Chapter 01
Paul starts work in Miami and begins a new life
This story is entirely original and fictional. South African Safari was published on Literotica several months ago. The gym/club mentioned in the story is the same as the one described in Jake and His Wild Irish Rose—my first published story on Literotica, but the reference is casual. There were requests for more chapters after South Africa. SIX chapters have been written, edited and will be submitted to Literotica in the next two weeks. All Characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. No AI was used in the production of this story. © 2024, All rights reserved. Brunosden
(The narrative is by Paul Goodfield, a neurotic stud, a former serial womanizer and total sub, with everything going for him except self-confidence. He remains cautious and confused about his sexuality:).
It's been a little over a year since I graduated and moved to Miami to take a job in the family's business—financial advisory services. They had given me a terrific vacation at a luxury game park in the Kruger after graduating from B-school and before starting. There I had met and had a great week enjoying the wild bush—with a young ranger, Ron Stillwell—who helped me to get over a breakup with my longtime partner (and abuser) Billy Morris. I hadn't heard from Billy since then; but Ron had texted me an occasional photo of an unusual wild animal adventure to keep in touch, perhaps to keep the flame alive. I've been pretty much working 24/7. I had established my value as an analyst, and as hoped, I had even drawn a few young clients—mostly up and coming techies that I had met at SoBe's swankiest gay gym/club, MiamiBods.
Ron had promised to try to get to the US during one of his vacations. He typically worked 24/7 for eight weeks, then got 3 weeks off. While he had good intentions, his mother and step-father were pressuring him to make a decision about his ranch near Durban in which they were still living. They wanted to move to a condo near the beach in town—but the old Dutch-style manor house needed regular attention and, even with hired help, someone with authority had to supervise the animals and the extensive property.
Ron had been working on a business plan—presumably giving up the idea of remaining in the Kruger camp ranger hierarchy or going back to graduate school. So every vacation was spent dealing with potential bankers, builders (his step-father was a general contractor) and workers. He was doing everything possible to lay the foundation for his dream—creating a rare animal species breeding farm with a tourism angle on the extensive property. So Ron had not been able to visit and was winding down his time at the camp, pleading with me to visit. So far, I hadn't been able to work things out either.
My life was forming up in Miami. Mostly work and some socializing centered on a gym. Fortunately, the action begins late at Bods since I was working well into most evenings. I had convinced myself that I needed physical exercise and that I was expected to begin developing clients. Focusing solely on analytical work was not going to achieve either of these goals. Bods was definitely upscale—the gym was state of the art and its clientele was attractive and had client development potential. Why cruise in a gym where the pickings were mostly impoverished students? Or why try business development where the clientele were nerdy, out-of-shape Dads who were mostly into golf?
So Bods it was for me. Three or more nights per week, after a tough workout, I cruised, often after the regular sexy wrestling matches that were staged to "stimulate" business. Occasionally, I scored. And a few times my FB had turned out to need investment advisory services. I had found three new clients in only a few months (but I had scored many more partners). I was slowly moving into the Miami gay scene, fully-recovered from my long unfortunate relationship. I was being careful to keep it light and to enjoy the sex. So it was mostly one-night hooks where I topped or bottomed as the circumstances seemed to warrant—and by my choice. No commitments.
I realized something was missing. Ron had "spoiled" me. In just a week he had shown me how good it can be where there is an emotional connection between two compassionate guys. But, I was still a little wary of becoming attached and dependent.
Last winter, I had moved to my own small condo—life at my parents' condo (I'm the only male child of a doting Jewish family) and aging grandparents (who lived in the same building) was not easy—even if they knew and almost accepted that I was gay. There was no way that I could bring someone home. Most of SoBe was goy—or trying to be. And the folks were very old-fashioned. Being gay was a challenge, but being gay with a goy was not going to work. My condo was in a modern high-rise with an urban (not beach) view on 12 Street (not 12
th
I was repeatedly told), just off Collins, close to the office which was north a few blocks in Miami Beach and only a few blocks to the south to MiamiBods—close enough to walk to either. The condo was furnished Miami-modern—white, minimalist, masculine. But it did have a king bed and a giant flat screen facing it. The neighborhood was filled with coffee shops, bars, fast food, and upscale clothing boutiques. And it had a young metro-sexual vibe.
In case you've forgotten me: I'm Paul Goodfield, a recent MBA graduate, 24, Jewish (non-observant), with dark eyes, black hair, a "Med" complexion, a good-sized cut dick (8 inches, with a big head, but not too thick), and a gym-rat, lightly-muscled, slim body. I'm technically vers, but mostly a bottom. I'm a pretty good conversationalist, a great financial analyst, reasonably extroverted, gay and out. When I want to look intellectual or older, I leave out the contacts and wear black-rimmed glasses. They definitely give me the professorial look.
Tonight will definitely be a Bods night. I finished up at the office around 9:30 and headed over to the club. I changed into the "required" tight designer gym shorts and tee, punished myself for about an hour—it was upper body day—or rather night, showered and threw on a tight tee and shorts (the "Miami uniform") to catch a drink and some bar food upstairs on the roof. I knew I looked good—still wet shaggy hair with a touch of a curl, pumped, bedroom eyes—and tight shorts that advertised my butt and package quite nicely. Tonight, I'm definitely going to get lucky. I just feel it. I had missed the wrestling demos that Bods sponsors a few times a week, but the crowd had stayed on and moved to the roof to enjoy the cooling, moist Miami night. It was crowded, and the peacocks were preening. Most were aroused from the demos (where several bouts had likely resulted in rough public sex) and were definitely cruising.
I ordered a very dry (forget the vermouth) martini, Bombay Sapphire, on the rocks with lime and a plate of spicy Buffalo wings with lots of celery. Most of the offerings were garlicky—and I didn't want to take that chance. The drink was served. I picked it up and I swiveled to inspect the scene, resting my back on the bar rail, crossing and stretching my legs to pop my crotch. The invitation and the bait were set.
It didn't take long. I watched a big beautiful dirty blonde surfer dude bro-hug an even bigger ginger across the terrace—and the ginger left immediately for the elevator. I was guessing that the hook hadn't worked. He looked over at me, smiled and shrugged—and I stared and smiled back. It took less than a minute before he was standing next to me at the bar. He was tall—probably 4 inches taller than my 6-even, blonde with straight, medium long hair, blue eyed, tanned, with wide shoulders, a thick ropey neck, pecs that threatened to explode his tee and a narrow waist and hips—accented by a bright red leather belt threaded through the loops of his designer "threadbare" white jeans, curiously with embroidered lobsters sprinkled on the denim—the latter definitely non-Miami! Where had he found those?
"Hi. I'm Breck."
"It's Paul. Nice to meet you. Like the jeans." I whispered sarcastically. "I guess you're visiting from Nantucket. Sorry I missed the matches—were you up there?"
"Yeah. Sorry about the jeans—this is cruise-wear on the Cape in the summer. I won the second match, but the ginger I beat was strictly a top. He had me by ten pounds and a few inches. I guess he thought I was a push-over. I pinned him quickly, and then he dropped the news. He was only a top. I wasn't going to make a scene. So I let him blow me and gave him a pass. The crowd wasn't pleased. So, I'm guessing that I won't be invited as a contender for the semi-final rounds. The managers count on more action in the ring—after the match, as you know. I probably shouldn't have let him off so easily."
"Too bad I missed it. That must have been a unique experience for this place. You look like you'd fill out a singlet pretty nicely. You've got the body for it. Did you wrestle in college? Do you live in Miami?"
