By Joey 
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• Latest update: 11 January. Next update: 25 January. (Submissions welcome.)

• Latest post: Saturday Flashback: January 2013.

• Latest from BRK: “One hot summer”, Parts 5‑9.


The reason a lot of the beach guys wear parkas is to hide their four arms.

You notice you never see any guys wearing parkas with four arms, right?

I didn't think it made any sense either, until Forrest showed me.

We were taking a sunset walk to the beach, a private beach down a steep path that we're not supposed to go to, but usually nobody's there, except for maybe Forrest and his friends.

Forrest wants to be a model, and as far as I'm concerned, he could be already. He's very tall and built and has that model's look, the touseled brown-blonde hair, slender height, the piercing slate-green eyes, the smooth face and perfect white teeth behind beautifully kissable lips.

"You know about how you get four arms, right?" he asked me.

"You have to mail away for them and have them surgically attached," I said, trying to go along with him.

"No, seriously," he said.

"You'd have to be born with them, and then they'd probably cut them off," I said, not getting the joke.

"No you wouldn't," he said. "You just need a parka, any parka, like the ones we're wearing."

"What, and add two more sleeves?" I said, bored with the topic already.

"No, you wear it over your extra arms, so no one knows you have them. You can't tell in a parka."

"Why, who do you know like that?" I asked, still going along with it and mildly curious about what he would say. He's my best friend.

"Some of my friends."

"Your clone friends."

I call Forrest's friends his clone friends because they all look alike. Not like clones at all or twins or anything, but they are all equally very tall, slender, and good looking.

They never say it, but they're all attracted to each other because they all share the same type of beautiful features, and they're all able to relate to one another because they're all so tall, so they're like all on the same planet, relieved to be among others like themselves where they can finally relax and enjoy each other.

They hang around together all the time, sleep over at each other's houses, do stuff together. I'm not one of them, although I look anough like Forrest that I could be.

"Yeah, my clone friends," Forrest smiled, purposely bumping his body against mine as we walked together towards the beach. "Like over there."

He nodded in the direction of the just-disappeared sun, pointing out two guys in white surf jams and parkas, standing together near where the waves were crashing onto the beach.

One had his parka hood up, the other down, his sandy blonde hair touseled in the wind. They were far enough away that I couldn't make anything out other than that they were quietly talking to each other, standing side by side, arms folded and staring out over the water.

"They're holding hands," Forrest said.

"No they're not," I answered. "Their arms are folded."

"Right," said Forrest. "I mean down by their waists. It's hard to see."

The guys didn't see us because they were looking out over the ocean as they stood side by side with arms folded, but I didn't want to look like I was staring anyway. I tried to look hard in their direction without turning my head towards them like an owl.

"Just look," Forrest said, with some irritation.

I looked. And of course right then the guys happened to turn and see us, and they saw me looking. And that's when I saw their hands let go of each other and pull back inside their parkas under the waistband.

The guy with the blonde touseled hair smiled at Forrest, unfolded his arms and waved hi, and so did the other guy with the parka hood up.

Forrest waved back, and I did a small wave since I didn't know the guys, but I hardly knew what I was doing, walking along automatically with Forrest. My mind kept replaying what I thought I'd glimpsed, the surfers' hands letting go of each other and slipping back under their parkas.

We kept going. I wanted to look back at the guys. I wanted to see if they were holding hands again with their secret extra pairs of hands.

"See over there?" Forrest said. Another bunch of his clone friends were standing talking to each other, parka hoods up or folded, arms folded or hanging loose or holding soda cans.

"They're not even near each other to touch," I said.

"Let's just stop and pretend not to watch," Forrest said.

So we stood there together, looking as if we were just talking to each other. We didn't stand out at all; the beach was dotted with pairs or groups of guys out together, taking in the fresh ocean air.

But the group Forrest had pointed out was different somehow.

We couldn't hear anything because of the constant breeze and the muffled roar of the waves in the distance, but the guys looked like they were listening to music, sort of shaking along to it.

Every now and then one of them would shake a little faster, his arms dangling, the others watching him and then laughing as he spasmed, stumbling and evidently trying to catch his breath. It would happen with one guy after another, sporadically.

It was like one by one they would go into a near-fandango of shaking and then suddenly become exhausted from moving to whatever music they seemed to be listening to.

It was so odd.

"What on earth are they doing? Are they on drugs or something?" I asked Forrest, a little worried.

