Zeeland is a collection of islands nestled in the delta of the Rhine river. There are beaches, and the nearest one from our house was ten minutes on the bike. My story happened a long time ago, and Zeeland was famously gereformeerd then—prudish-Calvinistic—there was no animo for the naked beaches they had up north near Amsterdam. So, our beach had changing facilities, clapboard cabins with a fore room, closet hooks, doors, locks, and in the main room a plank running along the wall serving as bench.

I had just turned twelve. Something had happened to me during the winter, and when I went for the first swim of the new season, something had happened to the Dude (not always the same dude) that was hanging out there. You would show up, he’d gaze at you, conspicuously, then disappear in the dunes. In previous years I had ignored him, but this time I couldn’t fail to pay attention. His gaze did something to me; it was like a loopy ditty in my ear. And I wouldn’t tell Mom. The next day was sunny again. I returned from school, grabbed my things---a plastic bag from the SPAR with my speedos and a dirty towel---and went back to the beach, but the gazing dude wasn't around.

These changing facilities, yes. Shy as I was, I would always make sure that I wasn’t entering the wrong cabin, somebody forgetting to lock the door and then he would be standing there with his pants half-down and his tiny Dick, looking embarrassed or angry and later showing up in my dreams. So, I would check out the place first. Doors had to be open, obviously, and no clothes, please, or other signs of life.

Well, the door was open, and there was nothing in the way of clothes. I entered. But then—I have still trouble explaining this to myself—there, on the bench, sat this guy. He was three or four years older, maybe sixteen. He was naked and half-aroused, his hand around his dick, stroking, staring at the wall, seemingly oblivious to my intrusion. And I—who would normally have fled in panic—I got so overwhelmed by the goings-on in my shorts, I couldn’t move. I got totally hard, just standing there, the erection doing to my shorts what a wild beast might do to its cage.
I wasn’t a newcomer to spontaneous erections, but this, this blast down there, I stood there, speechless, bulging, petrified. And the guy—I've endlessly replayed the scene in my mind—the guy knew what he was doing. This was his shtick. Everybody not into this—not hypnotized by his act—they would turn around, embarrassed or offended, and say ouch, or excuse me, or you dirty boy, and run away.

But twinks like me, poor victims of their glands, we’d stay in place just long enough for the guy to turn his head and take you in with warm, assuring eyes, full lips, and a smile that came up on his cheeks like the rising sun. He let go of his dick, got up, locked the door, undid the belt button on my shorts, pulled them down past the hard-on (the waist band hobbled by my boner up to a certain point, then, released, the thing snapping back into position like a recruit facing his drill sergeant), and—wasting no time—he grabbed it and squeezed it. He squeezed it nicely with the right amount of touch. He didn’t care about my T-shirt, and I don’t remember how we got rid of it, but soon I was naked, stark-naked, feeling his dick against my belly button. And that did it. I came on the spot. I came for the first time in my life, my dick pounding under his grip, ropes of creamy milk spouting from the pee hole and ending up on his abdomen. My first E-JA-CU-LA-TION, folks, unbelievable, the sense of each pulse of jizz feeding the next pulse, the whole world ablaze, myself riding the flames like, like a crazy arsonist pretending to douse the fire with his cum. I never felt this lucky in my life again.

Now—the dude didn’t expect this. He said something like sorry, or you must have been urgent, and when I told him this was my first time, not just my first time with a guy but my first coming, as it were, he couldn’t believe it. He shook his head and said shit, shi-it. “If I’d have known, I’d saved myself for you.”
“Huh?” (I said).
“You’re the fourth dupe today; I’m spent. I’ve been stroking for half an hour and here, it’s still half-limp. It—I—we won’t go anywhere anymore today, I fear.”

Now, I wasn’t yet woke. I had no concept of my queerness, no idea what I would be missing without his cock up my ass or down my throat, but something in me was disappointed. Or at least I looked disappointed, because he said: “I owe you. I owe it to you.”
“What?” I asked.
“You brought your things? In a bag?”
“Yes.”
“A plastic bag?”
“Yes.”
“Cool,” he said. “Get me the bag.”
The SPAR bag was still outside; I unlocked the door, grabbed it, locked the door again. He turned it upside down and shook it, my things falling on the floor.
And then he said, “Watch it, gaspersex”—pulling the bag over his head, the SPAR logo right over his face. It was a small bag, and you could make out the contours of his map under the supermarket logo. And where his mouth was, the convenience-store plastic showed a dent. I had no idea of gaspersex, and this was before the internet and Pornhub, but something in me knew what to do. I got on my knees and swallowed his dick. It wasn’t really hard, his tool, but he—he couldn’t say anything, obviously—he thrust his pelvis and began fucking my mouth. And it worked. His instrument got larger and larger, expanding into my throat, past my tonsils—my gag reflex taking a holiday—and my own dick, still hard like a torpedo, went off again. I came several times during the next three minutes, I believe, while he was fighting for his own orgasm—and eventually for his life—ravaging my gorge, thrusting, trilling, shaking, percolating, tumbling, gasping for breath, his hands holding fast to my shoulders, stooping, falling over—and his cock convulsing deep down my throat. Veni, vidi, vici, they say. Well, he came, he had come, and now I saw he was dead. I pulled the bag off his head: yes, he was dead.

That’s basically it. I should have done something, call an ambulance—we had no cell phones then, never mind—or race home and tell Mom. Well, I didn’t tell Mom. There was nothing in the papers. Next time I went—I forced myself to go back a few days later, give somebody else the chance to check on the cabin in the meantime—no clothes, not shoes, no other signs of life—next time the body was gone. There were no other traces, but the gazing dude was around. I took a deep breath and followed him into the dunes. 

Jan Verbeek has recently completed a degree in immersed erotic writing at Leiden University.