I feel like a fool. Many would say I should have seen it coming. But I didn't, and it wasn't something that crept up on me and that I might have adjusted to—although I have no idea what comes after being a stud top. Do you? Still, when it came, it fell on me like a load of bricks, because I didn't see it coming. It's a heartbreak.
The hiatus may have had a lot to do with it. I'd held down the end-of-bar available stud fucker position at a popular gay beachside bar near a major university in Miami throughout my thirties. A former Marine, however, I jumped at the opportunity to go to Iraq with a private security firm to work as a protection unit scheduler. I worked at that for six years before returning to Miami.
It wasn't only because the money was phenomenal but also because I wanted to do something for the effort and I was years past being able to go in on the ground as a grunt. That probably should have clued me in on what was happening. But it didn't.
And maybe it didn't because there was no change in position on the sexual chain throughout my Iraq duty. There's a whole lot of tension and need there to be served in a warfront situation. And although the need hasn't lessened in the Iraq action world, it's gotten increasingly difficult for the soldiers to relieve each other in their own environment. My situation was ideal. I had a storefront office in the Green Zone and my living quarters were right behind the office, complete with vibrating queen-sized bed.
The young soldiers would stop in when they could to shoot the bull and drop the hints about how keyed up they were and what they wanted to do to relieve that, and I'd usher them through the door into my bedroom. They would strip and open their legs to me, and I'd fuck all of the tension out of them. And they kept coming back. No one complained that I was getting too old to make them moan and groan and to fuck the stuffing out of them.
I knew my body was changing. I still had the bulging biceps and pecs, but I knew the midsection was thickening. Not to any significant degree, though. My stomach was still flat in spite of the military grub and beer—thanks to spending a good fifth of my life in the weight room—where my dicking was quite popular in the shower room. I may not be an Apollo—in fact, I never was—but I was a perfect Zeus now. And there is no end of young men, I don't think, who melt at being manhandled by a beefcake Zeus. And my sideburns may have gone gray in my years in Iraq—but, then, whose haven't? Iraq does that to a man—or at least to a man who manages to keep his hair.
And significantly, a man's dick—as long as nothing happens to keep him from getting it up—doesn't change in size and his balls are as heavy as ever. And most important, a man gains in knowing just what to do with that dick as he gets older. I won't mention that a man looses endurance and recharge powers over time. And I won't mention it because I still haven't fucked a man who I couldn't power drill to exhaustion.
So, it was without a single twinge of fear or self-doubt that, within days of returning to Miami from Iraq, I stood in front of my full-length mirror and studied my body in a Speedo—not one of the Speedos I'd worn when I worked this bar before, because I'd lost my narrow waist—but one that showed off my beefcake muscling up from the Baghdad Green Zone weight training to good effect. I'd been very careful to tan up all over on the flat roof of an American State Department official's residence, while enjoying myself in working his asshole while his wife sat and watched us—and then doing her. I am happy to say I'm an equal opportunity fucker.
Satisfied—falsely it seems—with what I saw, I tucked my car keys, a credit card, and a couple of condoms under my waistband and drove my Sebring convertible down to the beach.
As in days before, I went straight into the surf to slick myself down and swam over to the beach right off the bar. Looking into the bar from out beyond the surf line, I saw that it was as crowded as it had been six years earlier and that most were young, snotty chicken types from the nearby university. I enjoyed fucking twinks. I liked to hear them squeak when they realized they were getting a bigger and more vigorous dick then they dreamed of and when I was only beginning when they thought they were already at their limit. And I had learned a trick or two with the toughened soldiers in Iraq that probably would make these little tight asses faint.
Even more, I liked fucking the snot out of the snotty ones. I liked leaving them sobbing and unable to close their legs. And they liked it too, because they had always come back for more—just as soon as they recovered from the first dicking. I was giving them more of an education than their university did, I think.
Then, like before, I slowly walked out of the surf, posing all of the time, and padded into the open-walled bar, drawing the attention of all, as I knew I would. I got the same little thrill I always had as I heard the raucous conversation die out under the thatched roof as I approached. I entered under the roof and walked down to the end of the bar—to find my spot occupied by a late twentysomething dangerous-looking Hispanic hunk.
I stared at him, but he didn't move—at least not until I'd given up and taken another stool, where I perched, facing the table area and spreading my legs and letting the edge of the stool seat push up my package.
I could have moved into my old place within a couple of minutes, but by then I was in shock. While I watched, one of the university twinks, a dirty blond, thin guy, with an almost too-pretty face, had come up to the hunk and backed his butt into the hunk's package, and the two had done a dry-fuck lap dance to the rhythm of the rock music coming out of the speakers up in the rafters.
