The Town Top

July 2026

For many vacationing gay men, the resort town of Provincetown becomes a summer social whirl. Daytime pool parties at the Crown and Anchor or at the Provincetown Inn, way out at the town’s southwestern perimeter. A noon trek to Boy Beach to bask in the sun. Tea Dance at the Boatslip, lubricated by their lethal rum punches. At night are big parties to attend, shows to see, multiple bars to visit. The Vault has a back room, after dark. For the curious, there’s the Dick Dock. Anyone looking to hang out with others in as little clothing as possible has plenty of opportunities, any hour of the day.

I approach my Ptown sojourns a little more slowly. I’ll wake up when I want, have a light breakfast, spend the morning taking in a handful of shops. Every day, I’ll pack a sandwich and chips to take to the waterfront, where I’ll relax on a shady bench to eat lunch while ferries and whale-spotting boats glide in and out of the harbor. Later I might swap watching seals for gazing at the truly diverse parade of people walking up and down Commercial Street, as I sit in front of Town Hall.

I’ll nap, catch up on my reading, and opt for a slushy frosé at the Canteen instead of the Tea Dance. After a leisurely outdoor dinner and maybe an ice cream, I’ll enjoy more people and dog watching, or hit drag queen karaoke at the Governor Bradford. I don’t isolate myself from others. I’ll maybe go to one Tea Dance. Someone always invites me over for a civilized cocktail with a group of men of a similar age. Big parties rapidly drain my social batteries, though. I’ve been in enough bars, including all of Ptown’s, to know what I’m not missing.

Besides, I don’t need to hit a bar tonight. I’ve been texting with this one fellow all day. His profile bio amuses me. You recognize me, huh? Maybe it’s because I get around. Looking for connected, passionate fun. It should be with you. There’s a cockiness to his come-on that doesn’t cross the line into rank arrogance. I appreciate his playfulness. One photo displays him decked out in leather gear, a startlingly handsome man solidly in his late forties. He’s muscular, bearded, furry all over. In another, he’s naked, professionally photographed leaning against a brick wall, hand around the base of his girthy cock. There’s one of him prone on a mattress, back arched, ass cleft wooly with growth. But there’s a particular picture I keep coming back to: he’s sitting on a bed with his legs spread, back against a pillow, as he stretches out the band of the athletic supporter he’s wearing to inspect the treasure within. His expression is of smug delight.

I really like that one.

I would really like a shot at meeting you, he tells me, late in the evening. We would be hot together. Can we make it happen tonight?

I’m free, I say, if you can host.

I’d be happy to host you. I’m hopping in the shower. Come over in fifteen, he tells me. I’ll turn the lights down low and let you do what you want to me.

I’d never refuse that invitation.

I know the street on which he lives; for three years running, I’d rented a condo in the unit next door. He awaits as I approach, feet in the periwinkles, forearms resting atop the white picket fence separating yard from street. He looks as good as his photos. Better, even. All he wears is a pair of running shorts. “Hey, handsome,” he calls, his chest hairs tickling the fence’s wooden stakes. When I make a display of raising my eyebrows, glancing over both shoulders, then finally resting a hand on my chest in a mock who, me? gesture, he breaks into laughter. “Get over here, you.”

Over the gate, once I’m within range, he grabs the back of my neck and hauls me in for a kiss. “Thank you for meeting. I’m Brad, by the way.”

“Thank you for making it so easy to meet,” I reply. I love when guys facilitate the hookup process. Not always can I drop everything for an immediate connection. On vacation, it’s easier. I appreciate when a man makes a statement of intent—an I want you, do you want me?—and follows it up quickly with suggestions of how we might consummate our mutual attraction. I’m never going to be one of those app profile scolds who warns men I’m not into endless texting, but certain types fray my patience: faceless, photo-less ones who demand I drop everything to meet them, the guys who moon after me without ever intending to connect, the chaps who throw everything related to logistics into my lap, as if what we’re planning isn’t a mutual concern.

No, this guy named Brad stated his interest, made himself available, and extended his hospitality. From online spark to first kiss, barely a half hour has passed. Into the house he leads me, then from the entry hallway into his condo. Though outside the building is one hundred percent Cape Cod cottage, Brad has obviously renovated the interior of his subdivided portion, at least, sometime within the past couple of years. Wood planks shine with a high gloss, while the walls are painted in dark colors with white trim that conceals recessed lighting. A high granite-topped island divides kitchen from living area. Everything is sleek. Dark. Modern.

I’m scarcely able to look around, though, because the man stands before me to cup in his hands the sides and bottom of my head, as if I’m a big snifter of cognac and he is preparing to drink me in.

I feel his lips on one cheek, then another. He plants a soft kiss upon my brow, then looks me in the eyes. “Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi,” I say back.

He smells of soap and tastes faintly of lemon when his tongue slides into my mouth. We pull the other in, eyes closed, bodies pressed tight, to kiss more deeply. My right hand dips beneath the band of his shorts and encounters more elastic: a jock. Maybe the same he’s wearing in that one photo I liked so much. I round my hand beneath it as well, and let my digits dance down his furry crack.

My fingertips meet his soft pucker as we make out next to the pile of boots and sandals by his doorway. He gasps when I manipulate his soft flesh. Separating his face from mine, he nods ever so slightly. I push a little harder and am rewarded by his moist, pliant warmth. Once again his head jerks up and down; I watch his pupils flare and dilate. “Bedroom,” he insists, a little breathless.

I nod and follow.

Brad is the first to get naked. Then again, he only has to step out of his athletic shorts and shimmy the worn jock from his narrow waist. I have to kick off my shoes, peel off my socks, drop my shorts. I skim out of my tee and wrestle my trunks from around my hard, already-insistent dick. The man uses both hands to pull me up onto the king-sized bed. The sigh of contentment he makes as my weight presses into him is music to my ears. “Are you going to fuck me, dad?” he asks.

I’m sixteen years his senior. In theory, I could be his dad. But the time for math is long past. The only calculation I consider is how quickly I can get his legs over my shoulders. “I will get so deep inside you, son.”

“Ffffuck.” He draws out the fricative as long as he can.

“I am going to stretch open that butt of yours with my big dick,” I promise.

“Is it going to hurt?”

Neither of us blinks during our hushed conversation. We stare into the other’s eyes while our private parts grind. I shrug a little. “It might,” I say, managing to imply that it definitely will. His breath catches. “But you’ll be a good boy and make dad proud, won’t you.”

His nod creates such vigorous friction against the cotton pillowcase I’m surprised it doesn’t catch aflame. “Make it hurt if you need. I won’t complain.”

“Let me look at you, son.”

I roll myself off and lay to his side. Brad is definitely one of the more handsome men I’ve bedded in recent memory. A tight fade on the sides of his head rises to a short salt-and-pepper crown. He’s got the body of someone who works out not for the mere drudgery of staying in shape, but who actually enjoys his gains. Two hard pecs adorned by broad, pointed nipples. A flat stomach with definition around the abs. I’m a thigh man, and his trunk-like stems are solid enough to make me nod in appreciation. His blue eyes dance as I take in the thick curve of his cock against his hipbone, the long toes that wriggle in anticipation, the stubble where his pubes should be. “Am I all right?” he asks.

I’m the one who should be asking that about my pale carcass, almost pearlescent next to his tanned skin. He hasn't invited me tonight to narrate my self-doubt, though. I lean in for another kiss, long and slow. When our lips separate, I nod. “You’re beautiful,” I tell him. He lets out a slight gasp; I can see his body shiver. “Turn over,” I tell him.

I pull a single pillow from the several at the bed’s head, and let him bury his face in the others. I manage to get him to raise his hips so I can slide the cushion underneath. Already he’s gripping the bedclothes in anticipation, bunching them up in his fists. I haven’t even touched him, yet.

But now I do. I climb atop the man and straddle him at the hips. Leaning down, I kiss the top of his head. His neck. My lips move across his shoulders. My beard brushes between the shoulder blades, up the spine to his nape. “You are so beautiful,” I whisper into an ear. Another kiss, another abrasion from my facial hair. “Just look at you, son.”

