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.As I wiped my chin with his proffered handkerchief, then washed the taste of him down with a mouthful of bottled water, he admitted that it had been the first orgasm he had had for a long time.Then, bashfully, he had added it was also the very first time he had had oral sex performed byanother man.I had bought the house on the bluff leading down to Pengallion Cove without knowing about fisherman Michael, his shore-side thatched cottage, or the daily sailing and fishing routine he strictly adhered to.My own plans had been to restart my old artistic career once more, trying to both capture the wilds, forceful beauty of the sea, and also pay off some of the bloody bills by selling the canvases locally for whatever I could get.Some days I would try and work on scenes which appealed to me from the top of the cliffs – braving the wind and sometimes the inclement weather in order to try and capture the fantastic light.Other days I would go down to the shoreline and sketch pieces to take back to the house – thumbnails and half ideas from which I would build larger works from.It was when I was sorting through the sketches, trying to decide which to throw away, that I found a sequence of them all featured a sail-powered fishing boat, bobbing about nearby.My curiosity made me ask around, but it was a month or so before I finally got some idea of who owned the boat, and was surprised to find out I wasn’t quite as isolated as I thought I was.Then, as they tend to say around here, a depression came in from the West and, for days, all I could think about was Tony.I kept remembering how we had supposedly planned our lives together, what we would do once he got his degree, and how all the time I had been taken for a ride.I would often start the day with every intention of finishing off some piece or another, only to spend most of it sitting on the sand in a director’s chair, my portable canvas still blank, looking aimlessly out to the horizon for hours on end.After several empty weeks of self pity, I finally decided I needed a change in my routine.To that end, I bought a small Laser yacht from a sailing centre further up the coast, with the idea of sailing around until I found somewhere to settle down and paint, sketch or draw for the day.And I have to admit it had been doing me good – keeping my mind busy working the sailboat – and I was starting to produce watercolours and canvases again which were going for respectable sums of money.That was until I had the accident.I had not been keeping an eye on the weather and, by lunchtime, I was battling against some awkward winds, when a rip current caught the boat and started to pull it rapidly towards the cliffs.Several times it felt as if I had almost lost control of the craft and, on finally sprinting round a rocky outcrop in the hope of sheltering in the lee of the cove, I had been pushed straight on to the anchor chain of Michael’s much larger fishing vessel.Needless to say, the Laser broke up and most of it sank in a matter of moments.Michael – horrified that I might get hooked up in debris or remains of my sail and dragged down – had hurriedly pulled me out of the water.Without giving me time to even catch my breath, he bustled me down below decks, and had almost smothered me in towels and spare clothing before disappearing to fire up the little galley and heat some water for a large pot of tea.Tired, cold and exhausted, I peeled off my wet clothing, and started unselfconsciously to towel myself dry, rubbing my body down vigorously in order to get some circulation back.It was minutes before I realised that Michael was standing there, a large steaming mug in each hand, staring at my body intently, as if he was mesmerised by it.After a moment, he realised I was watching him and, blushing profusely, he put the mugs on the table and disappeared back into the galley.In fact he had not come out from there again until he knew I was fully dressed again – albeit in his oversized shirt, jeans and jersey.It had been a while since anyone had taken more than a cursory glance at my body and, at that moment in time, it made me feel warm and secure.As we waited for the weather to subside, we talked about the area and a little about ourselves – confirming that we were, in fact, neighbours, even though we were several miles apart.He seemed to fall silent as I told him about Tony, then I half thought I saw something in his face change as I then explained that Tony was definitely an ex.Then it was my turn to ask him some questions.There was no ring visible on his finger, but I asked if he was married all the same.He said no, but then self-consciously explained that he was divorced.It had been an amicable settlement and, when his parents passed away, it had given him the money and impetus he needed to buy a fishing boat and try his hand at making a living out of it.Curiously, from that storm-battered afternoon, our friendship strengthened and it was quickly obvious to me that he was not just some tall and well-built son of the sea.Underneath the mass of unkempt hair and beard was an educated, gentle, and caring man.And even this bitten and world-weary cynic started to feel the stirrings of an attraction towards him.Left with no craft of my own, I took to helping him out on his daily fishing trips – line fishing for whatever was in season.Well, he would fish while I would get underfoot, then sketch for several hours from the whole new viewpoint offered by being on his small craft.It was during those periods between setting his lines and pulling in his catch, that his seemingly unobtrusive yet subtle questioning would start – all the time encouraging me to talk about myself.When did I realise I was gay? How did I survive at school? Art College? Gradually working towards the more personal, such as did I remember my first time? How did I decide if I was a Top or a Bottom? Intelligent, as well as curious.So it was that the next particularly memorable day had started off easily enough, but it had soon built itself up into a hard working one.The sun had been high and warm in an almost cloudless sky, fairly calm, and the mackerel were running well.It wasn’t until the late afternoon had started to drift into early evening that we decided to house the boat for the day.Once it was secured, on impulse, I had pulled off my sweaty polo shirt, kicked off my deck shoes and, wearing just a pair of white cotton shorts, I had run into the sea to cool off a little – laughing, waving and calling to Michael from the water.It was a good way to relax, but, try as I might, I couldn’t seem to entice him to join me and I felt I had done something wrong when he abruptly turned and went back into the boathouse again.Out of the water, I quickly jogged up the shingle and the little concrete slipway, shutting the large double slipway doors as I went, and made my way through to the workshop end of the boathouse.Michael had his back to me, head bowed and shoulders hunched.Immediately, I sensed his discomfort but, for the life of me, I had no idea what it was that could be wrong.Moving around in front of him I could see his face was flushed and, following his downward gaze, I could see where his erection pressed hard against the front of his khaki working shorts.In a quiet voice he mumbled, ‘Sorry
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