The Year of Experimentation (which actually lasted a lot longer than just that one year) had all begun one lonely wind-swept and off-and-on rainy late Sunday afternoon. After what he had considered to be a moderately successful visit to his estranged family up in the city (his wife had taken the kids and left him-she was far too success-oriented for his ways, and some time ago she had yelled at him that she was sick of being tied to a 'nobody loser' and off they'd gone. Now he visited once a fortnight and over those months had felt the distance between himself and his offspring get wider and wider as they were drawn into her whirlpool of 'be somebody' 'stand out from the crowd' and so on. Now he knew they merely tolerated his visits and him out of a politeness which he sensed would not last much longer. But anyway, today's visit hadn't gone too badly): so after he had left them he had driven the hour long drive back to the seaside suburb which had once been home to them all, except that now apparently it was a 'place for losers to live and hide', a suburb he really liked because of its proximity to beautiful beaches and good fishing and nice old-fashioned pubs: he had driven back but not wanted to go home. It was early enough still to have put his car away and made the short walk to his favourite tavern, but he didn't feel like that at the moment. So he drove down to the fore-shore, parked in one of the deserted car-parks (only deserted because of the time of year and the weather-in summer they were permanently full), locked his car as per the instructions on the sign-"Look, lock, leave"-(look at what, he had always wondered), and climbed the stairs up to the walkway which separated the beach itself from the parks and barbecues and lawns and playgrounds of the foreshore area.
He leant on the rail and looked down at the beach and out to the ocean. The beach was deserted of course-the wind was strong and very cold-and the ocean was annoyed today, waves whipping into the beach, choppy and angry looking. The ocean looked lonely today, just as he felt lonely. How had it all turned out so lonely? But he shrugged his shoulders as he so often did nowadays. It had taken him months to acknowledge that life had not turned out as he had hoped, and that now, when it seemed to have all gone so wrong, there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe there was, but if so, he could not see what, despite hours, days, months, trying to figure it out.
He shivered in the wind, and lit a cigarette, turned and sat on one of the benches looking out over the sea. It would probably be best to just go home, leave the car, go to the tavern for a couple of hours, pick up some takeaway and go home. It was too cold here, and being the only person there as far as he was aware just added to his feeling of lonely helplessness. At least at the tavern there would be people and noise, even if most of them were much younger than he.
But that odd urge that had entered his thinking months ago, and now would not go away, told him to at least stay for a while. He had heard somewhere-no, be honest, he had looked it up on the internet-that this park was what was known as a cruise area, that at night, after all the family picnickers had gone home and it was dark, this was one of those areas where middle-aged men like himself wandered in the hope of meeting up with one another or with younger men, to do those things two men might do with each other.
And that now was what attracted him here, even though he had not yet found the courage to come here at night time actively looking. But he was interested. After more than half a lifetime of heterosexuality, he had for some months been very interested in what it would be like to stroke another man's cock, to watch the semen erupt from it, to taste it, to take that semen in his mouth, yes even to take the cock in his mouth, to savour the thick fluid in his mouth, and swallow it, and enjoy doing something that in all his upbringing and life-style and acquaintances and knowledge was forbidden and taboo. And the urge had just grown stronger and stronger over these months, and he wondered if he would ever have the courage to do something about it, beyond the aimless wandering around the internet looking and doing nothing.
Neville crushed the cigarette butt under his foot and sighed, as the people he worked with had noticed he did so often nowadays, and tried to find the will to leave. But despite the wind and the occasional little spits of rain, he felt happy there, as happy as he ever felt now anyway, and he lit another cigarette, and tried to put the curiosity out of his mind-I'll never have the nerve anyway, was his thought whenever the urge to do something different came into his mind, and this urge was certainly very different-and said to himself that it was too early for them anyway so he needn't worry about having to make a decision of any sort, and he would stay here another half hour, and when he turned his head to look at his watch his eyes wandered up the pathway that led, at the other end of the park, to a café and restaurant precinct, and he saw him, and a pain dug at his stomach.
The young man was about thirty metres away up the path, walking in his direction, and even from that distance Neville could see he was, yes, there was only one word-the young man was beautiful. Neville looked past him, not wanting to appear to be staring, then cast his eyes around in a circle, looking out to the ocean, then back to the young man; despite himself his eyes lingered on him for a few moments, then he turned and made a pretence of looking behind himself, then back out to the ocean, so his eyes could look again at the young man, close to him now, then he looked down at the ground, his mind going over all he had seen. An extraordinary face, roundish, that would have been called beautiful on a woman, on a young man just amazing; a slim, slender build, about medium height. The young man had very pale almost white blonde hair, cut stylishly, sitting just below his collar. He was wearing tight black jeans, very tight, a white polo shirt (that sort that just has the three buttons at the top) and a white fleecy lined jacket. Neville, as inexperienced as he was with this sort of thing, could see that the jeans were deliberately that tight to accentuate the bulge inside them, and he felt his own cock wanting to bulge in his trousers, the casual slacks he had worn for the family visit.
The young man stopped just a metre from the bench Neville was sitting on, looked around, smiled at him, then went over to the rail, leant on it, looking out to the ocean, and Neville looked at the young man's arse, small and slender inside the tightness of the black jeans, and it occurred to him that the boy-when you're over forty someone around twenty is a boy-wanted him looking at his arse, so Neville did, and asked himself did he dare speak to him.
This was what the urges had been about all these months, this ever-strengthening desire to experiment with male sex, and here he was, a young man, beautiful and slim, leaning over the rail, letting him look at his arse. Neville felt utterly flustered-here was an opportunity, and all he could think about now was leaving. But that beautiful figure kept him on the bench; his fingers trembled as he lit yet another cigarette. Say something, the urges yelled at him. But all he could think was-what if I'm wrong, what if he is just an effeminate looking young man, and if I say the wrong thing, that would be very rude, and probably hurt his feelings, and Neville hated ever doing that, and especially to someone so beautiful. He decided to finish this cigarette then leave; it was all a stupid fantasy anyway.
The young man turned and leant that pretty bum against the rail, and Neville could not for some moments take his eyes from the bulging front of his jeans.
"Hi," said a soft, gentle voice quietly.
"Hello," Neville answered, his mind in overdrive searching for something to say, anything to keep the boy standing there a little longer, lifting his eyes to his face. It was an oval face really, large green eyes and small nose and mouth. A woman's face, Neville thought. His cock twitched and the urges said 'this is what you have been wanting.' The young man smiled at him, a gentle, kind smile, showing small white teeth, then he pushed against the rail, walked across the path (it was only a metre and a bit wide) and sat on the bench next to him, just perhaps ten centimetres separating their hips and thighs. The boy smelt wonderful, Neville could smell his deodorant, and the hints of some sort of body cologne.
"You look sad and lonely," the young man said.
"Oh...I just like looking at the ocean..." how lame is that, Neville howled at himself, hating his shyness.
"It's nice looking at the ocean," the boy said, "so big and mysterious...so angry sometimes, so cruel," there was a soft, beautiful laugh, "so the ocean isn't all that nice really, but it's nice looking at it I guess." And the tone of his voice revealed that he didn't really think that at all, that he was merely being polite.
There was an awkward silence, and Neville wished he knew what to do or say next.
"Do you come here often...to look at the ocean, I mean," the young man asked.
"Not actually to here, no," Neville said. "I live not far from here though, and I often walk on the beach near my place."
"Oh," was the reply. "I hope I'm not intruding, you know, on you," and there was genuine politeness in the boy's voice.
