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He smirks as he hands me back my card. “That’s what they all say.”
Our room is a literal box of paradise. The beds are lush and heavenly. The bathroom is immaculate and decked out with a rainfall showerhead and soap in the shape of seashells in a saucer on the counter. An accent wall of the room is painted a dazzling cerulean-to-white gradient, drinking in the very color and texture of the endless, cloudless sky outside. It is punctuated by sturdy beams of handsome teak that race up the walls and over the ceiling, where a pair of ornamental lights dangle. The balcony reveals a breathtaking panorama of the sand and the water, complete with a pair of wicker lounge chairs that practically beg for some tight buns to sit on them in a state of undress, sipping margaritas as the sun lazily sets beyond the crystalline sea. That is most certainly what Rico and I will be doing every night during our stay.
“Did we win the goddamned lottery?” cries Rico as he steps out onto the balcony.
“Certainly feels that way!” I run a hand over the bed sheets. They’re smooth, crisp, and clean.
“Which god or goddess did I unknowingly fuck in a past life to earn such a slice of Heaven on Earth? Am I a secret son of Poseidon? Jonah, get your ass out here and look at this view!”
Just like my friend, I don’t even bother to unpack, leaving my things at the foot of the bed as I rush to his side on the balcony. The wind plays in my hair as I take in the sight of the main beach just across the road outside: Breezeway Point—and all the beautiful people populating it. Though I do see some women here and there among the blankets, colorful umbrellas, and scattered chairs, this haven clearly seems to favor the men, just as advertised.
Men who like other men, at that.
“Okay, so what the hell was that downstairs?”
I turn to Rico. “What do you mean?”
“Are you planning to cockblock us all weekend? Those guys were totally into us.”
“Into us? They looked like teenagers!”
“Oh, I’m sure they were mostly legal, c’mon.”
“Mostly? Rico …”
“You act like our baby asses weren’t in high school just three-ish years ago.”
I roll my eyes. “They were probably locals looking to make a few tips off of us. Not everyone who breathes your way is into you, y’know.”
He turns and takes hold of my arms. “Look, I’m not saying I want us to go nuts and blow every guy in sight. Even though this is our vacation and that’s totally what visiting a hot gay beach town is about.”
“Tallahassee,” I state warningly.
“However,” he goes on, “I think it’s important you let loose for once. It’s good for your soul, and we only have such a short time here. Our jobs leave us stressed out every day at the store. You, especially. Stressed and uptight.”
“Uptight?”
“Plus you haven’t even so much as gone out on a date since your stupid college-boy ex broke your heart. Look at that beach, Jonah. See all those beautiful people? All those fishes in the sea …? Take it in. You need this vacation. Maybe more than I do. Just try not to stand in your own way, alright? That’s all I’m asking. Do things you wouldn’t normally do. Be daring. Dive in deep.”
I gaze out at the beach once more. A smile finds my face. “I read about a popular funnel cake place on the Quicksilver Strand, the boardwalk right off the beach …”
“I said ‘dive in deep’. Not ‘destroy our beach bods’, you monster.”
I eye him. “Hey, if you want me loose, we gotta start somewhere.”
“You can get a funnel cake if you want. But I’m itching to get wet, half-naked, and looked at.”
“It’s called the Blue Coral Bakery—right by the highly-rated Thalassa seafood restaurant, which we also need to try, of course—and every single one of the reviews say Dreamwood’s beachside funnel cakes are finger-lickin’-yummy and we—”
“Okay, you had me at ‘finger’,” Rico cuts me off, “but I still want to hit the beach first before we start tasting everything in sight. There’s … other things I want to taste first, if you get me. Now can we get cute already??”
I smirk. Priorities. “Alright, fine, let’s get cute.”
Our luggage explodes into a multitude of shoes, accessories, and outfits all over the room. From a pile I dump onto my bed, I don a peach and sea foam striped tank that matches my pastel bathing suit.
Rico emerges from his pile wearing nearly none of it: all he’s got on is a pair of tiny white Speedos and a matching visor. He stares at me, aghast. “Where do you think we’re going, grandpa? Shopping for souvenirs on the boardwalk with the rest of the boring people?”