His eyes tightly shut. Strangled cries of pleasure choke his throat, whether from my words or touch. I can’t tell. I don’t care. My lips travel down his ribs, circumnavigate the small of his back. A patch of fur flourishes at a spot an inch above the middle of his ass, a small, overgrown jungle surrounded by a prairie of brown fur. When my lips snatch and tug at it, the flat of his hand slaps the mattress above me. He likes that.

We’re face-to-ass, once I settle down between his outstretched thighs. With the pillow elevating his hips, I have a perfect view of the man’s most essential and private spot. When I pry apart his ass cheeks, the pink slit blossoms, then abruptly winks shut. I lean forward, nudge at it with my nose, and am rewarded with another glimpse of soft flesh. Brad sighs when I plant a kiss on one ass cheek, then the other. He knows what’s coming.

Still, I enjoy the tease. I breathe through my mouth to allow the warm air from my lungs to tantalize those two inches of exposed hole. My hands caress his broad, hard upper legs. I rub my furry cheek over the mounds of his butt. Then, finally, I pull back on those masses and let my tongue flick out.

Brad’s cry of astonishment cuts through the quiet to echo around the dim bedroom. When I lick at him again, he muffles his joy in the pillows. “Am I hurting you?” I tease. “I can stop.”

“No!” He curls his head, looks down at me from under the upraised arm clutching at the headboard. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

I make a show of shrugging, as if his answer makes no difference to me. Then I dive in. No mere tongue flick, now. I mash in my whole face to drive his hips forward, while I wrap my hand around the man’s down-splayed dick. He swells in my grasp as I grind my beard into his tender, sweet flesh.

Simple physics: each of my actions results in an equal and opposite reaction. When I apply pressure to his hefty lever, his body lifts and falls heavily on the bed. If I bite his ass in my feral frenzy, he yells and beats at the pillows. The columns of soft air I blow from pursed lips lift his head to the clouds; my insistent separation of his cheeks further to expose him causes his whole body to shake. I enjoy this sweet science, though. I love making the man writhe. My own cock thrills with every fresh thrash of his torso, with the buck and resistance of his pelvis.

I slither up the sheets between his legs. My stiff dick leaves a trail of sticky slime on the bedcover as I crawl up onto his back. Our hips gyrate in time. He wants this as much as I. “You need to be fucked,” I whisper into his ear. I feel the shiver that starts at the base of his spine and travels outward. “I think you’re ready.”

“Go slow,” he begs. “You’re big.”

I have one last question. “Lube, or spit?”

I can see him gulp. I only ask because a bottle of clear goo lies conspicuously on the bedside table, next to a hand towel. “I…I…you choose,” he whimpers.

I spit into my hand, slap it onto my dick, and position myself. Within moments, I’m gliding in.

This isn’t just hole. This is pussy. My spit isn’t even necessary, so slick and wet is he already. “Oh god,” he moans as I hit the base. There’s no resistance, no pushback. Just a soaked chute, wide open and begging for more of me.

I love when a man is soft and well-fucked like this. Some tops prefer tight. While that has its pleasures, experienced hole offers me more: I can pull all the way out, just as I do now, knowing I won’t have to grapple and reposition when I’m ready to enter again. Tight has a tendency to push against me, to resist. Ass that’s wide open only welcomes me. I can push deeper, thrust harder, alter my angle, and know it will keep up. Brad’s hole isn’t just exposed and well-used. It’s agape. When I ease out my shaft, his ass remains a cavern, its mouth wide and welcoming.

“Roll with me,” I whisper. Still inside, I pull at his hips so that I fall onto my right side behind him. The pillow that was under his midsection, I tuck under his head. My right arm slides underneath his armpit to embrace his chest; my fingers tug and catch at his fur as I search for his nipple. My left hand pulls at his waist so that I’m deep inside him once more. “Are you okay?” I ask, checking in.

As response, he only purrs with contentment. We both curl into the other, rocking back and forth at the moist, heated point of our connection. I like this position because it spares him from having to bear the weight of my body, while still giving me ample room and leverage to move and thrust as I please. “I love it,” he murmurs at last. His eyes are closed; his nose nuzzled into my forearm. “I love you inside me.”

“That’s right,” I tell him, pleased. “Good boy.”

For long minutes, his soft sighs and my occasional grunts are the only noises we make. I’ll kiss his neck from time to time, making him arch his spine and push back against me. He will reach behind to clutch at my ass when he wants me especially deep. What we’re doing is lovemaking at its sweetest, its most gentle. I relish the sensation of his hot hole clutching at me. Sweat builds on our bodies to be cooled away again, as the air conditioner turns on and off.

Its fan stays on for longer as the heat build in the room. I spit into my left hand once more and reach around to cup Brad’s cock in my fingers. His jaw drops; inchoate phrases begin to form, but disappear. I wonder whether they would have been encouragement or warning. My stimulation increases the velocity of his hips. Soon I’m not thrusting at all; I lay perfectly still as he churns back and forth, impaling himself on my rigidity with one motion, then spreading his cock into my curled digits with the next. His excitement is rising. I can feel it in his ragged respiration, in the hardening of his nipple in my right hand.

Eyes lidded, he looks over his shoulder. “Can you come with me?” he asks. “Are you close enough?”

I lay the side of my head against his nape and nod. Our approach to climax is both gradual and mutual. We become copilots who alternate control, homing in on our mutual destination. He will pull me close and squeeze tight his hole and twitch his hips to maneuver me a little ahead; I will pull back a little, then spread his precum to milk his rigid inches until he’s frantic. He’ll crane to kiss me over his shoulder; I’ll pinch hard on his sensitive nipples. Back and forth we urge each other, limbs interlocked, in this three-legged race in which we’re both winners.

Brad comes first. I feel a spurt of his semen, hot and viscous, lubricate my knuckles. It spills over the back of my hand as he begins to huff. A racking orgasm causes him to clench down. His ass contracts like a vise, then becomes soft and pliant once more. Back and forth it alters, creating suction that draws me in past what feels like the root. Mere seconds after his own climax, I can’t help myself. I clutch at the man’s hip and draw him close to me in the embrace of my pinned arm. My senses rage. Loud gasps escape my lungs to abrade his shoulders.

“Yes,” he says. “Give it to me.”

And I do. It’s a sweet exchange: spurt after spurt of my juice rewards his encouragement and happy sighs. For a long moment, after, I can’t even see anything. Slowly, gradually, the fog recedes. He’s still in my arms. We’ve made a mess, but he’s in no hurry to clean it.

“Do you need me to pull out?” I ask. I’m still mostly hard inside him. I don’t want to disturb our cozy nest for two.

“No. Please don’t.” He nestles in closer, pulling me in, tight. “I like it like this.”

And so we lie there, listening to the air conditioner’s steady hum, the occasional whirr of a bicycle’s freehub from outside, or the excited chatter of people heading out for the town’s nightlife. I relax into this unhurried, quiet moment. This act of simply existing, without feeling a need for doing.

***

His voice rumbles into words after long, silent minutes. “Oh, god.” He continues moving around my dick. I’m firm enough to remain inside him. “I can’t believe we did that. I’m sorry if I was too tight, dad.”

I chuckle a little at his joke, but I’m too content to reply. My right arm has fallen asleep beneath the weight of his torso, but it hasn’t reached the pins and needles stage yet. I pull him a little closer.

He strokes my forearm and looks over his shoulder. “I wasn’t too tight, was I?”

Again I laugh before realizing: oh, he’s serious. “No,” I assure. “Why? When was the last time you were fucked?”

Brad lets out a long sigh. “Over a year ago, I guess. Probably closer to two, two and a half years. I would have warned you ahead of time, but I figured that you were probably good with super-tight holes. But the way you opened me…” By now, my belly is bouncing against his back in full-fledged, silent laughter. “What?”

“Listen,” I say into his ear. “I wouldn’t say it was exactly one of those throwing a hot dog down a hallway situations, but it was pretty damned close. You were very open.”

