Friday, August 5, 2011


The beach was empty, save for the seagulls strutting up and down its length. Their proud chests puffed out as they screeched and cawed at each other as they argued over scraps of torn crab in the sands. The tide was low; the water lapped far out, leaving behind rippled and smooth sands. The air hung over me like a blanket, wet and cool. From inland the prevailing wind blew, warm and comforting. From the direction of Long Island, barely visible beneath the clouds across the Sound where the storms still flickered in the distance, the wind would sometimes shift, dropping the temperature by a few degrees. Every time, it raised goose pimples on my skin.

The woman at the gate had given me a surprised look when I'd pulled up and presented my resident's pass. Apparently she was used to bad weather keeping people home, this late in the day. But I'd been looking forward to going to the beach that evening and had been disappointed when thunderstorms had blown through the area during my dinner. They'd disappated to the south while I was washing up, though. The sand was already wet, I figured. And mostly I enjoy walking up and down in the surf, anyway. That could be done just as easily post-storm as in better weather, right?

I was the only one who seemed to think so. That's why, for a very long time, I had the beach entirely to myself. I squelched in the shallow waters and let the sand and the waters of the Sound gush between my toes. I enjoyed the sensual sensation of the wind and my gooseflesh, and of the giddy, almost naughty feeling of being entirely alone in a place that usually was overrun with people. For the better part of an hour, I walked and enjoyed the solitude.

A few people began to venture out before sunset. One older gentleman with a surfboard and a paddle floated out to the deeper end of the swimming area, stood on his board, and began to row himself around the island. An elderly woman came out onto the sands and began delicately to pick her way across, wrinkling her nose every time we passed at the seaweed and storm flotsam nudging against our ankles.
And there was a blonde boy, preppy and pretty, of nineteen or twenty, who hung around the concession area. He nodded at me the first time we passed, his frank blue eyes staring into mine without fear, or hesitation. I'd just met and fucked the Latin kid in the mall the day before; the sight of his eyes staring so candidly into mine made my dick twitch. I walked down to the rocky end of the public beach and waited for a moment, keeping him in the corner of my eye the entire time. I watched as, hands plunged deep into his oversized trunks, he ambled around the picnic area and kicked up sand with his bare feet. Occasionally it seemed as if he were looking in my direction.

Well, I thought to myself. Nothing ventured. . . .

On any ordinary day at the beach it would've been too crowded and hectic to cruise. There wasn't a soul around, though. The concession stand was closed. Only the boy and the old woman and the paddle-boarder, who was now a speck on the horizon, were around. So I walked back toward the boy and the restroom beyond the concessions, nodding at him and staring him in the eyes as I passed.

Those blue eyes met mine again. He was a pretty boy, with tousled, thick hair and fine, pale features. He stared at me soulfully, as if he wanted to say something, but didn't trust his lips.

I must have had my mojo back.

The men's room at the beach is a decidedly grungy affair. The urinals overflow with every flush, spreading water and waste alike toward a drain in the middle of the floor and leaving the cement enclosure stinky. There's usually so much traffic from the beach, though, slopping in salt water and sand that it's tough to tell where all the wetness is coming from. I walked past the single shower enclosure and over to the urinal, my heart pounding, my dick hardening in my shorts.

Like the day before, I wasn't at all surprised when the boy followed me in. I looked casually over my shoulder and caught his glance. His lips parted slightly.

I was about to swing around and show him my hard-on, when without warning, the door to the shower enclosure opened. I hadn't even realized anyone was in there. An older man stepped out—he had to be somewhere in his sixties, and his physique had taken on the general appearance of a pillar candle left forgotten to slump and bulge, on a hot day in the direct sun. His face was red from too much exposure to weather, and he wore an oversized pair of glasses. I'd turned back around at the first sound he'd made, but when I looked over my shoulder again, the old man was standing with his madras shorts around his knees, hovering over a pair of unfortunate black socks pulled up to his calves, and a pair of sandals. His dick, I had to admit, was pretty impressive. I would've guessed it to be a solid seven inches, and thicker than mine by half. The head was so big and bald (like its owner) that it almost looked as if the old man had been carrying a smaller version of himself in his pocket.

The boy vanished. Like a frightened deer, when the man had stepped out of the shower, he'd bolted out the door.

"I've been trying to get him for a half-hour now," creaked the old man, shaking his head. "Pretty boy, too. Think he'll be back?"

I shrugged. Part of me was annoyed that my sure thing had been ruined by the man's unexpected intrusion. Another part of me realized that in this game, just about anything is fair game, and it's unreasonable to get one's hopes too dashed.

"What you got there?" asked the old man. "You want it sucked?"

I like older men. I wasn't too attracted to this one, though. "Nah," I said, then politely lied, "I'm not really into the public thing."

"Okay," he said, still playing with his mini-me. "Thought I'd ask. Hey, you think that kid will come back in?"

I didn't think he would, no, not with that guy letching after him. I was wrong, though. I'd zipped up and was washing my hands with the boy made a return. He stepped into the men's room and peeked around the corner as if trying to figure out whether I'd hooked up with the older man or not. Our eyes locked once more, and his mouth opened. This time, I was sure he was going to say something.

"Hey kid, you want a blow job?" The old man had withdrawn into the shower stall when I'd started to wash my hand, though he'd left the door ajar. Like a perverted jack-in-the-box, though, he popped out at the sight of the boy. "Let me suck your boy dick off."

And once again, I saw the youth bolt out the door. He wasn't running at top speed toward the parking lot, but he certainly would have blown past all the casual strollers on a usual beach day.

"Damn," said the man. "All I wanted to give him was a blow job. Something spooked him. What do you think it was?"

I shrugged, privately rolled my eyes, and exited.

