“Raw?” I’m not even bothering to hide how much that grosses me out. He laughs. “It’s a rite of passage in my family. You have to eat them ra... or you’re disowned.” “Well, in my family we tend to broil our shellfish, but thanks for the offer,” I say. He sets his clam gear high on the sand, out of the surf, then sits back on his heels and looks at me appraisingly. “What?” I ask, suspiciously. “Nothing,” he says, but his brown eyes maintain contact with mine, teasing, or maybe daring me, I’m not. Trimming always makes me hard. He says nothing. But it was writ large all over his face: tonight, he wants it. I can't believe it! I can see him surreptitiously checking me out as he peels off his shirt and brushes his teeth. Rolls of almost chalk white flesh hang in folds at the sides of his chest, framing his not insubstantial man boobs, his deep brown areoles are stretched into broad ellipses, like two almond-shaped eyes, by the sheer bulk of his almost hairless chest. A vision of my cock. More

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