"Just jacking off," Forrest smiled. "Inside their jams. You can't see it, but they come prepared, so there's no mess."

"What?" I said. I meant to be aghast, but damn, I was boned, too.

"Yeah, with their extra hands, under their parkas. You wouldn't believe how boning it is to have four arms and to try to keep them hidden," Forrest smiled.

This time I did look back as we moved on past them. Three of the guys were laughing as another one of them shook and shook, his arms and hands hanging, dangling helplessly as he grimaced, and then gritted his teeth with pleasure, eventually stumbling and trying to catch his breath.

He leaned on the guy next to him, and they put arms around each others' shoulders. But I saw it: there was the quick passing of a pack of tissue between then, by hands reaching from underneath their parkas, while their sleeved arms and hands remained in full view.

Further on, in the receding twilight, we saw some more of the tall, handsome boys, younger than the first we'd seen, trying to wrestle their parkas off one another, laughing and falling down in the sand, not really trying very hard to fend each other off.

"Now their extra arms I can see," I said, and I could, plainly; they had so many nice hands.

The boys' lithe arms lazily pushed at each other, alternately pushing away and entangling themselves in tickles or embraces. The handsome boys were oddly kitten-like in their pushing and cuffing of one another, except for the boys' height, their masculine, lean bodies and all the slender extra arms, both in and underneath their half-removed parkas as they clumsily tumbled and wrestled each other.

"They don't seem to be trying very hard to hide their four arms," I said.

"Six; they may be a little drunk," Forrest observed, as two of the boys mounted each other and the other boys kept falling on each other, trying to bare all of each others' extra arms.

"And it's getting dark enough that it doesn't make any difference."

One now-shirtless boy caught another by surrounding him with his extra arms so the other boy could not escape, and they kissed passionately, the caught boy's six hands helplessly grasping at each other's wrists, pinned against his sides.

The others, also bare-chested now, stumbled over their discarded parkas, arm in arm in arm in arm as they swayed toward the sea. They looked so nice, so tall and lean, and so many long arms. All the extra hands found hair to rumple or a glute to squeeze, and the boys kissed each others' extra arms and hands, some of the boys breaking away in pairs to make love.

"So your clone friends were all cloned this way?" I asked, as we walked along further and the boys' groans and laughter died in the distance behind us.

"One passes it on to another," Forrest smiled. "Surfer tradition. If one with the gift loves another enough, he can gift him. It's by parka for secrecy, which is partly why parkas are generally so oversized. Both are wearing parkas, and the gifted kisses the one he loves and wants to gift. The newly gifted returns the kiss and holds hands with him, with his new hands."

"Why did those boys have six?" I asked, still amazed at their beauty.

"Youth," Forrest smiled. "So sincere. And a little drunk," he smiled. "Clears the inhibitions, which transmits the gift more powerfully. A strong return love has the same effect on the gifter."

I looked at him, so broad-shouldered in his parka, as he stood there in his surfer jams and flipflops, his hair touseled in the wind, which also buffeted the folded hood of his big parka. How many arms did he have inside it?

I grabbed his wrists. "How many?" I demanded.

"Only two," he laughed, breaking my grip and running away, kicking off his flipflops, his male-model's bare feet silent in the soft, cooling sand as they fled me. I kicked mine off and ran after him, reaching for his hands. He laughed, running even faster, keeping his hands away from my grasp.

I had an idea. With a burst of speed, I grabbed the hem of his parka. "No!" he laughed, grabbing my wrists. The two of us were stumbling, laughing, our laughter lost in the wind and the wide-open space. We were alone, away from the others, far down the beach by the moonlit crests of the waves.

"No!" he laughed. "Stop! Leave me alone!" He tried to pull away from me but I had him. "What's that under there?" I laughed. "I can feel them."

Sure enough, through the soft parka fabric I was squeezing something firm, resilient and warm, definitely a hand, a wrist, a forearm.

He was pulling the parka down with all his strength, keeping me from getting under it; I was trying to pull it up. We were both laughing, leaning against each other and stumbling as we struggled against each other.

"No, you're going to tear it," he laughed. I liked the way he grabbed my wrists with his hands.

"Okay, compromise," I said. "I just want to reach under and feel your stomach."

He relaxed, looking at me, suprised and a little wary, a half smile playing across his lips. I think he was giving in. He liked it when I felt his stomach.

His hands let go of my wrists, and he pulled them back, letting them relax, hanging from their wrists.

He was so close to me, the parka fabric so soft, his sweet breath so warm against the cool marine breeze as we recovered from our wrestling.