The kid drove past me in a battered old lime-green Wrangler as I went to rinse the sand from my feet under a spigot at the edge of the parking lot. He stared at me, slowing down a touch, and lifted his left hand from the wheel slightly, in a private wave. He then gunned the accelerator and vanished down the narrow access road and back to town. It was the last I saw of him.

Spooked. I'm pretty sure I know by whom.


  1. I think we can all relate to this story on many levels, as the boy and as you! I only hope that when I am older I will still have the ability to realize when something seems unlikely. thanks for the multiple perspectives this morning. It will have me thinking all day, and not just about sex!

  2. Tom,

    I think those of us who can relate are in little danger of becoming the old man in the shower. Fingers crossed, anyway.

  3. I'll be the guy in the shower never hooked up that day. We're all horny, we'd all lust after that perfect boy ... but the guy sounds like a clueless clod. Too bad the boy didn't have the opportunity to experience sex and passion with you, Rob. ... rjd

  4. RJD,

    Thanks my friend. I kind of think the shower guy was only hanging out in the hopes of attracting that one boy . . . it's not like that men's room is a hot cruising spot (at least that I've noticed).

  5. I've been that scared boy before. I think I may have told you about the old troll that almost raped me in the public bathroom I was cruising. After that anyone who came on too strong or even a little strange scared me off for about a month. I'm not saying that was the kid's fault, but I've been there.

    Too bad you didn't get a chance to show him a good time. You would have rocked his young world, my friend.


  6. Ace,

    I hesitated to use the word 'troll' in this entry, though it might be apt. I've run across many an old troll in my time as well. They come in a young variety too, though—basically anyone who isn't perceptive enough to realize when someone doesn't want them is engaging in trollish behavior.

  7. Sounds like he's a local guy so your paths will cross again one day and you'll have an ice breaker to get you both started on another path.

    "Remember that old guy in the men's room that day......"

  8. Reminds me of several times I've let opportunities pass because of fear of being exposed unexpectedly in a public place. It is funny because those studs remain vividly ingrained in my mind. I've also lost a few young bucks because of their fear. hal

  9. First of all, as always, you create some word pictures in this that are stunningly apt and wonderfully evocative. The image of the older man as a "perveted jack-in-the-box" who "pops" out of the shower is simply brilliant. Second, you do such a great job here of letting your readers identify with (and sympathize with) each of the three men - we understand the desires and/or hesitations-limits and/or hopes and/or needs of each - and so we can relate to and care for each. Once upon a time, maybe that man who is old and unattractive now was "the hot guy with the huge dick" who everybody wanted - and that's still his self-image - he hasn't absorbed the change yet. Or maybe it's just lifelong arrogance. Meanwhile, it's a pity the kid was spooked so easily - was there nowhere else nearby where the two of you could have gone for a while? Anyway, combined with yesterday's story, I'm definitely having a major reaction to the stories of you exploring the area toilets - which remain my favorite adventure site. Hope your mojo continues to sizzle and that you continue to tour the available tearooms!

  10. Wow. All I have to say is, once the drought broke, it really broke, didn't it? Are you sure you didn't ship your sex mojo via a budget moving service that got lost for a few weeks? Glad to see you're back in the game, my friend! :-)

  11. Man you were not lucky that day, everything was going great but someone had to be there and ruin it all. You could have had another great afternoon and everthing went to dust. I think the old man wasn't attractive cause i never tought you could never say no to a blow job but glad that you did he he was your type. Some day, i feel like that old man cause there ain't a lot of things happening to me so far. Wish sometimes that i live in the wrong city but i'm close to my best friend and his man so. But you never know what can happen one day so, i'm still aware of that. Thank you again for that great post my sexy friend and hope that you have some great time again soon.


  12. That was a perfect tableau about the various stages of life. Maybe that old man was once the young kid. I loved the way you described the setting, the deserted beach, the toilet. The boy seemed to be from an Abercrombie Fitch ad. Lovely.

  13. I've been all three of the types you've written about, but as I'm now forever stuck in the 'older' guy role, let me assure you that I do indeed know my place in the hierarchy. Though I'm still in very nice shape and I would never consider myself a troll (and would never act as such), I realize that the absence of hair or the presence of some wrinkles is a turn-off to some as much as it is a turn-on to others. For myself, it's less about looks and more about attitude.

    If I was in the same position as your Troll-in-the-box, I would have bowed out gracefully - though I have to admit, if there were a peephole handy I might have watched.

    As I've said to many a persistent man I wasn't interested in, "Yes- everyone can be attractive. But NOT TO everyone."

  14. Hal,

    The young bucks, they scare easily!

  15. Jonking,

    Thanks, as always, for the compliments. I did have a Three Ages of Man opportunity I kind of didn't take advantage of, in this situation. And yes, in another forty years, that kid is going to be the old man to some unborn generation. I kind of regret not going there, but thanks for pointing it out.

  16. John,

    I might've had a little bit of luck there, last week. :-)

  17. Yves,

    Oh, I say no to blow jobs. I usually don't write about those instances, though!

  18. Countesszero,

    Everyone else totally saw the whole Three Stages of Man thing that I didn't, in my story. Ah well. Another day, another missed opportunity, right?

  19. KingRoper,

    It's a pity that to many a certain age, or a certain connotation of it--the balding, the wrinkles--automatically puts one into the 'troll' category. Since I find a lot of men older than myself quite attractive, I was really hesitant to describe this particular guy as a troll because I didn't want people to think I was calling him that (or that I found him unattractive) because of his age. It would've been entirely because of his behavior, which was kind of insensitive of the situation at any age.

    I would totally have let him watch. :-)

  20. Rob, I always love reading your blog. It always gets me aroused. I should start blogging my inspire me!