Now in on the joke, he joins in my mirth. “Lord. Okay. Maybe all credit is due to you, though.” He reaches around to let his fingers explore the area where we’re still connected. “I’m usually known as the Town Top.”

I laugh some more, but cease when I realize he’s serious. “Oh, really?”

“Really. There’s a significant audience out there that knows me as a total, hundred percent top. They’d be shocked to know I was doing this with you, with my reputation. My face is known out there.”

I don’t exactly freeze, but I have one of those moments in which I’m so lost in my own thoughts that the rest of the world recedes. I think back on those professional photos in his profile. The leather. The coy You recognize me, huh? Maybe it’s because I get around.

Of course people recognize him. “You’re in porn?” I ask, feeling foolish that I hadn’t put it together sooner.

He nods. “Adult film. Ad campaigns for adult companies. Modeling. Selectively.”

It’s a good thing he can’t see my face, because it’s totally red. “Well, listen,” I say after a long moment. He’s sharing something precious and private with me, right now. I intend to give him the respect he deserves. “I was unaware of who or what you might be when you started flirting with me, and for that I apologize.” He shakes his head, dismissing my regrets. “On the plus side, my ignorance meant I could approach our encounter with no expectations whatsoever. I know that when you have a certain level of fame…”

“No, not fame. I’m not famous.”

I understand. “I’m in a similar situation myself, in which what I write gives me the same…not fame, but a certain level of influence within a small sphere.”

“A small and limited sphere.”

I nod some more. “A very small and limited sphere. When I get recognized, fans sometimes burden me with a certain level of expectation and fantasy. I’m sure it’s the same with you.” He nods. “So, thank you for sharing with me, but I wouldn’t have traded what we experienced for any…what am I try to say? Foreknowledge. Of your, you know. Super-secret international top porn star fame.”

We both laugh aloud, this time. “You know the only thing that ‘fame’ buys me?” Brad makes air quotes as he talks. “I was at the Eagle in New York one night and was walking around the second floor. Full leather gear. It was supposed to be a leather night and I was probably the only one fully decked out. Anyway, whenever I walked by the pool table, I’d catch the eye of this kid there. Maybe twenty-three, twenty-four. He couldn’t stop staring at me. He had this look in his eyes. I recognize that look. I get it when they know me from the films they’ve seen. He was like, laser focused on me. Probably jacked off to my vids dozens of times, but not brave enough to say hi, or anything.” I pull Brad closer. “So at some point when I walk by, I reach out and just put a finger underneath his chin and guide his face to mine. Real slow. Then I plant a kiss on him. Just a soft…tiny…perfect little kiss on his lips. While everyone watches me. And he was so overwhelmed that—boom! His legs gave out from beneath him.”

“Jesus,” I say, imagining a cracked tailbone and a trip to the emergency room.

“No, he was fine. There were enough people around to catch him before he could do himself any damage. But picture it. So stunned by a porn actor’s kiss that his legs gave out. I mean, it was super sweet. But that’s all my kind of fame buys. Hey.” He’s still fondling the base of my cock. “You’re rock hard again.”

“Yes I am.” I’d begun stiffening during his Eagle story. I slide in more deeply, which causes his eyes to roll back. “Do you need me to stop?”

“Don’t stop.” Now his lids close. He arches his back to meet my thrusts. “Are you going to fuck me again?” His voice softens. “Please fuck me again.”

I shift him slightly so that I can pull out my numb arm. I use my outstretched palm to push his face into the pillows. “First time, I was just making love to some nice guy with a loose ass named Brad. This time, I’m nailing the Town Top.”

“Oh, fuck. Yes.” Once again his hole blossoms to welcome me. “Put that bitch in his place. He needs to be taught a lesson, dad.”

I drive in harder, dick swelling. If this is what a certain degree of ‘fame’ can buy, it’s a currency worth trading.

***

Hey! If you've made it this far, chances are you enjoy my sexual memoir pieces. May I suggest you invest in one of my works of sexy erotica? 

If you enjoy vintage-style collections of hot, retro-themed gay fiction penned by some great authors of man on man erotica, please consider supporting me with a purchase of either Dirty Dorms & Fresh Men (which features my story Sleazy A), Hustlers, Hoboes, & Outlaws (which features my story On the Block), Same Sex: Gay Science Fiction Clone Erotica (which features my story Journey's End), Come Young and Old: Gay Age Gap Erotica, (which features my story The Good Dad), Mowing & Blowing: Gay Sex in the Garden (which features my story The Most Dangerous Flower), or Comin' Down the Road: Queer Science Fiction on the Highways & Byways (which features my short novel A Globe, Granite Underfoot).

Sleazy A is also available in epub format from Smashwords and in Kindle format from Amazon.

On the Block is available as an ebook from Amazon and Smashwords.

The publishing house for these projects can be found at Peterschutes.com . There are already many vintage-style pulps on sale over there, with more to come. If you sign up for the site's newsletter, you’ll be eligible to receive a free eBook.

Supporting my erotic fiction helps me maintain this blog and the erotic memoir pieces I've produced here for over a decade. 

Knit Together

July 2026, Provincetown

I lost my beloved basement workshop and kiln when I moved and downsized from the Midwest to the Northeast. Lacking a productive hobby—and also lacking cold-weather accessories—I took up knitting. Whether the craft seemed masculine or not didn’t concern me. I just thought it nifty that I could grab a ball or two of yarn, manipulate it between a couple of needles, and come away with a scarf, or a hat, or as I got better, something big and useful like a sweater.

Since after the move I was also looking for new friends and people to meet, I joined Manhattan’s biggest LGBTQ+ knitting group. Once a month we’d meet at The Center, where in one of the upper story rooms we’d sit around a large table with our current projects, amiably chatting and comparing notes while we listened to the New York City Gay Men’s Chorus rehearse across the hall. Within the space of a couple of years, because of my general air of responsibility, the group’s founder promoted me to his co-leader. My duties were few: I’d arrive a little early to set up the room, stay to strike the chairs and tables, keep lists of local yarn shops and beginner’s resources for curious new members. The space wasn’t free, so I’d collect a nominal few bucks from everyone at meeting’s end to pay for the rental.

I was really fond of the group. I made good friends through it. Yearly we’d make a big potluck picnic out of Knit in Public Day, which in the city was held underneath tents at Bryant Park—dozens of knitting groups across the city, socializing with each other. But the group began to diminish sometime after the first Trump administration. The Center raised its room rental prices to a point that it no longer felt feasible to continue there. We moved to a local library branch where the room was free but less comfortable. The group that had been fifteen to twenty regulars when I’d started diminished to about six or seven. Within a year, that six or seven had shrunk even further—people just didn’t think the library was as genial a place to meet. We investigated a merge with the knitting group run by drag domestic goddess Brini Maxwell at Club Cumming, but the members didn’t like a bar atmosphere. So, after a three-month run in the autumn of 2019 in which I was the only group member who showed up to our meetings, the other leader and I decided, with regrets, to bring the group to a close.

To be fair, we would have been forced to do it a few months later, when COVID hit.

Ever since, I’ve regretted losing this group of people who’d been so essential to my integration to the city. I’d make a big afternoon and evening of knitting group days: hitting my favorite stores in the vicinity, sitting in the park with a book beforehand, treating myself to dinner at a nice restaurant, then two hours laughing with my fabric art friends.

Then afterward, oh afterward, I’d collect the room rental money and see everyone off. Once they were gone, I’d exit the Center and walk a couple of blocks to a familiar townhouse. Sitting on the front steps, waiting for me, would be a young Brazilian man with coarse, wavy hair to his shoulders. Bud, his name was. His dark eyes would have seen my tall frame coming from a distance; they’d follow me, unblinking, until I stood before the stoop. “Hey, Son,” I’d say.

“Dad.” Just one word, but his bass voice would be heavy with meaning. “I missed you.”

“No, I missed you,” I’d say. Then he’d rise, plant a gentle kiss on my lips, take me by the hand, and lead me inside.

