"Surely you can't spend all spring down there." Becky was wheedling me through the cellphone. "We worry about you, Jordan. I worry about you. Just going off on your own like this—withdrawing from life."
I remember the last time I withdrew from Becky. She was all purrs and "that was heavenly, you black stud." I'd put her into an exhausted sleep the first time and had had time to pad over to the other bedroom in Hilton Head's Sun City and do her son, Clifford, too. Who said I didn't still have it at fifty-eight? None of the women in Sun City certainly, or Alex, the pool boy, or Jose, the grounds keeper. I was an equal opportunity black bull. And Becky's son, Clifford, was something else again. Sex on a stick.
"Surely, I do intend on spending all spring down here in Crescent Beach, Becky," I said. "There's no beach in Sun City. I'm doing just fine down here, thanks." Her use of "we" had grated on me. Did the hens in Sun City compare notes on me?
Of course they did.
There was a knock on my condo door, and, without me answering it, the door opened and Garry came in, lifting two six-packs of beer to show me what he was about, and taking them to the refrigerator. I smiled and nodded to him, glad he'd left the front door open as evidence that there would be more six packs coming in than those two. I took my long-distance discussion out onto my balcony overlooking Florida's Crescent Beach across a tropical foliage-laced ravine and sand dune. There was no reason for Garry to know that I swung both ways.
My place here was snug. Just one bedroom, with a loft, but big enough. Garry, a restauranteur of a beach club, had a bigger place in the complex, but he wasn't facing the beach. So, the parties usually were held here. The loft was tricked out with wall-to-wall mattress padding. The wall photos I had up there instructed inventive positions. The ceiling was a mirror. The place was a needy young gay guy magnet. The beer helped. I kept the bedroom downstairs more neutral in case I brought a woman back to the condo.
Garry and I were sort of a Mutt and Jeff team. Where and how we met was that we were both unattached now, wealthy enough to do what we wanted, with similar preferences, and bold enough to do it. We met on the beach below his restaurant where we were both hustling the same young guy. In the end we shared him, and we decided that was a good hunting method. It also gave us an appreciation for each other as sex partners. I'm happy to say the young guy was exhausted but humming when he left.
Garry was on the effeminate side. I, a former Marine who'd owned a trucking company, most definitely was not. Garry was white, trim, movie-star handsome, in his forties. I was black, built, muscular, thuggish looking, and fifty-eight. I was hung; Garry wasn't, but he had a flexibility I didn't and that young guys liked. Garry made them feel safe after I'd scared them with size. Garry was decidedly a catcher for men—young guys mostly, although I laid him now and again. I pitched for both leagues—male and female. Garry, who was younger, was a "use and release" sort of guy, already feeling his age. I, the elder by far, was of the "use and stay hard and use again" variety who relished virility and was fighting hard to keep it. Garry refused to go to the gym, although he was naturally athletic and bicycled everywhere; I lived there, at the gym.
"I hate to think of you all alone. You need a woman taking care of you." Becky was still yapping on the cellphone.
I almost snorted at that. Becky wanted me to take care of her. I did that. It was my cock she wanted, and I took care of her with it.
As she rambled on the line, my mind went to her and all of the hunting women of a certain age in Sun City who pursued dick and had done so with me even before Carol had died within a year of us moving into Sun City at the first crack of eligibility, fifty-five. I was fifty-five then; Carol was barely forty at the time. While Carol was sick and after she'd died, I'd had to beat the women off with a stick—or not. And it wasn't just because I was an available man now. It was because of the stick I had. Women of all color in Sun City wanted to ride a monster black cock. The white women wanted it and thought about getting it from me because Carol had been white. The other white women saw her with me and how happy she was, always with her hands on me, and it gave them ideas about having black cock in them too.
It was a matter of pride that they could sheath it and could tell their friends both how lacking in prejudice they were and that it was true what people said about the size of black cock. The problem was that a lot of them wanted a wedding ring to go with it.
The interracial business didn't mean anything to them until they started thinking of the possibilities. Carol had been white—Scandinavian looking, moving and dressing like a model, younger than I was. She hadn't expected to be the first to go. She was a down-to-earth woman. She'd said she wanted to ride black cock for a while and then see the world. She told me from the beginning that it was just a change of pace for her, that it would only be a year or two. We were married for sixteen years when she died. The deal was that I could have some on the side—although I don't think she ever realized that some of the ones on the side were young men—as long as I kept her in clothes and gourmet food and plowed her regularly. Turns out she liked big, black cock better than so-so white. Neither one of us dreamed that the deal was that she'd go first.
"How's Cliff," I asked, wanting to gauge whether Becky had figured that out and thinking it would get her off the phone and out of my hair if she had. "Is he coming to you for the summer?" The question, of course, was when he would be coming for me again. He was really cute little trick, an art student at the Savannah College of Art and Design. Wanted to do sets on Broadway; wanted hunky actors to do him. When he'd seen me doing pushups on his mother, he wanted me to do him too. So, I did.
He was small and slim, and he had great sucking technique and creamy thighs that opened right up. A passage that opened right up too, he could seem fresh but was well used. He'd been a gymnast before going whole hog on the art. He could do cartwheels on my cock without losing the connection. A real honey. I didn't realize how much he'd gotten to me until I came down here to Florida and had to do without him.
Clueless Becky spent a third of the day trying to set him up in dates with girls.
"He's fine. He'll be up in New York on an internship for the summer."
And she'd just closed down on me coming back to Sun City anytime soon. "A guy's here to work on the plumbing, Becky. Gotta go. I'm doing fine down here. Don't you and your friends fret about me getting lonely down here."
That did it. That upset her enough, her knowing that my not being lonely down here meant I was getting sex and that there was no need for me to drive the two-hundred-and-thirty miles north to get it from her and her friends. She and I had had it on enough for her to know I had to have sex all the time. She was polite enough, though, not wanting to close out on possibilities, that the exit conversation was friendly.
"Thanks for the beer," I said to Garry, as I clicked off the phone and reentered the condo.
"It's for the weekend. I'll bring more and provide the meal from the restaurant this weekend. But it won't come free."
"Of course not," I said.
