Dick Dock 2024: Bear Bait

Provincetown: Bear Week 2024

In all the summers we’ve been visiting Cape Cod—annually for over a decade at this point—we’ve always heard the same thing from the locals: don’t visit during Bear Week.

Not that I dislike bears. I love bears. Maybe I'm even a bear. I’ve never self-identified as a bear or attended any bear events, but my face is certainly furry enough. Many of my best friends are bears.

Nor is it that the good people of the Cape mind the bears as a type or a population. Bears are fine people. It’s the sheer number of them, all at once, that makes the week overwhelming. Visibly bedraggled shopkeepers have told us that yes, that particular week in July is always when they move the most merchandise, but keeping up with the masses exhausts them to the bone. Restaurant owners, when we’ve shown up the week after the event to enjoy our vacation time, tell us we’re fortunate to have arrived when we did, since the Bear Week bears ate clean through their stock. From condo owners who rent out during the summers, I’ve heard nothing but horror stories of a dozen bears camping in a cozy space meant for a mere two, of furniture being disassembled and stuffed into nooks so that the bears could create sex pits, of leasing agreements being broken by content makers filming for their OnlyFans on semi-public decks and in backyards.

I like sex pits as much as the next degenerate, but restaurants running out of food? Unpardonable.

Until this year, we’d heeded the advice of the locals and avoided the event. Bear Week tends to be more expensive for rentals, anyway. The week prior or after suited just fine. Right around the turn of the new year, though, when it was time to pick a date for the season, it soon became clear that the choice was Bear Week or nothing.

So that second Saturday in July I’d hopped a train solo and journeyed all they way through Connecticut and Rhode Island to Massachusetts, walked through downtown Boston to a dock, then enjoyed an open-air ferry trip to the Cape. From the Provincetown pier, I made the final leg to my rental on the town’s west end. Every step of my trip seemed to confirm my worst fears: the town was packed. I was arriving right around dinner time and my stomach was growling, but every restaurant was already overflowing with bears. Bears in spandex and tank tops. Bears in t-shirts sporting bear logos and cartoon bears. Bears in leather, though it was ungodly warm. The Mayflower restaurant had a line out of the door and around the corner; Spiritus, where folks grab quick slices of pizza to sit on the steps and people-watch, must have had over two hundred sweat-soaked men crammed within its open doors.

I tend to be averse to large crowds, so navigating Commercial Street just as the Tea Dance was letting out felt like a nightmare. I was the lone salmon navigating upstream against a torrent of bears who’d spent the last three hours drinking at the disco. By the time I threw my sweaty carcass on the rental’s bed, I regretted coming. I spent the evening eating takeout on my deck and texting friends that Bear Week was crowded and awful.

And then, the next day, the town just kind of empties out. I never see those huge crowds again. Never have I waited at a restaurant, nor have they run out of food. The crowds aren’t intolerable. I haven’t been invited to any sex pits, much to my sorrow, but neither have I been lacking for offers of hookups. Save for that initial Saturday, Bear Week has been much like any other—only a touch busier and hornier.

It’s Thursday, toward the end of my planned stay. I’ve gorged myself on my annual platter of fried clams, and bought my yearly t-shirt and baseball cap to commemorate my stay. I’ve eaten at the restaurants I always enjoy and mourned the ones have have disappeared since my last visit. Always, there’s one or two that vanish. Like New York, Provincetown is an ever-changing landscape.

I’ve finished one excellent book and started another, and spent my lunchtimes down by the docks, sitting in the shade and eating a sandwich while watching gray seals play in the blue waters. I’ve lain in the air conditioned comfort of my rental, afternoons, to escape the oppressive heat and humidity.

