Edgar steadied himself against the bulkhead as the wake of a passing yacht sent his own ship to wallowing and scraping against the dock. He was hunched over the sink in the closely confined space, space being at a premium even in a Latitude 44 such as he'd sailed from Marseilles to the harbor town of Horta on Azores' Faial Island. He believed that he could find exactly what he wanted here, and he'd been preparing himself for the greater part of the morning to make the most of himself.
He was pleased enough with his form, fancying himself as looking a decade younger at least than his well-pampered fifty-two. He sighed at that thought, though, a decade younger not really making the difference he sought. It got no easier the older he got, although he found that a thick wallet helped considerably. He was leaning into the small mirror over the basin in the eternal search for gray hairs and plucking at the most noticeable ones; he was years beyond eradicating them all, and in Marseilles Tony had said his graying temples were distinguished, so maybe he should just make do with that thought. The wallowing of the ship certainly wasn't helping him in his quest, and at least he still had a full head of hair. There were men far younger than he was who couldn't say that.
He stood back as far as he could and peered into the mirror. Yes, everything seemed to be in as good an order as he could expect. He was really quite presentable. The thought of what he was about to do was arousing, and he felt the knob of his cock rub against the cotton of his stark-white cotton trousers. He had thought long and hard whether to wear anything under the trousers and was glad that he'd decided against it. He liked the feel of his cock being free and just below one thin layer of cloth.
Just one more thing: the hanky. He'd been intrigued to hear that they still followed the hanky code in the Azores. He was sorry that the code had gone out of style in Europe. The preliminaries could be a little difficult these days. It had always been so easy to tell when the hanky code was in vogue there. He reached over to his kit bag and pulled out the orange one. Yes, this was going to be an "anything, anytime, anywhere" day for him. At his age there was so little time and fewer and fewer opportunities. He no longer could be picky and spend time deciding exactly what he was interested in at the moment with any hope of finding a hookup. So, it was anything, anytime, anywhere for him—and he'd probably have to pay for it to boot.
While contemplating this, he dug into his kit and pulled out a tube of lubricant. Pulling down the rump of his slacks with one hand, he worked a glob of the lubricant into his hole with the other. He'd enjoy the squishy feeling of the lube inside his channel as he walked, and an anything, anywhere, anytime assignation could easily be one short on opportunity to prepare well enough. Pulling the slacks back over his plump rump, he dropped the tube in his pocket and opened the cabinet under the basin and selected three packets of ribbed condoms and pocketed those as well.
Edgar carefully folded the orange hanky and inserted it in his right shirt pocket, letting several inches of the hanky show. He'd selected a stark-white sports shirt to top his white cotton slacks precisely so that the bright orange hanky in his right shirt pocket could not be missed. Then, taking one last appraising look at himself in the mirror and convincing himself, by squinting, that he was seeing what he wanted to see, he turned, walked out on the deck of the tug-like yacht and across the teak deck and jumped up to the pier. Looking up at the tiers of buildings of the town of Horta rising up from the busy yacht basin, he smiled at the prospect of what lay ahead and set out for Peter's Café Sport.
At the café, Edgar selected a table back out of the sun, under the awning, near the side wall, and sat down, facing the yacht basin. There were few other patrons about at this time of the morning, which Edgar had been told was the best time for what he wanted. He ordered two Magna beers, which assured that the waiter wouldn't be back to fawn over him anytime soon. As he was nursing the first beer, he focused on exactly what he thought he was looking for.
The young man was perhaps in his mid twenties, dark-skinned, possibly Moroccan, but with handsome, chiseled features that hinted of French ancestry as well. Jet-black hair, close cropped, thick and curly. A three-day growth of beard that obviously was kept at that length because it suited the face well, although the impression was left that his hair grew quickly. Edgar contemplated how a hairy chest usually went with that—and was glad for that. Tall, well-muscled, but still looking very trim. The young hunk moved gracefully, like a dancer or an athlete as he picked out a table in the sun, on the same side of the café as Edgar, but choosing to sit facing the café rather than the yacht basin, so that he and Edgar were facing each other. He was sitting on the side of the table away from the other café patrons, as was Edgar. From the chest down only within the view of Edgar. He was wearing white, silky, draw-string shorts with a buttoned fly, and, similar to Edgar, a stark-white cotton sport shirt. Edgar sucked in his breath as he looked down at the young man's feet. He was wearing open-toed sandals. The feet were big and long, the toes long and plump.
And it was the sport shirt that caught Edgar's full attention. It was sleeveless, showing off the young man's well-developed biceps, and had button-down flaps on its shirt pockets. And attached to the right pocket was an unmistakable signaling device. Edgar's hands started to tremble and he had to set his Magna bottle on the table top. The young man had a black, rubbery cock ring, one of those ones with five knobs around the periphery, suspended from his right pocket. A giver. Exactly what Edgar was looking for. Edgar felt his knees go weak. The cock ring must be at least two inches across. His eyes went back to those long plump toes. Edgar could feel his cock stirring.
A waiter was at the young man's table, and Edgar heard him order a bottle of Cergal beer, but when the waiter was almost back at the bar near the door into the café's interior, the young man rose and took two steps toward him and changed his order to a bottle of Magna. He had turned away from Edgar, Edgar gasped audibly when he saw a mustard yellow hanky peeking out of the left back pocket of the young man's shorts. It was a color Edgar knew well; it declared over eight inches of available service.
Edgar's hand went to his lap. His cock was hard, and he rubbed across it through the material of his slacks. Thank god the Azores were still on the hanky code system. Less than a half hour and Edgar had found exactly what he wanted. It was almost too good to be true. Then Edgar chuckled. Reality was what you made of it, of course.
He looked up to discover that the young man was looking at him and was smiling. The young man slowly lifted his bottle of Magna almost to his lips. Edgar watched in fascination as the young man opened his lips and pushed his tongue out into the opening of the bottle and pushed it back and forth into the neck of the bottle. Then he extracted his tongue and turned the opening of the bottle until it faced Edgar. All of the time the young man was staring at Edgar with a little smile of challenge in his eyes. Edgar picked up his own beer bottle in a trembling hand and slowly closed his lips over and down the sides of the neck of the bottle, slowly pulled it away and then took it in again.
The young man pointed down in his lap, and Edgar looked down to find that the young man had unbuttoned his fly and the side of a thick, brown cock was showing below a thatch of curly black hair. Edgar fumbled around in a pocket, nearly overcome with arousal, and pulled out his wallet and set it down on the table and laid one of the condom packets on top of it.
The signaling was complete. The contract made.
The young man stood and slowly walked away from the café, up the cobble-stoned street rising beside the café and up into the town of Horta, away from the piers. Edgar stood, still trembling and followed the young man at a distance of some twenty feet. The young man sharply turned to the right behind the back of the café and Edgar followed him back along a narrow path with the back wall of the café at one side and lush semitropical foliage pushing out into the walkway behind a short retaining wall on the other side. Far enough down the pathway that he could not be seen from the street, the young man sat down on the retaining wall. He was pulling off a sandal when Edgar reached him.
"Here suck these," the young man demanded in a rich, deep voice, in English kissed by a French accent, as Edgar sank to his knees on the pathway and took the long plump toes into his mouth and sucked on them. The young man had released his cock and was slowly pumping himself up.
