I probably shouldn't have brought my easel and paints down to the picturesque harbor of the fishing village to set up shop. I earned a bit extra painting portraits of the tourists in the Kyrenia harbor, in northern Cyprus, attracting them with my ready smile and the shocking-pink T-shirt I used to draw their attention. I have to admit I was built and looked good in a T-shirt. The pink just drew the eyes there. It was going to be an intermittently rainy day, not conducive either for tourist harbor visits or painting in the open air. I didn't need much extra money for my year of bumming around, staying a week here and two months there, but painting for small fees gave me an activity avenue while I was soaking up local culture and a means to meet interesting people--primarily men seeking young, submissive men--men whose eyes would be drawn to a good-looking, built young guy in a pink T-shirt.
When the raindrops started to fall, I gathered up my painting things and headed for a sex shop on one of the narrow cobblestoned streets leading up the steep slope into the lower village. I had been commissioned to paint murals on the walls of the peep cubicles beyond the beaded-curtained doorway into the back of the shop, and this was a good time to paint inside. "Sexy but tasteful. Not fully into the act but obviously headed there. Maybe something ancient Greek," Jabar, the fortyish gaunt-thin Turkish sex shop owner had said, and I had been letting that be my guide. Since it was a peep booth, I made my motif voyeur.
I nodded to the older man behind the counter as, carrying my supplies, I went to the back of the shop, pushed the beaded curtain aside, and entered the cubicle I had last been working on, which wasn't occupied. There were a few men--maybe four--browsing in the shop as I passed through. They were of varying ages and looks and seemed to be browsing each other as much as what was on the shelves. It was a day for indoor activity.
I was painting on a back wall around a video screen running a gay porn flick, which I didn't pay much attention to, when my eyes caught motion at the side wall. The cubicle walls had gloryholes, and a thick, brownish cock had pushed through the hole and was wagging at me. I ignored it briefly. I was there to paint, not to service gloryhole cocks. That had never been my fetish.
But the cock intrigued me--not just because of its thickness and brownish tint and that I could see a bluish vein standing out prominently snaking up the side of it, but also because it was cut, the prominent mushroom cap had a purplish tint to it, and there was a silver bead pierced into its bulb. As an artist, I noticed colors, and the contrasts here were attracting and enticing. A silver bead in its bulb--now that was attention getting.
As an active submissive, I was not above caressing and servicing an enticing cock, although I'd ever done one sticking out at me through a wall, and I turned my attention from my painting to the phallus being offered to--no, pushed at--me. I went down on my knees, caressing the cock with my hands, engorging it more. I pressed it to one cheek and then the other. Then, turning full frontal to it, I took it into my mouth, running my lips down the side of it, clicking the silver bead against my teeth and feeling, with interest, the hard metal of it rubbing on my tongue. I gave the cock head until, with a groan, I felt the man hidden on the other side of the cubicle wall tense and jerk. I pulled off the cock in time for it to cream me on my cheeks and chin. I turned my head, reaching for a paint cloth to wipe my face off. When I turned back, the shaft was gone.
It took me a few minutes to put my paints back in order. I didn't feel like any more mural painting for the day and moved out of the cubicle to the shop front. Three men were milling around in the shop, still browsing each other more than the shelves. When I appeared, they browsed me as well. I'd never had trouble attracting men to me who sought men--men who wanted to top my youth and submissive nature.
All three of the men were dark, of Mediterranean complexion, as that's where this seaside harbor village was. One was older, maybe fifty, and large of frame, with a pronounced beer belly. He wasn't either handsome or ugly, but he was dressed as a successful businessman, so would, I surmised, be good for a memorable, expensive gourmet dinner. The next-younger in appearance was a Foxy-looking man, good-looking in a slightly thuggish way, perhaps in his late thirties. He might be a manual worker or an artist, swarthy in appearance, hirsute, with a perpetual couple days' growth of beard and piercing black eyes, which seemed to take in everything around him, continually assessing and reassessing means of personal advantage. He was of similar build to me, but perhaps more muscular and cut. The third male was younger than my twenty-three and looking skittish, still in his early phase of being brave enough to come into a sex shop and on the cusp of admitting to himself that he wasn't hetero after all.
Was it him? I wondered, looking at the older man, my mind already going over the list of restaurants I might want to go to that evening. Or was it him, the furtive foxy one? Or was it the "just discovering" boy? None of them seemed the obvious possessor of the cock I had just sucked off, so it could be any of them, the contrast between how they looked in the storefront and what they hid now between their thighs giving me sexy thoughts that had not been fully satisfied by the blow job.
I was standing in front of a shelf of dildos, and my eyes went to a brown one reminiscent of the one I'd just sucked. I took it from the shelf and imagined it with a purple cap and a silver bead. The tag identified it as a rubber Shane Diesel, whoever that was, ten inches long, heavily veined, and two inches thick. I looked around to see that all three other customers in the shop were looking at me.
Was it him? Or him, or the younger one?
