Dr. W. A. Frost's Ides of Revolution

“SOLD! For eight thousand five hundred to number 29, thank you so much ma'am, please see our associate afterward for your banking information.” The auction hall was buzzing. It was all over the news: locker 482 having it’s lock busted and the heavy iron door rolled up to reveal the long lost estate of the old school pro-surfer Ronnie “Riptide” Darensbourg. Ventura’s very own legend from the 70’s, Ronnie Riptide was a local hero who’d passed away in 1991. In fact, he’d been the hero for Francis Cragg since childhood. To Francis, the heartthrob represented everthing he wanted to be as a teenager in 1977: laid back, efforlessly cool, athletic, flirtatious, sexy… and notoriously “open minded” in the bedroom. To be queer back in the day was quite the scandal that was reserved only for the Hollywood stars and not for the everyday person. Under this strict social law, Francis couldn’t look at another guy, couldn’t even be suspected of being gay- but he could live vicariously through Ronni...

  Deandre was an ebony God: tall, dark and handsome. He was a friendly, good-natured, all around great guy. He had a girlfriend, a steady job, and a dream life on Hawaii. Every day at lunch he’d throw on a pair of boardshorts and go surfing for thirty minutes or so; and it was a typical Wednesday afternoon that his life was effectively taken over.  It was a beautiful day. Blue skies, 89 degrees, sunny, and crashing waves. A beach full of tourists wasn’t enough to deter Deandre and his surfboard, so as he walked past sunburnt retirees from deep in the midwest, he payed no attention to the pair of eyes watching him like a hawk. Hiding from sight behind a surfboard of his own, the man’s blacked out eyes and curious demeanour strangely caught the attention of no one. Deandre paddled out to catch some waves, missing a few decent ones. His attention focused on the horizon, he didn’t notice the man slowly entering the water. Sporting glasses to hide his darting eyes, he searched his ...

  This was my best friend and roommate, Marcel. He was my smartass, snarky, cocky, and totally fuckable wing man for 15 years. Ever since we were kids, meeting on the beach, he was that friend everyone wanted to have in their corner. From the minute we met we hit it off. I knew that this dim-witted, big hearted surfer bro was gonna be my best friend. He would totally fuck up anyone that made fun of me, and there were quite a few fights that he won on my behalf over the years. When we graduated high school, we made this blood pact: brothers forever. We went to the same college and were roomies for the entire time, even past our graduation time. During that time, we started fooling around a bit. You know, just a bro-blow. If he needed to blow off steam, I’d suck his delicious cock until he blew his gigantic load down my throat. If I had a particularly bad day at classes and work, he’d eat my ass better than any girl ever would. As a pan guy, he would literally fuck anything that move...

  Todd was a simple guy. He had no real interest in a career, or in anything requiring too much effort. Todd had low self-esteem and was a lethargic lump on his parent’s couch: 50 lbs overweight, acne-ridden, and no social skills whatsoever. Yet, he longed terribly for a life of leisure and lust. Living in Laguna Beach, the models and surfers dominated the streets, flashing their perfect chill lives to everyone around them. Even if it was only to observe them at a closer distance, he accepted a boring job at the Royal Coast Surf Company in the cargo room. All his coworkers were sexy surfers and part time Abercrombie models. And then there was Todd, sitting on the crate with his phone, stinking of patchouli.  Dillon, his manager, had had enough of his laziness and terrible work ethic. “Alright boys, take the rest of the day off! You’ve been working your asses off! Except you, Toddy boy. You’ll be working the next shipment by yourself. Maybe it’ll get you off your lazy ass!” Tod...