For nearly a decade, Bud and I shared a standing date after knitting group. Not once did I have to reach out and remind him; I would simply receive a text of Tonight?, every third Monday of the month. Though over the years Bud’s facial hair changed—sometimes clean-shaven, sometimes a scruffy beard—his townhouse studio apartment never did. He lived in a narrow room boasting sixteen foot ceilings. Over his kitchen and bathroom area he’d built a wooden loft where he slept; a sofa and a fan whirring by the window, no matter what the weather, acted as the living room space. Over the years I grew familiar with the home’s comfortable clutter—the clothes bunched on coat hangers and hung from below the loft, the tall stacks of home goods piled high along the room’s walls. I wasn’t visiting for the spotlessness of my host.

I was there because he would lead me into the room, sit me gently upon that worn, leather sofa, then kneel before me. With solicitous care, he’d remove my shoes. “I really mean it. I missed you, dad,” he’d say. His lips would press against mine as he unbuttoned my shirt, or tugged at the button of my jeans. “You can’t leave your boy like that.”

“I came back as soon as I could,” I’d assure him. Naked, erect cock lolling to one side, I’d lean back against the leather and watch him undress, one garment at a time, until his dark-skinned body would stand over me. Then he’d hold out his hand and haul me up. My skin sounded like the unspooling of plastic wrap, as it peeled away from the leather.

I remember the ladder to his loft as a good eight feet high. He’d scamper up like a cat climbing a tree. I hate ladders, so I’d take the journey more slowly. He’d tenderly help me up the last few steps and help swing my legs over to join him on the queen-sized mattress at the summit. I’d always land on my back, huffing with delight when he’d straddle me with his brown, hairy legs. There was just enough space between the loft mattress and the high ceilings for him to sit upright. “Do you love your boy, daddy?” he would ask.

I don’t really know if Bud knew my name. If he did, he never used it. When we were together, I was always his dad, and that was good enough for the both of us. I used his, though, in a soft sigh as I cupped his face. “Oh, Buddy-boy,” I’d say, pulling him down for a kiss. “I could never love anyone as much as I love my son.”

He’d lift his hips when our mouths would meet. I’d feel his hand around my shaft, followed by wet warmth as he would lower himself down on me. “I feel the same way about you, Dad,” he’d whisper, knitting the two of us together in an embrace.

***

It’s Saturday, the first night of my Provincetown vacation. I’m staying in a rental place steps off Commercial Street, tucked down an alleyway that runs between t-shirt shops. Surprisingly, there’s very little noise. Once I’ve closed the door and stepped inside, all the bells fade away from the rushing pedicabs. No longer am I assaulted by the raucous cries of parties hallooing in the street as they make their drunken way from the Governor Bradford. All I really hear is the buzz of the air conditioning and the refrigerator’s gentle hum. I lie on my bed and weigh my options.

I could head down the street to the Boatslip. Try my luck at the Dick Dock. I’ve heard, though, that the timing is bad this week: high tide is hitting right around this time, when the Dick Dock action would just be getting started. I’d heard from a friend that he’d gone down the night before and found a dozen guys standing forlornly on the ramp, waiting for the waters to recede. The entire area was submerged.

And to be honest, I’m not really keen on playing Dick Dock games. Last year I’d visited the infamous cruising spot a couple of times and found the site’s erotic culture to be utterly desecrated. Hermits had stood with their eyes on their phones, lighting up the place, to check out TikTok instead of cruising. Young gay men afraid to visit the Dick Dock on their own showed up accompanied by two or three straight women for protection, purportedly to ‘take a tour,’ but in reality shutting down any action with their giggling approach and loud, scandalized murmurs. More men than usual wouldn’t take no for an answer. Several folk conducted loud phone conversations over speaker. I’d never seen such dispiriting behavior. Compared to the Dick Dock years before the pandemic, the last couple of seasons felt like returning to a grand old cathedral in which one grew up and finding it inhabited by a Dollar Tree.

No, rather than throw myself on the mercy of the greatly diminished cruising gods, I’ve decided this trip to take a more focused approach to my sexual tourism. I flop down on my king-sized bed and fire up an app. In Provincetown, a resort densely populated with gay men, it’s not unusual to find yourself surrounded by thirty profiles less than twenty feet away. Already I’ve gotten a few nibbles of interest. But I’ve scarcely had the app running for a full minute before a new message pops up. 

Dad? it says. Are you here in town?!

I recognize the profile picture. Bud.

Immediately, I feel pangs of guilt. I haven’t seen my boy since 2019, in the autumn, when that knitting group finally called it a day. Oh, maybe I’d tried once. I vaguely recall one time before the pandemic when I’d texted him out of the blue to meet. But I’d had to hightail my way from the Village’s far east side to west, and he’d had to cut short his regular swim session to get home to connect with me. Something like that. I remembered we were both off our game that last time we’d seen each other.

He’d contacted me since to lament my absence from time to time. And I’d reached out to him, regretting that I no longer visited his neighborhood. Twenty-five miles usually lies between us. Now, it’s only 416 feet. I’m here, I text. You’re so close.

Please see me! I sit up on the bed, loins stirring. I’m staying on the east end of town. I’m at a party at the Crown and Anchor but can be back at my place in ten minutes.

If he’s down the street at the Crown and Anchor’s Tom of Finland party, I reason, he’ll have to pass by my rental on the way back. I suggest he meets me in ten minutes at a nearby corner, then lunge to my cramped little bathroom for a quick refresh.

Out on the street, surrounded by late-night revelers and the caterwauls of a drag queen from a nearby bar, I fret a little. What if I don’t recognize Bud, after so many years? I needn’t worry. I spy him from a block and a half away, taller than I remember. The long hair is now streaked with gray. Instead of fuzz, he’s cultivated a fashionably thick mustache. Bud was all of twenty-seven or twenty-eight when I first knew him; now he’s in his early forties. For the Tom of Finland party, he has donned a tight pair of leather shorts that highlight a particularly muscular pair of dark-skinned thighs, and a complicated crop top—or maybe it’s a halter?—fastened by long red laces. An expanse of furry belly lies between the two. On his feet are a short pair of zip-up boots. Atop his head perches a traditional leatherman's cap. He removes it to run a hand through his locks as he sees me. “Dad!” he says in a soft voice, delighted.

“Son.”

We step close. Then, out there on the street, beneath the streetlight and in front of everyone, he kisses me softly on the lips.

Everything rushes back as together we walk in the direction of his rental. All those nights perched like nesting birds in heights of his loft bed. The times he hadn’t been able to wait and rode me on his sofa. The warmth of his hand on my skin. The way his accented vowels soften his voice, making every word sound as if murmured for my ears alone. “I can’t believe you’ve made me wait for you so long, Dad” Our hips adjoin as we walk down the street, every step in tandem. We must look like we’re running a three-legged race at an Eagle-sponsored picnic. “How could you do it?”

“I’m so sorry, Son,” I murmur. He squeezes me with affection, in response. “It’s not from lack of wanting you.”

“Are you going to take care of your boy’s hole tonight? Are you going to put that big dick inside me and squirt out a load or two?”

“Oh, fuck,” I groan.

He capitalizes on my helplessness with more dirty talk. “Yeah, my dad is going to give me what I need tonight. I haven’t had a load yet this weekend. I haven’t had your load in years. I’m going to take what’s mine.”

I intend to let him keep that promise.

Constantly, we bump into the other as we stride down the street. Most men out this time of night are strolling toward the party in the center of town. They gauge us as we pass, nodding in acknowledgment, sometimes uttering a short greeting. Some of these strangers only have eyes for Bud in his leather gear, but I get looks as well. It might be because I’ve decided to go commando in my shorts and Bud’s sexy blandishments have created a visible tent. But I catch several appraising eyes of younger men, obviously envying Bud his companion. The realization makes me stand a little taller, and draw back my shoulders. I nod to them in return.