And then, in the evenings, I’ve emerged for activities that are a little more social. I’ve seen a couple of shows, met a friend or two for drinks. I’ve bellowed out karaoke at the Governor Bradford, for a mixed crowd of tourists, locals, and drag queens. And I’ve indulged daily in that most social activity of all—removing my clothes with other men so we can enjoy each other’s bodies. I still bone up whenever I think of last night’s escapade, when a married couple from D.C., two worked-out military men both in need of a daddy, waited ass up and blindfolded, side by side, on their queen-sized bed at the Boatslip.

Today I’ve been waiting around on people to follow through with texts. That morning I’d had a playmate I’ve twice met on my visits here—a handsome dark-skinned Latin man who loves to kiss—promise to get in touch this evening for a repeat visit. And earlier in the week, I’d been implored to meet by an extreme sub with whom I’d connected in 2023. His situation is complicated by the fact he has an owner, though, who’s promised to issue an invitation, yet hasn’t. Though daily the sub has promised that today would be the day, I’ve still never gotten my summons. I’m starting to feel strung along.

Since it’s well after eleven, it’s safe to say neither guy is going to text me at this point. So I put my phone on the charger, change into my most lightweight shorts and tee, pull on the sneakers, and head out into the night.

It’s time to hit the Dick Dock.

I’m walking from my rental toward the waterfront when, in the patio area of a nearby cottage, a group of five or six gay boys in their early thirties are enjoying a late-night dinner. They’re shielded by tall hedges, but when I pass an opening, they call out in a chorus, “Heeeeey, daddy!”

I backtrack a couple of steps. “Hello, boys,” I carol, as I lean over the latched gate. All the boys are white, skinny gym-toned twinks with nary a facial hair among them. All shirtless and in swimsuits, all clutching mostly empty bottles of lager.

“Look. We’ve got sausage.” A plate of severely charred kielbasa or wieners sits in the middle of the table, surrounded by a bowl of chips and various condiments. The lad speaking clearly intends his declaration as a double entendre. Though they’ve been drinking—a lot—the insinuation makes them all titter as one.

“Oh yeah?” I say, looking at the burnt whatever-they-are. “What kind of sausage ya got for me?” They look to each other for an answer. I decide to help them out. “Is it Italian sausage?”

“Are you Italian?” The youngest and blondest of the group wildly flutters his lashes my way. I can feel the breeze.

“I’m Scottish,” I apologize.

The one who seems the least drunk asks the others, “Do Scot...land...ian...ish people even have sausage?” Least drunk, but still pretty intoxicated.

“They make haggis,” I supply, trying to be helpful, though the conversation is getting more and more surreal. My information is greeted with a chorus of ewwwws.

The blond one bats his lashes again. “I bet your haggis is plump and juicy.”

With a reddening face, I chuckle. “You betcha.”

Picking up one of the cold franks from the platter, the blond kid rubs it against his lips. Then he opens up and prepares to take a bite, though once he gets a mouthful of what looks like solid charcoal, he makes a quick face and changes his mind. After wiping his tongue on the back of his forearm, he says with meaning, “My sausage is Slovenian.”

In gracious, grave tones, I alliterate, “I hope someday to savor some superb Slovenian sausage.” They all erupt in wild, raucous laughter. With me, not at me. Not once have I gotten a vibe that they’re mocking me. It’s clear, though, they’re just sparring with a stranger, and not inviting me to a sex pit, so I straighten up and give them a wave. “I hope you gentlemen have a wonderful night.”

“You too!” they all cry. Over the hedges, as I continue walking down Atlantic, I hear the blond one yell, “Come back to see your Slovenian son sometime!”

I laugh aloud and shake my head. Maybe he’s serious. Maybe he’s just teasing. Minor vacation flirtations are so easy to have here. I take none of their playfulness seriously at all.

