It’s the one day of my week that’s as advertised: morning sun blazing in a sky of deep blue, cabana roofs rippling in a gentle breeze, waves lapping gently at the concrete edges of the pool. Attendants have set out row upon row of deck chairs that only now are gradually filling. A rolling cart near the central walkway holds hundreds of beach towels folded neatly into rectangles. The temperature is warm, bordering on hot. The breeze is cool. I’m wearing shorts and smell of sunscreen. There’s a magazine of crossword puzzles in the bag at my side. A novel on my lap. I’m here to stay for a while.
There’s a parade before me, to distract me from the pages of my book. Some of the bodies are bronzed and built; the men strut confidently in their trunks as they pad with wet feet across the boards to their chairs, where they spread out the beach towels to lie upon. Some of the men have flown down from frigid places, as I have. Their bodies are paler, their shoulders caught in a perpetual hunch to ward off the cold. They’ve all come out to enjoy the warmth, though, to sit and ogle each other, to chat, to read. To relax, and forget their lives for a little while.
I don’t even know how long I sit there in those morning hours, digesting my breakfast and letting the warmth gradually work the seemingly permanent chill from my muscles. This, I think to myself, is all a vacation should be about.
After a long while, I have to pee.
The restroom’s indoors, past the nook where the attendants stand gossiping as they collect used towels for the laundry. Inside, the air conditioning blasts the light layer of sweat from my skin. I walk down a narrow hallway and push down on the latch that opens the restroom door.
The men’s room is small, but well appointed. Urinals stretch to the left when I step in; three toilet stalls are immediately behind them. Each has marble partitions, and wooden shuttered doors that reach down to the shiny, reflective stone floor. There’s an orchid sitting in the center of the sinks, across from the stalls. Wooden spikes curlicue out of the peat and up beyond the mirrors. Someone could seriously put out an eye on one of those things.
At the urinal I yank down the waistband of my shorts. They’re made of a sweatpant fabric, and stretch easily. I’m just finishing my business when another man comes in. He’s built like a bulldog—stout, muscular. His eyes are wide and blue, his hair a buzz of auburn on a suntanned head. He’s shirtless. His pecs are bulging. He steps up to the urinal closest to the door, angles his hips at the porcelain, and stares straight ahead.
Or not quite straight ahead. When I let my waistband snap back up and turn to pass him as I walk to the sinks, I can see his eyes tracking me. I’d only taken a quick glance at him before, but when I’m at the sink I study him a little more in the mirror’s reflection. He’s a hot little fucker, this one. Five foot five, five foot six, maybe. Round, built ass. Metal rings glint from his fat little nipples. He’s got his hands positioned around his dick like he’s aiming . . . but there’s no noise. He’s not pissing.
I’m deciding what to do when the door opens again. Some other guys intrudes into the silence, talking on his cell phone as he heads to the urinal I’d recently vacated. I prolong the washing of my hands, soaping them up thoroughly, rinsing them again and again as I observe the pair in the mirror. Phone call guy is oblivious. He’s just peeing and talking away, getting his business done and completely bypassing washing his hands.
The shirtless guy, though, continues to stare straight ahead. When the guy entered making his call, his stance closed in slightly, became more alert. As the stranger exits, though, he relaxes. Pulls away from the urinal a little bit. Glances over his left shoulder, in my direction.
Time to act. I ball up the paper towel with which I’ve been wasting time, walk back to the urinals, and stand next to him. I tuck the elastic of my waistband beneath my nuts. Start pulling on my meat. When I turn my head in his direction, his own head turns. Our eyes meet. We nod.
He steps back from the urinal, just slightly. I follow suit, dick in my hand. Now he faces me directly, pointing his cock in my direction. It’s not long—maybe five inches—but it’s fat, that dick. When I reach out to grip it, feverishly hot in the palm of my soap-scented hand, it’s like gripping a baseball bat. He grunts when I squeeze. Nods. I want that dick as much as he wants me to have it.
I jerk my neck in the direction of the first stall. My erection still flopping as I walk, I stride inside it. When he follows, I push the door shut behind him. No one’s going to see us in there. The partitions connect to the floor. There’s no crack beneath the door to peek under. I let my sweat shorts drop to the marble floor, discard them, and sit on the toilet. He in turn steps out of his swim trunks. He’s naked in front of me save for his sandals.
We’re thinking in sync. When my mouth opens, he thrusts forward and fills it with dick. The dude tastes good. He’s been in the pool, I’m guessing by the faintly chlorinated taste of his skin. But that chemical taste is rapidly replaced by the all-organic tang of his precum as it begins to ooze in thick globs onto my tongue. In and out he thrusts, using my lips and mouth as his personal pussy. He grabs my hands and pulls them up to his chest, where he coaxes my fingers to pinch his tits. Beneath the soft flesh I hit the metal of his piercings. He grunts again, then growls as he pistons his meat more fiercely into my mouth.
Someone opens the restroom door. We hear it close. The noise doesn’t stop us, nor the reality of the intruder just on the other side of our partition. Whoever it is can’t see us. They can’t stop us. My eyes water as the man seems determined to puncture my gullet with his stiff rod. While my left hand continues to torture his nipple, my right cups his balls. Moves between his legs. Starts to finger the crack behind it.
The move drives him wild. He’s yanking me up and dropping to his knees. The sounds of someone washing hands at the sinks right outside our door cover up the greedy slobbering he makes as he gobbles down on my cock. The fucker deep-throats it expertly to the base, lets it pop out of the tight ring of his throat, and then goes down on it once more. I’m trying, more or less successfully, to suppress my groans of pleasure. While he sucks and slavers, he grips his own meat more tightly than I dared. He squeezes it hard. Chokes it, really, until it turns purple.
I sit down on the toilet again. My turn. Eagerly he shoves his cock back in my mouth. I let one of my hands caress his thick, shaved nuts while the other explores his ass. He’s more than willing to widen his stance and give me access. I continue sucking while I squeeze his muscular butt. My finger roam back into his crack. Nudge at his hole. Start to edge their way in.
It’s the last bit that pushes him over the edge. He grabs my skull with both hands and yanks my face down on his dick. I feel my cheeks fill up with his cum. It seems like an impossible amount. I must look like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter. After a long, long time he backs off. He’s still letting my lips rub the crown of his head, as the last bits of cum dribble out.
When he pulls out, I swallow my prize. It’s slightly sour stuff, but I’m still hungry for it. He watches me gulp it down, then grins. “Thanks,” he says. One of his hands instinctively reaches out to caress my head. He ruffles the hair, grins again. “See you later, maybe.”
I nod. My head is still swimming. The entire encounter has lasted maybe all of five minutes. I wait as he swings open the stall door and steps out; I shut it closed again. I myself wait until I hear the restroom door close and his footsteps vanish down the hall. Then I pull up my shorts—though the fabric doesn’t do a thing to conceal the boner still pronging out to my right—wash my hands once more, and make my own exit.
I pass him on the way back to my own chair. He’s with another man, allowing the guy to reapply sunscreen to his back. Boyfriends? It’s possible. He’s wearing sunglasses now, but I think I clock his head following me as I pass.
Back at my chair, I adjust my pants, pick up my book, and settle down. It’s still warm. Still sunny. This, I think to myself. This is what a vacation should be all about.