We reach our destination in an area of Commercial populated mostly by little art galleries. Several Cape Cod cottages have been connected into one larger structure; Bud opens a gate and leads me down a brick path through an ivy-strewn garden along its side to a private entrance. One hand rests on my back as he pries open the leather pocket on his backside and painfully fishes out a single key from the tight enclosure. Into a vestibule of closed doors he leads me. The walls are hung with cross stitch and old wooden spoons adorned with gingham bows. To my left, a circular stone staircase spirals down to a pitch black cellar, locked and gated off with an iron fence. It both looks and smells like a cursed hellhole out of Widow’s Bay.

Bud’s room continues the hallway’s theme. Someone’s great-grandma has gone mad in here, adding ruffles to every cushion, bows and gewgaws to every picture frame, doorknob, and decorative jar of shells. A high four-poster bed sits against the far wall, a monument of frills atop flounces atop fandangoes. “Gawrsh,” I say, blinded even in the low light of a single hurricane-style lamp by the clashing red-and-white plaids. I feel as if I’ve fallen into a little girl’s cottagecore fantasy.

He seems to understand my meaning. “It was cheap. And available,” is all he says. When he shoves me into one of the rocking chairs, my feet fly off the floor. He kneels and unties my sneakers. Slips them softly off. Caresses my feet, then removes the socks. “I need you bad, Sir,” he whispers. Forget the fucking decor. The flats of his palms skim up my leg hair. Part my thighs. He pulls at the shoulders of my tee. I raise my arms so that he can undress me. “You made me wait.” I gasp at the pressure of his meaty thumbs on my nipples. When he leans in as if for a kiss, I mirror him. But at the last moment, he pulls away, cocks his head, and declares, “I’m not waiting any more.”

Bud yanks on my hands to raise me upward. My pants fall to the floor at his sharp tug. I’m naked before him. Erect. My cock swings up as if I’m readying a weapon.

“Lie down on the bed,” he commands. Already he’s thrown his Muir cap onto one of the several rocking spindle chairs. He’s fussing with the ties of his halter.

I turn to the bed and discover that the mattress top hits me roughly mid-ribcage. To its side lies a set of wooden steps. Even in this Provincetown rental, I’m still having to climb high to get into Bud’s bed. Underneath the four-poster’s flounced tester, I spread my legs wide and watch as Bud skims out of his halter. When he unbuttons those tight leather shorts and his fat hooded cock springs out, I’m reminded a jack released from his box, or of crescent roll dough bursting from its just-cracked tube.

He’s naked when finally he faces me, expression vulnerable. “Do you remember me now?”

Is he kidding? I don’t doubt his sincerity. But does he honestly think I don’t know who he is, after all those years we met? “Son,” I say with reproach. When I open my arms, he uses one of the bed’s lower horizontal beams to vault himself atop me. The wood protests with a squeal. I hold the younger man’s face with both hands and stare into his eyes. “Bud. I have never forgotten you.”

He blinks to clear his eyes. Nods. Then I feel the full weight of him atop me as we embrace. I’ve missed his deep kisses, the sensation of his facial hair grinding against my own. I’ve missed how his long legs grapple with my own as if we’re trying to pull into the other past the skin, deep to the core. I’ve missed the strength of his arms as he pushes me deeper into the old mattress. We should have been seeing each other these past six years. We should have gone out of our way. Kept in better touch.

No matter. We’re together again, here and now.

Strong fingers wrap around my wrists. He pins my arms above my head, locking them down onto the mattress. I let out a little gasp in which helplessness and excitement interlace. “I remember everything,” he whispers. “I remember Dad likes this.”

Yes. Yes Dad does. Through repeated encounters, without my having to tell him, he’d discovered how urgently I sometimes need to be the passive partner in the encounter. My heart thuds in its cage as he shifts his weight to sit upon my midsection, still holding me down. I make a pretense of struggling a little, just to see if he’ll let me escape.

He doesn’t. A smile flickers across his lips. “You aren’t going anywhere until I get what I want.” My cock rises and thuds against his backside. That little Judas, giving away my pleasure. I haven’t been this excited for a very long time.

You see, new meat is exciting. Getting to see a new cock, to hold it in my hands. Kissing someone for the first time. Exploring new smells, feeling a stranger’s hands on you. I’ve no quarrel with any of that. But getting together with a lover or a friend with benefits, someone you’ve known for months or even years? For me, that blows everything else out of the water. Someone who’s taken the time to learn what I like, to push the buttons I hope they’ll push, who exercises his imagination and timing to make the experience right for me in the same way I try to do for him—that’s what I would prefer over the novelty of an unseen dick, nine times out of ten.

Just a week or two ago I was mourning how all my long-term fuckbuddies had dropped away after the pandemic. In Michigan, I had ongoing relationships with some men for eight, ten, fifteen years. I’d seen Bud nearly a decade. These days, in my neck of the woods, I’ve got nobody regular. Hell, I don’t even have any once-in-a-whilers. So yeah. I miss the excitement of a man like Bud, a handsome fellow who over time has learned my triggers and my limitations, and who plays them like an expert fiddler.

He fiddles now with my dick. My wrists, crossed over the head, he clutches with one hand. The other rises to his mouth. He spits, then covers my shaft in his wetness. My protest is performative; he ignores the rumble of discontent in my chest. “Mine,” he says, squaring his jaw. He gazes at me with possessive pleasure and spits in his hand once more.

“Come on, Son.” I wheedle, pretending to protest my captivity. He continues to study me while his closed hand swivels around my length. Jolts from his electric touch make every muscle twitch and leap. “You can’t do this to an old man.”

“I can do it to my old man. I’ve got that right.” Another load of spit, another groan from my lips. “You can’t hold out on me for so long. You can’t pretend you don’t want that big dick up my hole.”

I’d never pretend that. What I can’t communicate in words, though, as he short-circuits my brain again and again with the expert manipulation of my rod, is that he shouldn’t make me want him so badly. He shouldn’t make me beg for it. He shouldn’t make me crave it so much.

All I can do is writhe and stutter.

Triumph floods his eyes. He spits a final time upon his fingers, raises his hips, and slathers it on his hole. All his weight pushes into my crossed wrists as he presses them painfully into the pillows overhead. I don’t protest. My dick slaps with insistence against his backside as he lowers himself. He seizes it, looks me in the eye, and pauses. “You love your boy, don’t you, Dad?”

I swallow hard and nod even harder. “I sure do, Son.”

“Then fuck me.”

Like I have a choice.

Warmth and wetness engulfs me. I gasp and shudder as slowly he doles out my pleasure, inch by half-inch. I want to lunge into him, a long-starved man diving at the banquet of his dreams, but he’s got me locked in place. “You like that.” It’s more sneer than statement, but I cannot resent my sweet sadist. “I can tell. You want it all?”

I nod. “Please. Please let me in.”

“All the way?”

“All the way,” I agree.

“Is that what Dad wants?” I thought I’d made that part clear, but his question is rhetorical. With a spread of his hips, he absorbs another inch. Sensations begin to overwhelm him. His legs quake around me. “Fuck. That feels good.”

“All the way,” I urge him. “Take it, Son. Take Dad’s dick.”

“Yeah.” He grunts and lowers himself further. I can feel his cheeks stirring my pubes. “Dad’s dick needs this.”

“That’s right.” Power ebbs and flows between us. He’s still got me in his grasp, but now I’m the one giving orders. “Open up, Son.”

We both let out cries of happiness when he settles all the way down. I swell to what feels like twice my ordinary proportions, and am gratified when he lets out a pained huff. He’s making me do this. He’s making me gape his hole. The barbarous pride I feel in his ache is all his doing. I’m just a man flat on his back, being used by his son. Not my fault if he can’t take it.

“Motherfucker,” he says, staring at me. His long locks fall around his face as he begins to rise and fall, connected to me, ass to cock. “Keeping this dick from me for so long. You’re not a good Dad.”

“Yeah?” I raise my neck, look him in the eyes with challenge. “Take it out on me, then.”

“Oh, I’m gonna.”

“Do your worst, kid.”

