I had sat there at Joey's beachside bar for more than an hour, watching the young man playing in the surf. When I'd first arrived at the bar, both bored and out of sorts, I'd seen him on his surfboard, riding the waves and doing quite well at it. At length, however, I saw him tire of that and come up on the beach and bury the tip of the board into the wet sand, with a strong force that, in itself, would have arrested my attention.
He was probably not over twenty and had a natural sensuality that made me catch my breath. He was tall, but not overly so, and on the lithe side, but even there, it was not at the expense of natural body tone, hard muscle, and a perfect balance of symmetry and beauty. His hair was dark, as were his eyes when he came close enough for me to see them. The hair was long and silky, and I was to learn it came down to below his shoulders, although when I first saw him it was tied back in a ponytail. The sun had tanned him deeply—he might even have been of Hispanic ancestry. His legs were strongly muscled without being heavy, and much of his body was covered—but again not overly much—in tightly curled black hair. His chin had that five-o'clock shadowing that so many young men prefer these days, and the body hair was more prominent on his forearms and legs and undergirded his pectorals, with a line running down his sternum and pronounced six pack and into the waistband of his low-rise, almost thong, navy-blue swimsuit. His nipples were pronounced, the aureoles large, and peeked out of his curly chest hair enticingly. A silver ring in one nipple only heightened the sensuality and mystery of him.
It was easy for me to be smitten. I had sent Scott packing earlier that day. It wasn't just that he had become grasping and was taking for granted that I would give him anything he wanted just to be in my bed when I wanted him there. I had become bored with him. His only conversation was about some electronic toy or clothing item he wanted. And he'd become untrustworthy, hanging out with other men his age, whispering to them knowingly—I'm sure talking to them about me and what I did for him—what he did to me. And his eyes had been roving, like he was looking for his next sugar daddy rather than concentrating on the one he had.
He hadn't been pleased when I'd had Thomas pack his bags and put them by the front door in the foyer and laid just enough cash out on the top of a suitcase for him to fly back to New York. But I had no commitment to him. I was bored.
Unfortunately, I also was horny and I hadn't thought ahead too well. I wanted what Scott gave me. I just didn't want it to be Scott who gave it to me. Always before when I'd come down here to the beach, I'd had someone in tow. I hadn't had to go to bars alone or hadn't had to try to cruise. I was a little too old for cruising, I had to admit. And I hadn't had to do it for years. I always brought my young men down from New York—where they sought me out. Where they wanted to be close to me, to be seen with Peter Cordell, to appear perhaps in photos in the society pages, where they would be lurking behind me and whatever beautiful super model I had on my arm for public appearance sake.
When Scott was gone, I walked the streets of the resort town, thinking that I would enjoy doing so when I was free and when no young man was cajoling me to look in this shop or that and to buy him this or that. But I quickly found that I didn't want to be alone. I just didn't want to be constantly wheedled to give, give, give.
I'd found myself at the patio bar off the back of Joey's—really just a vine-covered trellis over a deck out on the sand behind a rather seedy beach bar—and watching the activity on the beach. There wasn't much of it.
But my eyes would have picked out the dark, young man even if the beach had been crowded. He moved like a dancer. Fluid motion. As he moved, I could see his burnt-gold skin stretching over hard muscle. This was accentuated when he stretched out as he drove the front edge of the surfboard into the sand. In what was almost a connected, extended motion, he'd stripped off the tight black Lycra leggings he'd been wearing to surf—and I almost became breathless at seeing him just in a skimpy swimming suit. What were surely heavy balls and a thick cock were pulling the front of the thong-type suit down to where I could see a good inch of curly black pubic hair. I found that the beer glass I was holding was trembling. I wanted to palm his belly and move my hand down under that waistband.
After he had planted the surfboard in the sand, he walked slowly up the beach toward where I sat. His eyes were cast off to the side of me, though, and his feet were carrying him on a veering path off toward my left. For the first time I looked along the beach at the verge between sand and vegetation and saw that there was a line of red- and white-striped cabanas, the door flaps of some closed and of others lifted on stakes to make a sort of entrance porch.
The young man was moving toward the first of these, his smiling eyes latched onto an older man sitting on a beach chair in the shade of the open and raised flap of the first cabana to my left. The man looked like he was in his late fifties. A banker perhaps. He too was deeply tanned. His hair was gray, including a thick patch on his chest. I wouldn't say he was heavy, but he had the look of a man who once had been well-toned but was beginning to be defeated by time. Distinguished looking, though, at least from the side angle I got. And his eyes were plastered on the movement of the young man as he approached.
And whose wouldn't be? I know mine were.
The two only had eyes for each other, though, and as the young man drew closer, I saw that he had a gorgeous, almost mischievous smile that melted hearts and launched propositions.
The young man stood there in front the older man for a brief moment, as they conversed. The older man had been reading a hardback book, which he turned over in his lap without closing it.
I watched, almost in shock, as the older man put a hand on one of the younger man's thighs and the younger man leaned forward and took the older man's lips with his, while one of his hands slipped underneath the book on the older man's lap. The older man responded, the two of them still lost in the kiss, by raising his hand from the other man's thigh and cupping his basket through the barely covering material.
They came out of the kiss and the older man rose and turned and walked into the cabana. The younger man looked around—I looked away just in time for him not to think that I had been watching—and then entered the cabana as well, pulling the flap closed.
I sat there, trembling, for several minutes, not realizing that I was holding my breath until I almost passed out from the lack of oxygen.
I couldn't help myself. I was drawn to the cabana like a moth to the light. Standing and looking around to see if anyone was watching me, I sauntered—or tried to make it appear like I was aimlessly sauntering—off the deck and onto the sand. I'd already paid for my drinks. I walked off to my left, down the beach and parallel to the water's edge until I'd passed four cabanas. When I reached the fourth one, I walked around to the rear of that cabana and started working my way back toward Joey's, all the time looking around as casually as I could muster to see if anyone was watching me. There was almost no one there. It was late in the season and a weekday. The resort coast was nearly deserted.
I had already seen that the cabanas were constructed like panel flaps, so that the material didn't bend around the corners and the panels of the tents would lay flat when the cabanas were taken down. The material was slit there and the corners were held together by a series of ties from ground to roof. Standing at one of the back corners of the cabana, I could easily part the panels between ties enough to spy what was going on inside.
I almost gasped as I saw the older man, chest down on a beach lounger, and up on his knees, his buttocks in the air, with the younger man, crouched athletically over his hips, hands clutching the older man's waist, and slow fucking the older man, using the leverage of his feet on the lounger next to the older man's thighs for control in the rhythm of the fuck. The young man's black, silky hair had been let loose and it did, indeed, cascade to below his shoulders. It shimmered in the rhythm of the fuck. The sounds and murmurings both made indicated that they were taken with each other and thoroughly comfortable in the fuck. They weren't hurrying; there was nothing furtive in their coupling. This wasn't a chance encounter, I knew.
They were displayed at an angle from me, their butts toward where I was positioned. The older man's buttocks were milky white, but there were almost indistinct tan marks on the younger man's undulating buttocks. I watched, mesmerized, at the beautiful butt cheeks of the younger man clinching and expanding as he fucked the older man. And I gasped again when I saw the younger man's cock withdraw a good half foot from the ass of the older man without losing purchase and then sliding in again. And again, and again, and again.
My hand went to my zipper. In time, the younger man moved the older one to his back and crouched between his thighs, lifting his legs up and out, and continued fucking him in long, steady strokes. The younger man lowered his face to the older one's periodically and they kissed like longtime lovers.
The older man was moaning and clearly was in seventh heaven. Who wouldn't be?
