Date: Sat, 24 Oct 2015 20:42:05 +0100
From: Albert Horniman <ahorniman@gmail.com>
Subject: The Day It Rained Fish

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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