Slocked Affections - 1. Part One of Three

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Part Two – The Laguna Beach (Mis…)Adventures

Chapter 4: Slocked Affections

"So, what does this mac daddy client of yours do again…?" I was casting my eyes upwards.

We stood in front of a large but spartan-looking house, or more accurately, before its black iron gate. A six-foot wall of undressed cinderblocks abutted the sidewalk, and from the top of it rose vertical siding stained sage green. Altogether the structure informed stranger, passerby, Jehovah Witness, door-to-door salesman, burglar or common punk like me: I may be rich behind these walls, but stay away. In other words, it projected the drunken 1960s idea of sobriety.

We'd already had a long day, even though it was only about four in the afternoon. Assauer's exertions had been great, for not only did he do all the driving – my reward for which was giving him the pleasure of my beloved Gordon's company in the front seat while I stayed isolated in the back – but last night, after we had agreed on our plan of escape, my ex returned to Hollywood in the wee hours to fetch his car. He told us he drove through empty streets returning to Long Beach. No headlights followed him, he said, and I suppose late at night, with traffic at a minimal, he'd be able to tell.

Despite our intentions to hit the road at first light, we crashed most of the morning. After we woke up, we ate a bit, packed and left. Ninety percent of the drive down here had been all too sadly typical for SoCal forays; we traveled long stretches of featureless freeway, tediously playing stop-n-go taillight tag, all the while ducking in and out of the chasms created by towering trucks.

That changed spectacularly once we turned west on 133, or onto Laguna Canyon Road, for that's exactly what it was – a scenic and not very busy pass through a winding valley. Out my backseat window to the right were verdant hills apparently untouched by man, while strawberry fields rolled by for wide-open country mile on the left.

Eventually Highway 133 swept us along a final gentle curve, and the entire vast blueness of the Pacific opened before us.

Once in the ritzy community of Laguna Beach itself, we pulled off the main drag and started climbing switchback lanes, which only narrowed and became more tree-shaded the higher and richer we rose into the posh neighborhoods.

At last we parked on top of a hill and trudged with our bags to this gate, glimpsing vistas between the plantings and walled properties.

"He's the headmaster of a private military academy, one for small boys," Assauer said.

I immediately quipped: "Didn't Trump go to one those?"

"He did," replied my ex. "One that went bankrupt recently because of the all abuse lawsuits."

"Oh, geeze," muttered Gordon.

I smiled. "Need I say more?"

"I'm texting the guy we're here…."

"Now this house makes sense," I told my boyfriend, directing my sights up again. "It looks like army barracks."

The gate buzzed, so I grabbed it.

"He says to come in and head up to the pool."

My ex led the way and gave me a moment to raise a crooked eyebrow in Gordon's direction. "The pool…?" The uninviting abode appeared too severe to have any such amenities.

I followed my boy up a plain set of steps, not resisting the feel of his teenage buns working underneath his denim. His reaction was to shift the weight of his ratty old gym bag and swipe my hand from his ass.

"You should get rid of that…that piece of tat," I said peevishly.

"Why?" He grinned back at me, hefting the strap so the slate-blue Aptos High School logo of an 'A' over an anchor outline was right in my face. "Don't like thinking about our past…?"

We laughed, but he was right; I didn't.

Upstairs, the main level opened up the house a little, but it still resembled a compound of buildings rather than a typical residence, for breezeways had overhangs and doorways to what I imagined were many guest rooms.

We heard Assauer return greetings to a manly voice up ahead, and in another minute, I followed Gordon's back into the sunshine.

I paused and had my breath taken away. Jutting over a cliff face, a huge terrace was dominated by a spacious and impeccably maintained swimming pool.

An iron handrail on the other side framed a killer view. A living fringe created by the top of mature palm trees rooted to the earth some eighty feet below punctuated a symphony of clouds and waves; the shimmering blue tones rippling underwater from the pool were matched by the views of sky and sea beyond.

A burly man, with an old-fashioned buzz cut in silver-gray and wearing a terrycloth robe, was hugging Assauer. After holding my ex roughly away by the shoulders, the man administered a painful-sounding backslap and released Assauer.

He then turned his attention to us, smiling and calling out: "Welcome! The more the merrier."

"Captain Hojax," said Assauer, "it's great to see you again."

"I always knew you'd be back, son." He actually winked at my German companion, and caused a slight riffle of jealousy within me.

His appearance spoke of a hard life of faking it. In his particular case, the role was Commandant, a tough one at that, but only geared to frighten little boys. His features were round and somewhat flabby, but his scowls more than tensed up his facial muscles into a hypercritical whole. Fifty-ish, the peek of manly chest hair through the terrycloth opening of the robe, and powerful calves sticking out from below it, said he was not faking his youthfully fit physique.

Our host led the way, his gruff voice commanding, "Come. Let's meet the others."

Once the captain wasn't watching, my ex rubbed his sore shoulder, giving me a look like he regretted the decision of coming back into Hojax's clutches already.

To the right side of the pool was a shady cabana. In the cool were two people sitting around in swimsuits and drinking.