The sausage boys’ rental sits close to where Atlantic empties out on Commercial, right across the ramp to the Dock. A big grin still lingers on my face when I cross the main thoroughfare and begin the trek down to the beach. As I step on the slope between the Boatslip and the houses adjacent, I notice a handsome young man wrestling with two loads of cardboard boxes beneath his brawny arms, broken down flat but stacked high. Obviously he works there. A hot otter, this kid, with wavy hair, a dark beard, and enormous, soulful eyes that lock onto mine with the intensity of a laser beam. A pair of white jeans shorts hang low on his lean and narrow hips; his tee cuts off at the shoulders and midriff, exposing a shocking amount of thick fur. BEAR BAIT, reads the shirt in huge black capitals.

The ferocity of his stare electrifies me. I don’t break stride, but I stare him down as I continue toward the beach, my eyes fixed upon his until I disappear below street level. I know, with sibylline accuracy, that he wants me. I know that he’ll follow. And sure enough, as I reach the top of the short flight of wooden steps leading down to the Dick Dock and the beach, I hear a mighty fwoomp as armfuls of cardboard hit the concrete above. I’m at the bottom of the steps when I hear Bear Bait’s flip-flops slap the ramp, scurrying at high speed to catch up with me before I disappear into the darkness beneath the Boatslip deck.

I wait for him right near the entrance, leaning against the closest metal piling. There should be enough light that he can see me. Seconds later, he hits the sand at such speed that one of his feet flies out from under him; he has to grab onto the railing to keep himself from a face plant. Once he’s got his footing again, though, he ducks beneath the wood, blinks to adjust his eyes, and looks around. He spies me almost immediately.

For the second time this week, I experience the lung-emptying impact of a man propelling himself at me in a full-body tackle. The boy is feral. Slavering and growling, he pins me against the rusty metal, hands clawing beneath my shirt at my skin. His mouth engulfs mine as his tongue forces itself deep inside. He tastes clean and fresh. It’s clear he hasn’t been drinking on the job. He’s kissing me so furiously that it feels as if my mouth must be bruising, but it’s the sweetest possible ache.

“Fuck, sir,” he pants, pressing against me with all his weight. One of his hands braces against the wall of the Dock; the other rests close to the top of my skull. His fingers rustle through the bristles of my hair while his thumb strokes an arc across my forehead. “I saw you up there…”

“I know,” I tell him in a soft voice. We’re staring at each other with the same force as we had on the street.

“I just kinda felt we had to…”

“I know,” I repeat. Some things don’t have to be put into words. While I admire his handsome good looks, I stroke and tug at his beard. I need to spend more time in Massachusetts. Boys back home treat me nowhere near as well.

“What’s your name?”

I’m about to tell him, honest. My mouth is ajar, ready to release the lone syllable. It’s a single syllable too long for a desperate and horny youth, though. Without warning, the impatient boy huffs, widens his eyes, and lunges once more for my lips. I feel scrabbling at my chest. He’s wrenching up my tee, scraping it so tight across my face that it feels like someone has opened a fiery forge door nearby. He wrestles the flimsy cotton covering from my arms and hands and flings it onto the ground. I’m incredibly turned on in the heat of this moment, but as I watch the sand fly from the impact, part of me is still thinking, Hey! That’s my shirt!

A moment later it’s Hey! Those are my shorts! when he yanks those down, seizes my ankles, and lifts one after the other to pry them off. When he’s done, I’m standing there solely in my sneakers. It’s the nakedest I’ve ever been beneath the Dick Dock. My dick points up and at an angle. Bear Bait stares at it and breathes, “Fuck yeah.”

He’s got what he wanted. Me, in the dark, almost completely nude. I’m too breathless to say anything and part of me just wants to enjoy whatever the hell he chooses to do next. When he looks up at me, I grin, half my lip curled, teeth on display. “All yours,” I finally remark.

I get the feeling he already knew. His eyes meet mine again. He’s got a hand jammed down the front of his shorts, where it furiously works his cock. Then, without warning, he impales his throat on me. There’s no working it in—just one swift motion, the sensation of something tight popping wide open, followed by sounds of his gargling and near-choking. The kid’s not in distress, however. Hell no. He’s spiking himself on my inches like his life depends on it, puncturing his larynx with such wildness that I wonder if he’s got an extra pleasure-producing nub deep in there somewhere, like Linda Lovelace in Deep Throat.

