"So, what are you doing for a vacation this summer?"
That's not the first question I'd normally expect to hear from a guy while he was untying me from his playroom fuck bench. Still, I wasn't too surprised, since this was my old friend Bill talking, a mature leather top who'd occasionally take me home from the bar for some kinky fun. He was a smart, big-time Toronto ad industry executive, who nevertheless had an absent-minded habit of blurting out whatever popped into his mind. Now, with our scene over, he'd changed personas from "stern disciplinarian top" to gossipy old pal without skipping a beat!
As it happened, I had no plans, and when I told him so, he asked if I'd like to stay at his cottage on the shore of Lake Huron for two weeks in the middle of July. There was a catch, he admitted with a grin. He'd hired a contractor to renovate the kitchen during those two weeks, thinking he'd be there himself to oversee the work. But in the meantime, a big job had dropped in his company's lap, and he'd have to stay in town. He trusted the contractor, who'd done the bathrooms the previous summer, but he needed a trusty keyholder there in case of emergency. Plus, he didn't want to leave the contractor and his workers on their own, free to nose around in his bedroom, which was the same reason for not asking one of his straight co-workers.
The offer was coming out of the blue, but we'd been friends and regular hook-ups for a few years, so by the time he'd undone the ropes and helped me stand up, I'd made up my mind to accept his offer. Though I did wonder why he'd asked me. I knew about the play toys he kept in his bedroom, so I could see why he wouldn't want one of his straight friends to find them, but what about one of the leather tops he palled around with at the bar?
He gave me a wry look and said that, just because someone took an active role in BDSM sex didn't mean they were any more responsible in real life than anyone else, despite all their alpha male pretensions. He needed someone to keep an eye on the contractor and see that the job was done properly.
"I like playing with you Ben, but we're also friends out of the bedroom, and I know you're a lot more responsible than those so-called tops I hang around with at the bar. And let's face it, the bottom's always in charge, in spite of what we tops like to pretend."
So, that's how, less than a month later, our mutual friend Jimmy and I ended up on a Friday afternoon in July 1978, driving down a gravel road to Bill's cabin, situated on a quiet beach, on the Ontario shoreline of Lake Huron, four hours west of Toronto. After stopping at the local supermarket and the local liquor store on our way through town, we looked forward to a quiet weekend of sun and sand before I dropped Jim back at the bus station on Sunday afternoon for the express Greyhound to Toronto.
We'd put in half a day's work before leaving T.O. at midday and driven five hours to get to our destination; so, after barbequing under the stars, we were both tired and eager for bed. Since we'd roomed together on holiday before we saw no reason to mess up two rooms and climbed into Bill's queen size bed together, falling asleep the moment our heads hit the pillow.
The weather on Saturday was perfect, with temperatures in the high seventies Fahrenheit and not a cloud in the sky. Giving thanks to Bill and to our lucky stars, we proceeded to take full advantage. Getting up late for a leisurely breakfast, we slathered on the sunscreen and went down to the beach until lunchtime, downed a couple of beers over lunch and carrying a cooler with more, returned to the beach to continue working on our tans.
Anyone looking at us that afternoon as we lay in the sun might be forgiven for mistaking us for brothers, we looked so alike. Both in our late twenties with slim bodies, we were about the same height and weight, with me being bigger across the shoulders and two inches taller. We even had the same clone-style haircuts and mustaches, though Jimmy was a blond and my hair was dark brown.
You'd need only a minimal amount of gaydar to recognize us for what we were; a pair of giggly twinks in skimpy bathing suits trying to get a perfect tan line! To get that sexy result while not burning up, we turned over regularly, rubbing tanning lotion on each other's body each time. Of course, spending time in the hot sun while replacing moisture lost to sweat with beer, meant we got more and more and more smashed as the afternoon went on. We'd decided years before not to mix up our best-friendship with sex, but I couldn't help feeling more than just friendly each time I rubbed my hands up and down his upper body and especially when massaging his big runner's leg muscles. He also seemed to take far longer than necessary to get the lotion over every inch of my body.
By the time we staggered back up to the cottage, neither of us felt capable of handling the barbeque safely, so I made peanut butter sandwiches while Jimmy played bartender, producing two of the largest and most delicious Martinis I thought I'd ever tasted, though I clearly wasn't thinking too straight by that point!
Still in our swim trunks, we sat out on the porch to watch the sun slowly sink into the lake. Sipping Jim's giant Martinis, we reminisced about how we'd met four years before at another cottage, further north on the coast of this same lake. While spending an exciting night bottoming for two masterful guys, we'd got to know and like each other, and had instantly become best friends, remaining so to this day.
That had been a wild night, with Jim and I sucking, rimming, and getting fucked while in bondage, then being hogtied together in a 69 and ordered to suck each other off. Just talking about it got me hot and bothered; and realising I was popping an obvious hard-on, I got to my feet, claiming that sand in my swim trunks was making me itch and that I was going in to put on a pair of shorts. He said he'd been thinking the same thing and followed me into the bedroom.
Over the years that we'd been friends we'd seen each other naked scores of times; putting on our leathers ready for bar night, sharing rooms on trips, running into each other at bath houses, or checking the other was OK during house parties. In all that time, after that first weekend of sex, we'd kept our friendship clear of sexual tension and if we hadn't been as drunk as skunks and aroused by memories of that night of sex and bondage, that's how things would never have stayed.
Once in the bedroom, we pulled off our swim trunks and walked, naked, over to our suitcases which lay open on the floor next to each other. I was standing right next to Jimmy as he knelt down to pick out a new pair of shorts and was so close that when he stood back up, my fully erect cock grazed his face in passing. He looked a little shocked at first, but when he realised that I could see that his dick was just as hard as mine, he grinned conspiratorially, then leant forward to kiss me on the lips and ask,
"Really? Are we really going to do this?"
