danny let out a high pitch shriek as a wave touched his bollocks. I laughed until the next big one hit and made me scream a full octave higher. I grabbed Danny, pulling him close and moulding my lips to his until my body was no longer trying to turn me into a castrati (the voice type), which was coincidentally when all the blood had drained from the excitable regions of my body. We waded further out - to about stomach-depth - before starting to actually swim. A game of tag (I lost), several lengths between the weedline and the end of the bay, and we decided it was probably time to get out - before we became the other sort of castrati. We swam back to shallower waters (only waist deep) and stood up. I loved the way the water clung to his skin, the cold hardening his nipples. I pinched one impishly, he pinched back and we ended up both falling into the water, resurfacing in liplock.
That was when we saw people on the beach.
There were about eight of them I think, probably in the eighteen to twenty age bracket, busy setting up a barbecue. They didn't seem to have noticed us, but they had parked themselves on the stretch of beach between us and our stuff. Sure, about fifteen or twenty yards from the sea, but they couldn't really avoid seeing us.
"Now what?" I asked, but Danny was already heading to the shore.
"We get out. Don't want you freezing your bollocks off."
"Bit late for that," I grumbled as the water slapped his ass. Still, I moved towards him, letting him take my hand. He looked me in the eyes, tightening his grip slightly. I managed a weak smile. "What's the point of exhibitionism if you never get caught."
"Just pity them. They only see me shrivelled." True enough, and that was rather a crime against humanity. Not that I'm particularly willing to share him with you all. We started running in slow motion (until we managed to get out of deep water) over the sand, away from the ocean but holding his hand. Doesn't sound quite so romantic that way - not that I'd exactly call Busted romantic. We got within five metres of the party (and spotted by at least one bikini-clad blonde - sandy, not platinum - who was yelling for her friends to look at us) when I yanked Danny to a halt and kissed him hungrily on the mouth. After all, if you're going to give someone a show, you should give the best you can. That's why I was groping his arse anyway. The wolf whistles crescendoed as we ran out of air and had to break contact. I think there was some applause too. Applause for kissing your boyfriend - now that's cool. I looked into his eyes before he darted off. I risked a quick bow (no bikini tops of appreciation thrown, more's the pity), before darting off after him, whooping in joy. There really is something to be said for showing off.
We spent a fair amount of the afternoon on that beach, sunbathing (naked of course - an all over tan, and besides, what was the point of covering up after that exhibition? I'm pretty sure I caught the glint off a pair of binoculars from their camp as I massaged the sun tan lotion onto Danny's body. Those sensitive parts need a lot of lotion you know. When we finally left the beach there were more wolf whistles, which Danny politely acknowledged by dropping his pants again. That time a bikini top did come off - the sandy blonde's. Come to think of it, those were the first naked tits I'd ever seen outside of porn, Wild Things (which counts as porn really) or that trip to the table dancing club. Not a bad way to start really - quite nice ones I thought. Guess it all goes to show that Danny and I are the personification of Why should guys always kiss? 'Cause it's so effing hot.
We went on down the B4417 (ok, I admit, I have the Ordnance Survey map for the Lleyn Peninsula in front of me (sheet 123 if you care). It's really not great value - two thirds of the map is just sea. Still, it's not as bad as some of the Scottish ones), then onto the 4413 (where we met a boat coming the other way. Not a rowing boat, speedboat or anything, a big yellow thing built like a JCB that filled the entire road. We had to reverse into a farm entrance to get out of its way). We turned off before Aberdaron (ab- er-dare-un - it means mouth of the (river) Daron), driving past a frankly luminous bank of purple flowers that to my eye looked like Michaelmas Daisies. To be fair though, I can only identify a few types of flower - hyacinth, daffodil, forget-me-not, snowdrop and hydrangea - so it could have been anything really. It actually reminded me of the Dinas flower. You see, back in the days of 386 computers, when solitaire was considered a graphics-intensive game, we had a program called BBC 3D Garden Designer. Now, it wasn't especially sophisticated, but you could put in the size of your garden and then add in plants (which appeared as blobs), and thus design your garden, and then advance the date to see it throughout the year - when the plants were in flower, when they were bare, etc. Now, the fun part was that you could create your own plants - specify size and what colour they were during each month of the year. Thus I created the Dinas, named after a place on the Lleyn we holidayed one year, Dinas Dinlle (pronounced dee-nas din-leh). It changed colour every month, going from red to blue to yellow to green to white... and I'd make up whole gardens of the things. My parents reckoned they were the best plant ever.
So yeah, they reminded me of the Dinas plant.
We finally reached Uwchmynydd (I'm not entirely sure, but I think that's pronounced u-chutch-min-eth) at the very tip of the Lleyn. We followed the single track concrete road as it zig-zagged up the steep hill, amazingly not meeting any BMWs or 4x4s coming down. I guess the boat, and then the grit spreader and crane we met on the mile long snake that was the road between Aberdaron and Uwchmynydd was enough. We came up to an area that was clearly used as a car park (the big red BMWs and 4x4s testified to that. Our Astra estate seemed rather small by comparison), so I pulled off and we climbed out. The wind hit me immediately, blowing my hair into my eyes (must get a haircut...) before I'd even shut the door. We moved towards the white buildings that the map claimed was a coastguard lookout (though it turned out it was abandoned in the eighties). A concrete wall separated us from... wow.
Some sights take your breath away, and I'm not talking about Danny wearing a pink tutu. There's Surprise View on a ridge above Derwent Water (which while it shouldn't be, since you know it's there, is surprising. Maybe it's surprise view because you're surprised to be surprised at how beautiful it is seeing the whole lake laid out before you), the view from the top of the London Eye, and then there's Uwchmynydd. It wasn't so surprising for what you saw, but for the colour and how much. You see the sea on three sides, stretching out to infinity. Incredibly blue, almost painfully.
Come to think of it, a lot of the breathtakingness was due to the wind, but it was still beautiful. The sea looked peaceful and serene, until you saw what were no doubt huge breakers on the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, or the tidal shear between the mainland and Bardsey Island. Scale is everything - peaceful was waves often a few feet tall. We stood there, arms around each other, hair flying back as we faced into the wind (I constantly thank god for sunglasses on windy days), trying to see quite where sea met sky.
We left when a preteen girl who obviously didn't want to be there came along and started screaming about how much she hated her mother for bringing her there, so, back into the car and along the newly-gritted road into the village of Aberdaron. We found a nice cafe to have milkshakes and chocolate cake in (well, Danny had Bara Brith - that's Welsh fruit cake, by the way), nice and quiet and warm and, since we were the only ones there, no one to stop us from stealing some gentle, protracted kisses - the ones where you sort of melt into each other. I love that kind.
Aberdaron, while having a nice coffee shop, a pretty bridge over a stream (for the Daron can hardly be described as a river) and a shop selling jazzy coffee mugs can hardly be described as the most interesting spot in Wales. It survives almost purely on being the town closest to the end of the Lleyn. We moved on almost as soon as we'd paid the bill, heading back east again, stopping to see the breakers at Porth Neigwl (Nay-gel), which literally means Hell's Mouth, named for the winds that drove many a ship to ruin. Our final port of call was a pub called Y Bryncynan (e brin-kin-un) for dinner, then under the growing night shade we journeyed home, then to snuggle up under the covers safe in each other's arms, softly kissing goodnight.
E-mail me! matt_v_jellicle@hotmail.com