The captain did the honors. "May I introduce my old friend, Lloyd, and his enchanting partner. This is a sexy German I know, Assauer, and his friends."

The three of us dumped our gear and sat down.

"This is Kohl, my ex," Assauer said, "and his boyfriend, Gordon."

One of Hojax's guests was a thirty-ish Asian. He whipped off his designer sunglasses and thrust a ladylike hand towards my boyfriend. "The name's Sang Trọng – but everybody calls me Trọng – and yes, I am Vietnamese," he said with immense pride, and quite a large accent to boot.

Gordon took the moist fingers gallantly, but I could tell he wanted to wipe his own right away.

In contrast to his partner, Lloyd was a darkly brooding man, the strong silent type, and no doubt considered a bad-to-the-bone stud in many circles. Over six-foot, and perhaps forty-five, he was endowed with raven hair slicked back and wet from the pool, and emotional eyes used to not showing a thing.

"Drinks!" the captain called out. In a moment or two, a boy in a white polo shirt appeared. A blond teen of the rich-kid variety, he was the type you'd usually expect to see part-timing it as a caddy on the country club greens.

"Armand, mix up a pitcher of Mai Tais, lad."

"Yes, sir," the boy said with a slight bow, hands laid one over the other near his crotch, and a slight sparkle in his glance at me. He turned and went, with me noticing how well those black trousers gripped his tight little ass.

"So, Kohl," our host asked with another wink, "are you a German too?"

"Yes. Me and Assauer are from the same little town in Germany."

"Bavaria?!" Trọng inquired with raw enthusiasm. He had laid his shades on the table.

"No…" I smiled. "No leather shorts, or hunter-green socks, I'm afraid."

While everyone laughed, Trọng's leer at me scanned down to my lap.

"Well, whatever," Lloyd's boyfriend said. "I think your accent's adorable."

As he drained the last of his drink in anticipation of a fresh round, I wished I could say the same about his accent.

"Speaking of Germany, I suppose my little Ass-Hour told you," said Hojax, "that I have quite a collection of Nazi memorabilia."

"You do?" I swallowed; of course the Arsch had said nothing about it.

"Oh, yes! A fascinating time in military history. Fascinating. I have one of Hitler's ex libris stickers. It's one of my most prized possession."

"What's that, anyway?" questioned Trọng.

"Ex libris," the collector explained, "is the piece of paper glued to the inside of a book to show who once owned it."

"Yeah, right," chuckled Trọng. "As if Hitler's nightstand books are why we remember him."

"You know," Assauer suddenly chimed in with a scowl, "why is it you Americans are so interested in the Nazis in the first place, and all things World War II in general?"

I shot my ex a warning look. This was not the place or time to antagonize our host.

"I can tell you that one," Lloyd said. It was the first time he'd spoken, and his tone was deep, mellow and sultry. "We're intrigued by how one of the world's great cultures – Germany before the war – could be seduced and swayed by crudeness, bigotry and anti-intellectual boogieman-baiting."

"Lloyd is right," Hojax affirmed. "How the country of art and science and tolerance – of Schiller, Goethe, Einstein! – could turn its back on greatness and instead embrace xenophobia and fear."

Assauer flushed and rather aggressively pegged elbows on the table. "Then it sounds like people in the near future will be collecting Mar-a-Lago cocktail napkins and wondering the same thing about the nation of Longfellow, Whitman and Bill Nye."

The table was jolted as if by an electrical current. The truth is always right, but it doesn't always need to be said.

After a tense moment, the captain laughed brightly and administered another punishing blow of affection on my ex's shoulder. "Bill Nye!" he called out. "He's a mismatched comparison to Albert Einstein! I would have said Edwin Hubble, Robert Oppenheimer, or even Carl Sagan."

Assauer relaxed back in his seat with a twinkle. "I stand corrected."

"Well, anyway," Hojax continued, "you won't find any of those 'Make America White-Bread Again' people around here. We're all aligned politically on the side of progress and calm."

That was a relief to hear, and so was the sight of the sexy blond rolling over a drinks cart; it rattled with ice in a tall pitcher. The boy set out three new glasses for us, and as he poured mine, I made sure this Armand knew I was interested. When he smiled briefly and moved on to fill Gordon's glass, I caught my boy's eyes on me. He was not a happy motor home, let's just say. I'd make it up to him later.

Almost as bitchy payback, Gordon picked up his glass and sipped it with lewd intent towards Trọng.

The Vietnamese guy fingered his sunglasses and plied glances between me, my boy and the teen waiter. Finally he settled on Gordon, saying, "You are way overdressed for a pool party. Get changed and we'll go for a dip."

I hurriedly coughed up a lie. "Gordon has no swim trunks."

"Oh, tsk, tsk," said Trọng, rising elegantly and reaching for my boy's hand. "You need to find someone to take better care of you. Come on." His words turned to me. "I have just the perfect thing for him to slip into, back in my room."

My blood boiled as I watched this seductress lead my boyfriend straight into the lion's lair.

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(to be continued...)

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Deep thanks to Mikiesboy and J.Hunter Dunn for their support of this project, and encouragement along this long winding road I'm on