And he does. I’m surprised at the ferocity of him, the violence with which he impales himself upon me. Time after time I’m certain I’m about to slither out of him, or that he’ll lose control and slam back down at a bad angle. He never does. Not once does my cock’s head leave his chute, though the ridge teases and flicks at the outermost pucker. This fuck is all about him. His needs. Mine are incidental—though trust me, they’re being met in full. He pulls into a fetal position atop me to maneuver himself up and down with an economy of motion.

From above, I feel his sweat drip down on my chest. His dick leaks slime on my abdomen. He’s a big boy down there, thick and uncut, so every slap of his ass causes his meat to land heavily on my belly a quarter-beat later. He accompanies that sweet syncopation with grunts that sound feral to my grateful ears. “Motherfucker,” he says over and over.

He has his way with me in sharp, short thrusts. Gravity seems to be dragging him down into me, the longer we knit our bodies together. His knees weigh on my ribcage; his forehead bores into my own. Bud releases my wrists, then takes my two hands in his own, interlocking our fingers. His hair tickles my ears, now; his lips press against mine. I welcome his tongue between my lips. Now his cock thrusts against me, his precum making my skin slippery enough to slide against. His breath becomes ragged—but mine is, too, the more relentless he is in leading me to my climax.

“Fuck!” The rickety four-poster rattles and squeals with his thrusts, protesting. I expect it to shatter into a hundred thousand splinters at any moment. “Fuck!” His dick chars my stomach as he shoves into it. Then I feel wetness sliding down my side. “Fuck yes!”

“Did you shoot, Son?” I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but I hope to hear his affirmation.

He releases my hands and cups my skull, his hips still rising and falling with the relentlessness of a piston. “Give it to me,” he demands in a cracked voice. “You owe me.”

I do. I owe him six years of seed. He gives me no choice but to pay up.

When I shoot, my juice scalds me on its exit; a column of fire sears its way up my spine and makes me clench and grasp at his hands. Bud holds me down to keep me from thrashing, but I buck and jolt anyway, clenching my teeth to an orgasm that feels a lot more like pain than joy. “That’s right.” He sits up now and holds his hands behind his bed, sitting himself firmly on my staff. “Give me all of that stuff.”

The moment subsides. The room falls quiet. Both of us still panting, we regard each other with steady eyes. I crack into a smile that I’m pleased to see return. He hauls me into sitting upright. For a moment, I fear I might flop back down like a ragdoll. But he scoops me into another embrace and gives me a squeeze. “Thank you, Dad. That was long overdue” I nod weakly over his shoulder. “I’m going to go back to that party and carry you inside me all night.”

Oh, crap. That is the sexiest thing I’ve heard in a while. When he releases me, I swing my legs around and fumble for the wooden stairs that will allow me to dismount the four-poster. He’s already vaulted on the floor, and offers me a gallant hand while I regain my balance. “That is just what I needed, Son,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

“Anything for my dad.” He’s already squeezing back into those ridiculously tight shorts, so I pull on my own clothes and wait for him. Not long after, we’re back out in the cool night air, his arm around me as we head west on Commercial Street. A leather man and his dad, out for a Saturday night in a resort town.

We pause for the last time in front of the Portuguese bakery. “Maybe we could meet up another time this week?” I suggest. It would be a shame to pass up our proximity.

He nods. “Don’t forget me, Dad.” Then, with a last kiss in front of anyone who might be watching, he strides off in the direction of the Crown and Anchor.

Forget Bud? As if I could.

***

Hey! If you've made it this far, chances are you enjoy my sexual memoir pieces. May I suggest you invest in one of my works of sexy erotica? 

If you enjoy vintage-style collections of hot, retro-themed gay fiction penned by some great authors of man on man erotica, please consider supporting me with a purchase of either Dirty Dorms & Fresh Men (which features my story Sleazy A), Hustlers, Hoboes, & Outlaws (which features my story On the Block), Same Sex: Gay Science Fiction Clone Erotica (which features my story Journey's End), Come Young and Old: Gay Age Gap Erotica, (which features my story The Good Dad), Mowing & Blowing: Gay Sex in the Garden (which features my story The Most Dangerous Flower), or Comin' Down the Road: Queer Science Fiction on the Highways & Byways (which features my short novel A Globe, Granite Underfoot).

Sleazy A is also available in epub format from Smashwords and in Kindle format from Amazon.

On the Block is available as an ebook from Amazon and Smashwords.

The publishing house for these projects can be found at Peterschutes.com . There are already many vintage-style pulps on sale over there, with more to come. If you sign up for the site's newsletter, you’ll be eligible to receive a free eBook.

Supporting my erotic fiction helps me maintain this blog and the erotic memoir pieces I've produced here for over a decade. 

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.

***

Hey! If you've made it this far, chances are you enjoy my sexual memoir pieces. May I suggest you invest in a work of no-holds-barred sexy fiction? I've written a story called Sleazy A for an anthology entitled Dirty Dorms & Fresh Men. 

Dirty Dorms & Fresh Men is a vintage-style collection of hot, retro college-themed X-rated fiction penned by some pretty great authors of man on man erotica. And Sleazy A is based on some of my own college sexcapades. I'm very proud of it, and would be most pleased if you'd order a copy today. I'm providing the link, below!

The publishing house for this project can be found at Peterschutes.com . There are already ten vintage-style pulps on sale over there, with more to come. If you sign up for their newsletter, you’ll be eligible to receive a free eBook.

Order your copy of Dirty Dorms and Fresh Men right now!

Dick Dock 2024: The Old Man and the Sea

Provincetown: Bear Week 2024

Last winter, I hit a milestone that really messed with my head.

The only other birthday ever really to break my stride happened when I turned twenty-nine. The night before, I convinced myself I was entering the last year of my youth and that everything would be downhill from there. I actually wept. When thirty came around, I was smart enough not to mind, even though the decade that followed felt like the most invisible part of my life. Forty didn’t make me quake in my boots, and turned out to be such a great era for me that I glided into my fifties on a wave of confidence.

Sixty, though. Fuck. It hit me hard. Sixty's old. Over the hills even. Age is just a number, I used to coo to old men during my twink days. It was a tidy little aphorism to spout when I was in my teens and twenties. It sounds a little more hollow at this end.

And honestly, after the pandemic years, I haven’t felt the same self-assurance. After taking a break from hooking up during 2020-2022, I tiptoed back into the scene to find an entirely different landscape—one in which every guy seemed determined to insult or ghost me. I had to question whether the quest for release was worth it at all.

And right now, standing at the ramp leading down to the Dick Dock, in Provincetown? God damn, but I know I’m in for disappointment.

Last year, when I’d vacationed on the Cape, I’d encountered all kinds of Romper Room fuckery when I’d ventured this way for some post-midnight shenanigans. The dock was a mess. Every other cruiser had his phone out—most to check out Grindr or Scruff while ignoring the guys looking for partners in the here and now, which annoyed me. A couple used their phone’s flashlights to illuminate the ground before them. One was shining it in the faces of cruisers to see what they looked like, arousing near-violent reactions from the men he blinded.

Then there were the sexual gadabouts that were so common, last year. Weirdos who would hove up out of nowhere until they were nose to nose with me just to…stare, I guess. Puritan gay couples who would stand between the beach stairs and entryway beneath the dock to peer into the dark space while holding loud conversations: IS THIS THE DICK DOCK? I GUESS IT IS. DO YOU SEE ANYBODY? NO, DO YOU SEE ANYBODY? NO. MAYBE IT’S TOO EARLY? I HEAR IT’S MOSTLY SLUTS AND WHORES ANYWAY. DO YOU WANT TO GO LOOK? I DON’T KNOW. DO YOU WANT TO GO LOOK? And maybe worst of all, the voyeuristic young gays too timid to venture into the cruising space on their own, so they'd bring packs of women with them for a tour of the town’s seediest secret. These sad groups huddled close together and giggled loudly and with shock and horror at the sight of the figures grinding in the shadows, ruining the atmosphere for anyone actually endeavoring for a good time.