Normally I’m wary of guys who try to take me that deep. Often they’re doing it to show off, either to me or for themselves, without a lot of regard for whether or not I’m finding it pleasurable. Bear Bait isn’t contorting my shaft to painful extremes, though. He’s not clamping down on me, vise-like, with his throat muscles. Somehow he’s made himself wide open and deep for me and I cannot get enough. I’m vaguely aware of men passing us on their way to the area deeper beneath the Dock, but all my attention is focused on that mouth, the way my cock’s head plugs and savages that wet passage, and the satisfaction of grinding my nuts against the kid’s thick beard.

Long ropes of spit and mucus hang from his lips and facial hair when at last he backs off my tool and stands. He sniffs deeply to clear his nose. “Fuck me,” he demands as if I owe him. “Come on,” he barks, this time with the attitude that I’m his to boss around. “Fuck me!”

Little shit. I’ll show him who’s boss. “Yeah?” I snarl, narrowing my eyes. “Ask nice and maybe I will.”

Chests puffed out, chins lifted, we stare each other down. There’s no real contest. I’m eight inches taller, broader, and bigger—plus I’ve got the dick he wants so badly. “Fuck me.” His voice is softer, now. Less bossy. Then he adds a meek, “Please.”

I remain impassive for a moment, but then crack a grin. I can’t help it. The kid is cute, trying to assert himself like that. I respect it. I get a quick flash of his smile before he lunges for my mouth again. “I got lube,” he whispers in my ear, before pulling out a travel bottle of Wet from his shorts. I guess it pays to be prepared, when one works at the Boatslip.

It’s the quick work of a moment for him to lube up his hole and slap a squirt or two of the gooey fluid over my angry cock. After he shoves the bottle into his back pocket, he spins around and drops his pants to the sand. I admire how he presents himself to me: back arched, butt at just the right level for plundering. I find his hole without any fumbling, and begin to push in.

He stands upright and leans back into my arms when I’ve worked myself all the way in. We kiss. With glittering eyes he regards me, happiness writ plain on his face. “Oh, shit,” he whispers, when I begin pumping in and out.

“You love it,” I declare.

He nods rapidly, one hand against the side of my face. Then he lets out a sound—how can I describe it? In my shock, it sounds as if he’s fallen asleep and begun to snore, only to rouse himself out of it immediately...several times, in rapid succession. It’s a series of whuffs and snuffles and snorts mixed with panting and ending with him rapidly moving his tongue in and out like a labrador at the water bowl. The noise isn’t off-putting, exactly. Just…surprising. He does it again when I push him down so I can probe his hole more deeply, regarding me with liquid eyes over his shoulder. For some reason, I’m convinced he's indulging in some kind of puppy play sound

Makes no difference to me. All I care about is fucking this hot, wet hole. Every thrust elicits a squelch from the mess of lube and spit and precum I’m making in his rectum. He adds to it with groans and whuffs and more of that pup noise. When I start slapping his butt, both cheeks, with a sharp overhand trajectory, he’s reduced to whimpers.

Had this been the other night, cruisers might have crowded around us or tried to join in. Bear Bait and I are obviously so much into each other, though, that no one approaches. Oh, we have an audience, all right. There are a good twenty or more men watching me plow the boy. They’re pulling down the elastic of their shorts to stroke their cocks, or they’re rubbing their bulges, or maybe hiking up the legs of their drawers to grab their knobs and pleasure themselves as they observe. But no one closes in. They stand a respectable six feet away, minimum, mostly against the cross-beams closer to the water.

Bear Bait is raising his ass as high as possible, his stance wide. His head audibly bangs the wooden wall. “Do it,” he begs. “Make it hurt.”

