So I’ve had one of those days. No major disasters, knock wood, but enough encounters with idiots that I’m not suffering fools gladly. I’m not snappish. Not short-tempered. But all through the evening with friends, sitting in a tourist-filled restaurant at battered picnic tables eating fish tacos and clam chowder, I’m less jovial than usual. At the bars we hit afterward I’m not as amused by the little battalions of single straight girls woo-hooing it up with their Fireball shots or their tuneless rendition of Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch,” getting good and drunk before they have to take the ferry back to Boston in the morning.
It’s just a little much on my nerves.
I’ve had a great vacation so far. But after a hot and irritating day, feeling that itch down below after midnight, my instinct is just to get it done.
So, the dick dock, then. I pad my way down Commercial Street, nodding at the couples wandering my way. Men walk hand in hand, rapt in their own conversations, chests held proud, sunglasses on despite the late hour. There’s a crowd around the pizza place, but more men are cruising and people watching on the benches outside than eating slices. Finally I reach the Boatslip. The hotel’s quiet; I can see a few men sitting beyond the plate glass window in the lounge, but most of the windows are dark. The pool area is empty. I turn down the sandy driveway that’s public access to the beat, take the steps down to the and, and make the tight U-turn that leads me to the dark area underneath the hotel’s deck.
There are already dozens of men wandering among the rafters here. I duck my head and hunch over as I make my way forward. My sandals scoop up sand between my toes and empty it out at the heel. There are already groups of men between some of the girders. I hear the sounds of slopping sucking as I pass one set, but I keep moving. I’ll know what I want when I see it.
Like I said, I’m in kind of a weird mood. Aggressive. No-nonsense. Ready just to get it done. As I get closer to the dock’s mid-section I’m spotting guys I find attractive. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman in expensive leisure clothes. It’s dark beneath the dock, but there’s enough light that when my glance rests on him and my head turns, he notices. He starts to follow.
There’s a short muscle dude in a sleeveless T proclaiming allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds. I stare into his eyes—or where I presume his eyes are, on that shadowed face. He follows too.
A few steps later I encounter face-to-face a bearded hipster type. Shaved head. Beard that reaches his nipples. Square nerd glasses. He’s shirtless, furry, lean. He’s like a super-fit and young version of comedian Brian Posehn. I stare in his eyes. He follows me.
I feel like one of those over-privileged, entitled white Greenwich matrons back home, hitting the highway underpass to pick her immigrant workers for a few hours of day labor. Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go. Get it done.
I play Pied Piper to the trio and lead them to a niche between girders only a few feet away. They all obediently follow. The bearded nerd immediately drops to his knees, starts to unbutton my shorts. The older guy stands behind me. His hands start to roam around my waist, under my shirt, up my sides. The muscled dude reaches for my neck. His lips search for mine. His mouth tastes of beer. Sweet. Yeasty.
I haven’t said a word, but all three of them are working in unison. The bearded guy has sucked me hard. He goes right for the root, choking himself in the process. As he coughs and gulps and sputters, I feel the spray of his saliva on my pubes, across my thighs. The Cincinnati Reds guy pulls away from making out long enough with me to say, “I love the sound of a cocksucker choking on a big dick.” He dives to chew on one of my nipples. The older guy behind me has pulled down my pants and my shorts. He’s got my shirt unbuttoned. His muscular arms surround me; I lean back against his chest. One of his hands reaches down and parts my crack. I feel his fingertips probe against my hole.
They’re getting it done. The muscular guys drops to his knees and joins the beardo in the sand. They start taking turns sucking. I can tell them apart by their style. Cincinnati’s mouth feels firmer, more insistent. He might be using a hand in there. The bearded nerd is soft, sloppy. Extra wet. My older buddy takes a moment to raise his fingers to his mouth. He wets them, then spreads the spit over my hole. At some point he’s managed to release his own dick from his tan slacks. I feel it pressing against my ass. When I reach back, I feel that it’s uncut. Thick. At least seven inches.
As his head teases my ass, he rubs his jaw against my cheek. Whispers in my ear. “Come to the corner. I’ll fuck you over there.”
“Fuck me right here,” I grunt back.
Cincinnati’s mouth is on my balls. The beardo has his fist around my meat; he’s squeezing it hard to make it swell. The lenses of his glasses glint as he looks up at me. “I’m gonna get your cum,” he announces. It’s not a question. He’s not asking. He’s telling me.
I just nod. I expect him to get it done.
Back to work he goes gobbling my inches, while Cincinnati licks and slobbers over my nuts and the bottom two inches. The older guy, in the meantime, is proving himself no gentleman. He shoves me roughly forward. My lower back arches for him. He stabs at my ass with his cock. The first two tries, he attempts to impale the bottom of my spine. Third time’s the charm. My hole stings as it parts for his rough entry. I yell out as he slides up and into me.
Two men on my cock. One man barebacking my hole. There’s a crowd gathering around us, watching the show. Someone reaches for my nipples. Someone else is reaching down and attempting to grope my cock despite the warring mouths around it. I think someone tries to kiss me. I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. I’m all sensation in the moment; all my resentments and anger at the day, all my quirks and dickishness erased by sharp pulses of pain around my hole, blooms of pleasure where his cock head hits my prostate, and the urgent need to spray my seed. I can’t keep track of what else is happening. All I feel is the pain of the cock and the pleasure of the tongues, and the scratchiness of the sand in my sandals, the occasional cool of the ocean breeze, the sound of surf and sex and sighs.
The older guy shoots first. I hear him grunt, then quickly reach for his cock. He pulls out; I feel a warmth coat my hole and my ass cheeks, and then the ticklish descent of his semen as it starts to drip downward. He shoves his cock back inside me. It’s that sensation that pushes me over the edge. The bearded dude grunts as he tastes a big glob of my precum; then I start to gush my load down his throat. Cincinnati struggles back to his feet, rising through the crowd of strange bodies to pull my face down to his once more. I continue to cum as Cincinnati and I make out.
The older guy’s cock slithers from my hole just as the last of my orgasm subsides. I feel him rest his head on my shoulder as his arms surround me; he gives me a tight squeeze, then releases and vanishes. Cincinnati lets go. He pulls up his shorts. Conceals his boner. Gives me a pat on the chest, walks off. The bearded nerd is the last to go. I help him up to his feet. He’s been wearing his t-shirt as a yoke, and now he lifts up his arms and rearranges it so that it falls back into place. We exchange one deep kiss. “I love your load,” he tells me. “You are fucking hot.”
I nod as I button myself back up. The crowd around me dissipates. The action’s over—nothing more to see. They’re moving along. I hunch over once again and maneuver my tall frame beneath the rafters holding up the deck overhead. My shoes are filled with sand by the time I squeeze between the deck’s edge and the staircase leading up from the beach. I take a moment to empty them, and look at my phone for the time.
Twenty minutes. That’s how long I was under there, from start to finish. Two cocksuckers, one top. Twenty minutes, some multitasking, and some supernaturally efficient cruising is all it took to get it done.