The one time last year I started to get handsy with a sexy man beneath the dock, some kid just came out of nowhere, like a shark at chum in the water, phone in hand, snapping photos with the flash on at the general vicinity of our crotches. My partner was so angry he slapped the phone out of the boy’s hand and into the sand, then stomped away. I abandoned ship as well, unwilling to invest any more time into a venue that clearly wasn’t going to yield any returns.

That year, I never went back.

But here I am, Sunday night—Monday morning, really, since it’s after midnight—horny and looking for something quick. Something uninvolved. I’d spent a few hours the night before with a local, making out and gobbling down each other’s dicks like hungry animals in the dude’s basement-level flat, cooled only by the metal blades of an old-fashioned rotary fan. Then I’d flipped his furry butt over and given him exactly what he begged for. It had been the type of passionate, no-holds-barred encounter lasting several hours that I prefer, but tonight I don’t have that kind of energy. 

All day I’ve been walking. I’ve closed the exercise ring on my watch four times over, and don’t feel like plodding any long distances for a hookup. The Boatslip sits a mere block from where I’m staying. The Dick Dock beneath it seems like the easiest solution to my horniness. But even as I stride down Atlantic to the ramp and wood steps that empty out onto the beach, I’m already thinking to myself that if there’s the slightest bit of nonsense going on, anything that tweaks my bullshit meter…I’ll be out of there.

When I take a left and duck beneath the deck’s outer edge, it takes my streetlight-dazzled eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. The sounds, though—they hit me like a wave the moment I’m beneath the wooden planks. Grunts. Groans. The wet glissando of lips against shaft. The slap of a hand against an ass. In the distance, the gargled distress of someone who’s had his throat pushed past its limits. As my eyes adjust, I see the shapes of half-nude men around me, their skins blue-gray in the shade. Scores of them huddle in small groups across the sheltered sand, some against the foundations, others against the pilings, some pants-down and bending over the cross beams. Scores? Nah, there’s a hundred, probably even a hundred and fifty cruisers engaged in a mass bacchanal this July night.

And I think to myself, shit.

Because, you see, too many guys hunting for dick is not always the bonanza you hope for. It’s like what happens at a restaurant with too extensive a selection of entrees: you assume that with page after page of delicacies, you’ll find the perfect dish to hit the spot. Instead, they all start to look delicious. You find yourself paralyzed, unable to choose, full of fear that you’ll miss out on something tastier than what’s within reach. With so many men tonight, the Dick Dock is the motherfucking old-school twenty-four-page Cheesecake Factory of menus. I trudge through the crowd, sneakers crunching on the sand, trying to find a clear spot to orient myself.

All types are out tonight. There’s just enough light to make out certain characteristics of the men I pass—their height, certainly, a general idea of their body shape and weight. I can make out the silhouette of a full beard against the sands beyond the deck’s underside, but the gloom renders invisible lesser mustaches and stubble. Sometimes I can tell an old man by his posture, or a young man by his gait. I nod as I push past traditional bears, round and furry and squeezable. A Black man with a long ponytail of braids bumps against me in passing, his shirt open to reveal muscles that reflect deep blue in the eternal dusk here. He’s taller than I, and apologizes by a squeeze to my shoulder. In his wake chase multiple admirers, all hopeful for his attention.

The fleet of pursuers gives the braided man the air of a minor celebrity being chased by paparazzi. Or maybe a porn star. Which isn’t all that unlikely, this week: I’ve already crossed paths with two actors from porn just walking Commercial Street. On my left congregate men in harnesses and jocks giving each other encouragement, sotto voce, as the largest plows the smallest. Some hopeful older men stand solo against the metal beams, shorts down, ass pointed back, anxious for someone to take position behind them.

With every step I take, the more certain I am that I’m not going to get laid tonight. It’s not an issue of my age. Well, maybe to a certain extent. Throughout my sexual career, I’ve always abhorred the idea of being perceived as a sex pest. I won't come on to a guy unless he's sending clear signals. Being seen as an elderly sex pest seems exponentially worse. Never in my life have I pushed my way into the middle of a orgiasts to leech erotic energy like some kind of barnacle. That’s not my style. I never, ever assume people want me. Tonight I’ll make myself available by walking past the seething masses and planting myself at the only uncrowded section at the—sigh—last few feet before the decking above gives way to open beach. If someone chooses me, fine. Not that anyone’s going to be desperate enough to make this long trek.

It’s all right. I’ll stand alone here for a few minutes, watch waves lap the sand, listen to people enjoy themselves, then head home. These old bones are usually in bed by now, anyway, and one night of not popping my cork won’t hurt me. Hands in my pockets I lounge, shoulder abutting the next to last of the metal pilings, while I try to console myself with thoughts like, You had a pretty good run!, or, Celibacy isn’t all that bad, buddy! Think of how much more time you’ll have for...uh...bonsai and sudoku! Resigned to a lonely night, I settle back and wait.

Then a guy sidles up, not two feet away. I get an impression of skin and leather and very little else. My eyes slide sideways to check him out: the dude’s a stunner. Maybe five foot eight of lean muscle and bubble butt, dressed up in snowy cut-off denim shorts, spanking white sneakers, and as equally bright a harness. This guy doesn’t look like your typical Bear Week visitor. He’s ready for a White Party. I’m in the midst of checking him out and wondering why in the world he’s wasting his time down at this end of the dock, when his eye catches mine. Oh, snap, I realize, panicked. He’s checking me out.

Well, well.

I extend my hand slightly at the waist, upward and open, in what’s accepted as the Dick Dock’s universal sign for welcome. I’m certain he won’t do anything. He’s probably wondering why the old coot next to him dares to look his way. I shouldn’t have even made the gesture at all. In fact, I’ll just return my hand to my pockets…

Then he lunges. I find my spine slammed against the metal pillar as his hands wrestle mine, clutching hard as he pins my arms up and to the side. His weight squeezes all the breath from my lungs as he presses with hunger against me. I’m astonished when, as he stands on tiptoes, his mouth covers mine and his tongue forces its way inside. He tastes sweetly of hops, and smells of a lightweight cologne, but what I register most strongly through my shock is the way that in his passion, he releases our hands to cup the back of my head. The man pulls me in, holding on to prevent me from escaping.

Like I want to escape. It’s been far too long since a stranger kissed me with this ferocity. I can feel him melt into my embrace when I crook an arm around his substantial chest. I follow his lead and run the flat of my palm across the back of his skull. His hair is styled with a short undercut, so while the bristles of the sides and back rake my hand, my fingers entangle themselves into the thick, curly mop at the crown. His face is covered with a sexy stubble that grinds into my beard. He must be a stunner in the light. My hands move from his head down his ropy shoulders, take a detour to explore the rock-hard stub tenting the front of his shorts, and then move upward, so I can tweak his nipples.

The sensations send waves of pure pleasure throughout his body. I squeeze harder to make him quake. It’s with an effort that he wrenches himself away to stare in my eyes. “Fuck,” he rasps. “Why didn’t you stop when I grabbed for you?” I shake my head, not understanding. “Back there.” He jerks his head toward the beach ramp. “I was trying to get your attention when you walked by.”

“I didn’t see,” I say. It almost feels like I should apologize, but I don’t get the chance. He’s already popped a squat to tug my shorts down. I believe in dressing light, when I visit the Dick Dock. No phone to worry about. No underwear to fuss with. Tonight it’s just a tee, a scandalously small pair of sweat shorts with my room key in the pocket, my watch, and a pair of sneakers. My erection pops out, released from its jersey prison; my new friend expertly catches it between his lips. It’s like the sexiest circus trick I’ve ever seen.

I’m not given much chance to admire the acrobatics, though. The man engulfs me to the root, expertly throating my dick to the base. He’s relishing it, allowing it to slip and slide between his lips into the most moist recesses. And as he works, a crowd moves in. They’re sexual symbiotes, attracted by heat and lust, honing in to feed. Someone pulls up my tee and hooks it around the back of my neck. An invisible hand reaches around to squeeze and probe my ass. There’s a mouth on my nipple, then another on the spare. Someone tries to pull my head to the side, to kiss me; another moves in behind to nuzzle my neck and rub his dick against my posterior. I don’t resist. None of them feels as good as the man sucking my dick, but each contributes to my bliss.