“Oh, you want it to hurt, huh?” I slap his ass again, harder, then jam myself in. “Squeeze.” I feel him contract his sphincter. “I said, squeeze.”

“Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, as he clamps down with every muscle in his pelvic floor.

This time, I feel it. “Good boy.”

He loves the praise. Craves it. Over and over he compresses, milking me as we both move our hips in synchronized rhythm. It honestly feels as if he has an extra hand in there, applying extra pressure. His palms planted flat on the barrier, he pushes back as hard as he can, We slam into each other with loud vigor, egging each other on

“I’m close,” I warn. Sweat’s pouring from my forehead into my eyes. There’s so much perspiration on my forearm, though, that using it to wipe my face accomplishes nothing. He’s doused, too; even in the dark I can see where his dampness has soaked the back of his cut-off shirt in the shape of a V.

“Give it to me,” he demands. He’s trying to be the boss, again. “Shoot that juice up my chute.” The kid’s not even trying to be quiet. He’s baying in his outdoor voice. “Knock me up, dad.”

“Christ,” I mutter, aroused by his insistence. Very little turns me on more than a bottom who’s aggressive and bossy in the heat of the moment.

I’m not sure whether I’m fucking him, or he’s fucking me. His hips are rabbiting up and down my meat with increasing urgency. “I want it,” he growls, making more of those puppy noises. “I want it and I’ve earned it. Shoot in me, sir.”

My vision’s already galvanic around the periphery. I’m seeing sparks, the closer I get. “Yeah?” I snarl. “You think you’ve earned it, huh?’

“Yes sir!” He looks over his shoulder and bares his teeth. “Breed your boy.”

And I do.

I’ve had some wild orgasms this week, but this one—shit. It’s like my nuts boil with lava, and I must eject it as hard and fast as possible before I spontaneously combust. The stuff keeps flowing, too. He wanted to be flooded? He’s getting it. I feel the stuff squelching from his hole and onto my balls even when there’s so, so much more to pump inside. Then, at the end, I shudder as my dick jumps and twitches, trying to expel those final, reluctant drops.

Still connected, he stands again, leans back, and cranes his neck to press his lips against mine. We kiss awkwardly until he pulls himself off, turns around, and collapses onto my naked body. This time, we make out as if we’ve only just begun. 

“Thank you for the seed in my butt, sir,” he murmurs as he nuzzles my earlobe.

“You are very welcome.”

We continue our intimacy for a moment more. “All right,” he says in normal tones, as he extricates himself from my embrace. “Gotta get back to work.” I stand back as he yanks up his shorts in one swift motion. “Thanks dad.” And with that, he’s gone, jogging across the beach back in the direction of the stairs.

I’m so wiped out from the experience that I don’t even remember I’m naked until I try leaning against the iron piling and pull away with a scaly covering of rust flakes. Where the fuck are my clothes, anyway? I find my shorts buried beneath a few handfuls of sand, no doubt kicked there during the tryst. My shirt’s a few feet in the other direction. I have to beg people’s pardon as I shake them out in the suddenly-cramped space. I really don’t want to wear the entire beach back to my rental.

“Lucky fucker,” I hear someone murmur, as I sidle by.

Lucky fucker? Maybe. Who does he mean, exactly? The Bear Bait kid? Or me? Either way, I don’t know how much luck had to do with it. This evening felt more like a monumental display of the laws of physics: two bodies exerting their gravitational attraction, perhaps, or a classic example of what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable, erect object. I use the hem of my shirt to mop up the mess on my face, as I stride back onto Commercial.

When I pass the house of the sausage boys, I peek over the gate to see if they’re still gabbing away. All of them have vanished save one—the Slovenian twink, who lies sprawled sleeping on a garden bench beneath the kitchen window. He lets out a snore and shifts position. I leave him be.

Pretty soon, after a shower, I’ll be doing the same.

***

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