I reached under the warm, heavy parka, feeling his new surfer jams, moving my hands up to where I could feel the waist of his jams, and moving my hands up along his handsome body, feeling the amazing firm yet pliant warmth of his narrow surfer's waist, naked beneath my rejoicing hands, under the warmth of the parka.

I smoothed my hands back and forth around the smooth, warm sides of his waist, reaching up along the upward swell of his flanks, feeling behind around his broad, smooth back, and bringing my hands from his back to his front again.

My palms and fingers delighted to be caressing his beautiful, lean stomach muscles, and up along his abs to his beautiful chest. My index fingers each found a nipple, and he gasped involuntarily with pleasure, the nipples firming under my finger tips.

While my hands rested there inside his parka, my palms filled with his beautiful pecs, I felt large, gentle hands cover mine; I felt them so comfortable against mine, pressing my hands to his pecs.

As his hands held my hands to his chest, I felt his hands gently grasp me about my waist, then pull me toward him.

I smiled and looked into his eyes, which were dancing. It was then that I also felt his hands behind me, on my shoulders, and then smoothing down my back, his arms enveloping me in an embrace. We kissed, our lips living together so sweetly in that moment, and my mind reeled as I felt his hands pressing my hands to his chest and also holding me all over.

I slipped my hands off his wonderful pecs and squeezed his sides, suddenly tickling him mercilessly. He laughed helplessly, spasming against me, trying to figure out which hands to use to stop mine.

But in a flash he got them all to fluidly slip around me and lay me over sideways, ballet style, in a passionate kiss. I was never so safely held, in this gentle phalanx of his six beautiful arms and hands floating me in defiance of gravity as we kissed. And they held me safely as they lifted me upright again.

He raised four of his relaxed wrists to me, the four handsome hands dangling between us, and then two more, to join them. My hands shyly danced over all of them, touching them, brushing the beautiful fingers, squeezing the handsome, well-developed hands.

"Which pair of my hands do you want, this pair or this pair or this pair?" he teased.

They were beautiful. I pulled them to me, holding them to my chest, and I kissed him on his beautifully kissable model's lips; then I looked down at the beautiful, dangling hands, and brought each one to my lips, loving its warmth and beauty, kissing it and squeezing the beautiful swell of its forearm.

It was arousing and a little overwhelming to be so near to so many of his beautiful hands and arms, all so handsome for me.

I felt the warm, erotic array of them, enjoying the feel of so many relaxed hands on mine. I brought them again to my lips, kissing the bevy of his wrists, his many lazy warm hands clustered and compliant in mine.

It was so amazing to feel the warmth and handsome beauty of all these beautiful relaxed hands. He loved that they turned me on like this, and I could tell that they turned him on, too.

He held the handsome pairs of his hands there in a cluster in front of me as I smoothed my own hands along the swell of his multiple forearms, then allowing myself to enjoy squeezing four of his biceps, their four round delts. I felt more delts behind them, warm and muscular, and squeezed them, too.

This relaxed him further, and he let four of his hands lay heavily against each other, the four of them tumbled against my chest.

I let my arms relax, and my hands fell down to find the third pair of his arms draped around my hips. They pulled me to him, squeezed me against him, crushing his first four hands between our chests. "Ow," he laughed. I pulled back from his arms and kissed the four hands, and he brought their brothers up for me to kiss also.

We embraced, with me surrounded by his wonderful arms, and kissed a kiss I shall always remember.

Once the stars returned to their places in the sky, we took each others' parkas off and tied them around each others' waists, and walked back shirtless together in the light balmy breeze, arm in arm in arm.

It took a while to dawn on me that I now had a new pair of arms as well; it was the heaviness about the shoulders I noticed, then the warmth of new biceps kissing the triceps of my first pair of arms. The four of them felt good, especially draped around him. It was nice to have my own extra hands to be friends with his. True to the tradition, I held hands with him with my new hands.

Then, one of my hands found a nice glute of his to squeeze, but it seemed awfully far back and it was pleasantly naked. We looked to see why; he was wearing what were now jams ripped wide open, a second pair of his long surfer's legs ambling along nakedly behind his first. I looked into his eyes for an explanation.

"Thanks," he said, surprising me with the thanks and then with another kiss. "They come when the gifted returns an especially strong love."

I envied his four legs, his four bare feet, as the four of them lazily walked along beside me.

"A little hard to hide."

"But who'd want to?" he smiled.

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