Now I’m leaning back against some stranger’s naked chest, allowing him to support my weight as his arms encircle my rib cage; his mouth nuzzles against my ear. I can’t distinguish his hands from the dozen others touching me—reaching for my balls, rubbing against the base of my dick, stroking my belly, investigating my beard, riffing across my brush cut. Beside me, one stocky bear leans back to allow another to go down on him. I reach out and grab his balls to give them a tug. We exchange a brief kiss.

My White Party refugee rises with my help. “I need that monster in my butt,” he growls, spitting on his hand and rubbing it on his ass. He steps out of his shorts and hangs them over one of the horizontal girders above, then turns so he’s facing away from me. I know what to do.

I’ve barely aligned my knob with his hole than the stranger lets out a cry. I’m worried I might have hurt him, somehow, though I’ve not even made it in. I pause, concerned, as he stands, straightens, and stiffens. When he turns, though, it’s to fling a thick rope of semen onto the ground, where it lands with a splat. “Sorry, guy,” he says in a normal voice. “I got too excited.” He wipes off the head of his dick and shakes off another glob. “You had that effect on me.”

“Thanks,” is all I say. The spell broken, all the men who had flocked around me dissipate. The fellating pair to my side nod and separate. No one moves in to take the White Party man’s place, so my dick waves and bobs in the empty air for a moment before, with reluctance, I bend to pull up my shorts and wrestle myself back in my tee.

Oh well. It was hot for the few minutes it lasted, right? Standing at the epicenter of a writhing mass, soaking up the attention of a dozen or more men. It was kind of a taste of the good old days, wasn’t it? Something I can think about, later tonight, when I take matters into my own hand? Not bad for an old codger, maybe. There’s still a lot of sweat on my face. I use my tee to mop it up, then ready myself to head home.

“Don’t go,” says a voice in my ear. In the darkness, wiping my face, I’d not noticed the man approach. When his fingers curl around my neck and his mouth covers mine, I realize he’s the Black man I’d passed shortly after my arrival. He’s the only person taller than I down here; I have to tilt my head back to meet his kiss. His heavy braids drape like thick velvet over my shoulder. I run my hands over his abs, his chest, still not completely convinced this is happening. Why in the world would a man of this caliber approach an old fart like me? Over his shoulder, I can see a gaggle of hopefuls still encircling him at a respectful distance, obviously hoping he’ll choose them instead. Yet I’m his pick, apparently.

Then, as I feel his hands once again sliding my shirt over my head, some very weary part of me speaks up. It’s because he finds you attractive, dumbass, it says, annoyed. Stop questioning. Start enjoying.

Like a good self-sub, I obey.

A new selection of symbiotes closes around us. They remove his shirt, pull down his pants, slide mine to the sand. The man’s dick falls huge and weighty in my palm. The tiny noises he makes as I squeeze it arouse me further. He swats off the parasites trying horn their way between us, and pulls me close to him for a full-on embrace. “Do you fuck, baby?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper, still marveling at the novelty of being in the arms of a man taller and larger than I. “Love to fuck.” Then I panic. Is this man asking me if I like fucking in general? If I like fucking as a top? Or if I like being fucked? Because from what I can tell, his uncut cock is roughly as thick around as my forearm, and my hole hasn’t been plundered in…nearly nine years? Ten? Is it too late to take it back? Tell him I don’t fuck?

He solves my crisis by spinning one hundred and eighty degrees in front of me and leaning backward so that now he’s in my arms. “I want that big dick in me,” he whispers. “Will you?”

I decide the question’s rhetorical.

It’s the work of only a moment to apply some of my spit to his hole, and another load of it to my cock. He bends from the waist like a dancer, scooping his deep chest close to the sand and drawing apart his legs. It's a dextrous pose. There’s no cry of dismay when I sink myself inside, no premature conclusion. Only warm flesh and a hole that needs filling. By the time I slide all the way in, the crowd has moved in around me. I feel hands on the point where dick meets hole, on my nipples, in my hair, my beard, my hole. One of my partner’s would-be entourage is trying to encourage him to suck his dick, but my partner is too busying urging me on with wordless combinations of consonants and vowels to comply. When the braided man reaches back to plant his hands on my hips to urge me in more deeply, I have to double-check to make sure it’s really him, following the fingers to wrists to elbows to their source.

He stands, though, once more leaning back against me while I continue grinding inside. Over his shoulder he cranes his long neck to kiss me, while between us falls that long and weighty curtain of braids. I place my hand on the side of his face, letting his light beard scrape my palm. My other hand searches for a nipple to tug on. Although I can trace the outline of his thick pecs, I can’t find a nipple. There has to be a nipple, right? Not on the other side, either. Are they innies, and I’m just not locating them?

Forget the nipples. They’re a minor detail in what should be a tidal wave of gratification. A man wearing nothing but a white jock and black harness leans over to kiss me. I let his tongue explore my mouth as I thrust, over and over, into the wet ass occupying my attention. My braided friend presses his palms against the bottom of the decking above and arches his back, easily spanning the distance from ceiling to shore. “Come in me, baby,” he prays. “I want your load inside all night.”

Encouragement like that is difficult to resist. The masses circulating around us seem to agree that it’s time. I feel a hand on the small of my back, urging me inside, a pair of lips on my neck, a mouth on my nipple. Someone reaches beneath to stroke my balls and coax out the seed within. Hard cocks press against me, anxious for attention. I keep my hands firmly planted on the braided man’s hips, however, and lunge away.

When I release, it’s with a loud cry that turns heads. The man leans back so that the tight coils of his hair fall onto my sweaty face; his convex posture urges me to empty myself as deeply inside as I can. Strange lips search for mine, but I’m too dazzled by the fireworks in my vision to respond. My thrusts become gentler, softer, the stirring of a spoon rather than the stab of a knife. Then, with a squelch, I flop out.

My new friend turns to wrap his arms around my neck and draw me close. His lips surround mine completely, in his deep kiss. “You are what every man hopes to find here,” he says, to my astonishment. Then he boops me on the nose with a fingertip. “You are a god-damned gem.” Half of me wants to dodge both barrels of praise. The more egotistical half wishes he’d fired them a little more loudly, for everyone to hear.

Then he grabs his shirt, slides it on without buttoning up, squeezes my hand, and disappears. A half dozen men scamper after him, hoping for leftovers. A handful linger around me, hoping to be my next choice, but I’m drained. After tugging up my shorts, I stumble weak-kneed over the sand, past the scores of men hunting for someone, toward the southern egress.

It’s not until I’ve climbed the steps back up and am stamping sand from my sneakers that I realize how thoroughly my expectations have been exceeded, for once. Maybe age is just a number. Maybe I can still hold my own.

After dark, I chide myself, before my head swells too much larger than it already is. Beneath the dock. Where it’s pretty damned dim.

Still, I consider, as I start the walk back to my accommodations. Maybe sixty’s not shaping up so badly, after all.

***

Hey! If you've made it this far, chances are you enjoy my sexual memoir pieces. May I suggest you invest in an upcoming work of no-holds-barred sexy fiction? I've written a story called Sleazy A for an anthology entitled Dirty Dorms & Fresh Men. 

Dirty Dorms & Fresh Men is a vintage-style collection of hot, retro college-themed X-rated fiction penned by some pretty great authors of man on man erotica. And Sleazy A is based on some of my own college sexcapades. I'm very proud of it, and would be most pleased if you'd preorder a copy today. I'm providing the link, below!

The publishing house for this project can be found at Peterschutes.com . There are already ten vintage-style pulps on sale over there, with more to come. If you sign up for their newsletter, you’ll be eligible to receive a free eBook.

Order your copy of Dirty Dorms and Fresh Men right now!