Dick Dock 2024: Bear Bait

Provincetown: Bear Week 2024

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s time to hit the Dick Dock.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m Scottish,” I apologize.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just kinda felt we had to…”

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

“What’s your name?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You love it,” I declare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, I feel it. “Good boy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I do.

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

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

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

“You are very welcome.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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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.

***

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Straight Boy

Saturday night at the Governor Bradford. Two days after Halloween. The joint is packed; at both the front and back bar, staff bustle to keep up with the drink orders. The Black and Gold Ball is taking place down the street at the Town Hall; a little further down, at the Crown and Anchor, men are packed into the Wave for the Spooky Bear dance. Townies and gays alike crowd the Governor Bradford’s battered and sticky tables. Most wear costumes. I’m comfortably installed a bench directly across from the bar’s stage, where a drag queen busily attends to the karaoke queue.

Another group of townies swarm in, seeking seats. They shuffle to where we’re sitting. One of the party is a woman dressed as Nurse Ratched—I can tell because she’s wearing a white nurse’s uniform with a stick-on tag that reads HELLO MY NAME IS Nurse Ratched. She points to the empty chairs on the other side of my table. The noise of a drunk local singing ‘Sweet Caroline’ is so loud, and the sound system so ancient and staticky, that there’s no chance I can hear her soft treble over the cacophony. I assume she’s asking if the seats are unoccupied, however, so I nod and point and mime somehow that it’s okay for her to arrange them in a row in front of us. Nurse Ratched and her crew—a man in an Adam West mask and gray Batman uniform and a woman I assume is supposed to be his Catwoman, and a witch who’s seemingly raided Stevie Nicks’ skirt closet—arrange themselves with their backs to us. Nurse Ratched stands up to wave over a man in a doctor’s lab coat and, improbably, a rainbow-colored Bozo wig.

“Will I be blocking you if I sit here?” shouts the doctor, as he straddles the chair directly in front of me.

“You’re good. You’re good,” I reassure him.

“You sure?” Onto his lap the doctor rests the kind of oversized leather bag that Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman might’ve lugged around.

I hold up my hand and smile, to tell him he’s good.

I’ve already sung once on this noisy Saturday night. So many costumed partiers are stopping here before heading to their revels, though, that the queue of performers is long. Remarkably few are any good. In the center of the restaurant, on the brightly-lit stage that’s flanked by two giant inflatable black felines, another drunk is massacring “Walking in Memphis” so painfully that the cat-masked drag queen doing the hosting is smiling to herself and hiding behind her computer screen, struggling not to laugh. It’s terrible, but the point of karaoke is that no one really cares: everyone in the crowd roars along with the chorus about their feet being ten feet off of Beale, filling out the melody in ways the singer cannot.

At last the song mercifully ends, everyone cheers and applauds wildly. The drunk staggers offstage wearing the smile of a man who assumes he’s nailed it. When everyone at a karaoke joint agrees to a low bar for success…maybe he has.

My friends are on their fourth round of drinks, and I on my third Diet Coke, when another group invades our territory. Three men, three women, all in their late twenties or very early thirties, muffled in puffy coats. None of them are costumed; all are obviously grateful to be inside and away from the Cape Cod winds. They crash down with some force into seats to my left. From the way they weave and laugh a little too loudly, over too little, I can tell they’ve been drinking already. The women are laughing and chattering with excitement at the crowd; their eyes dash around the room from costume to costume. “Honey!” yells the blonde closest to me, as she struggles out of her coat and scarf. “Honey! Look at the two Eltons!”

At a table to my right sit a gay couple dressed as Elton John; the older and more inebriated of the two is wearing a ruffled and bedecked Elton jumpsuit in flamingo hues. His headdress is so elaborate and wide that whenever he turns his shoulders, its ostrich feathers dip into his neighbors’ drinks. I’ve had to pluck plastic straws from it several times already, when no one else would. The younger is dressed in a sequined baseball uniform that’s open to his navel. His chest is muscular and hairy. All the women, and all the gay guys, can’t keep their eyes off him.

The dude the blonde called honey plops down next to me, sharing my table. There’s not enough room on the benches for him to sit with the other couples. He’s kind of an adorable little bulldog of a straight boy, in his Syracuse hat and his bulky sweatshirt, his two-day growth of scruff. “Hey buddy,” he says, nodding at me. I’m feeling a little odd sitting shoulder to shoulder with a straight jock, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Okay to sit here?”

“Sure,” I tell him. My hip’s already against a division of the bench, so there’s not much further for me to slide. I make a show of attempting it, anyway.

“You singing?” he says, his hooded eyes directly meeting mine. The noise level in the Governor Bradford is crazy already, but even taking that into account, he’s speaking a little loudly; I can tell he’s been drinking for a good portion of the night. “You gonna get up there and sing for us?”

“Later,” I promise. His response is to grin at me and raise a clenched left hand. Oh, I think to myself, for a surprised moment. This is what the kids call a fist bump. I’ve only fist-bumped kids before. I graze my knuckles against his, then manage to fumble through some kind of elaborate man-shake that involves clasping, slapping, and more bumping. When it’s finally over I feel dazed and a little giddy. I haven’t done anything quite so hetero in years.

“How about your boyfriend?” he asks, nodding at my other side.

Whoops. I guess I’ve been clocked. The dude is pretty matter-of-fact about it, though; it’s always seemed as if the straights in Ptown understand what they’re getting into when they visit. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I say over the caterwauling singer. “And no, he’s not singing.”

“Oh, so you’re the singer in the relationship, huh?” he says. His mouth is so close to my ear that I can feel the warmth of his breath tickling its tiny hairs.

I laugh. “He’s not my boyfriend,” I repeat.

“Oh, oh!” He punches me on the shoulder in a manly way. “Footloose and fancy-free, huh?” His words are a little hesitant as he talks through his mild inebriation, but he’s friendly and kind of cute…and let’s face it. I’m easily charmed. “Good for you, dude.”

The blonde has already made a trip between the two bobbing inflatable cats to retrieve a few karaoke slips and a golf pencil. She’s scribbling something down to give to the drag queen. “And she’s your wife?” I ask.

“Four years in January.”

“Well, congrats.”

When one of the guy’s friends punches him to ask a question, he moves his attention away from me. It feels a little weird to be sitting so close to a stranger. Even by New York City rush hour subway standards, our hip-to-hip adjacency feels alien. He doesn’t seem to mind, though—and his wife and his friends don’t care. So why should I? I give myself permission to enjoy the proximity of a cute straight boy half my age.

I’m not really upset when Syracuse’s wife gets called to the stage before I get a second shot—some karaoke hosts try to let as many people have a first song before beginning the rotation again. I’m not going anywhere. I’m in no rush. The blonde gets up on stage, yells out, “Peeee Tooowwwwn!” and then, “This one is for my honey!” before pointing at the boy at my left elbow. I glance at him. He’s grinning up a storm, watching his wife through the screen of his phone as he videos her performance. She’s chosen a Beyonce power tune. It’s not a bad rendition at all. She’s more on pitch than just about everyone else, at least, and while she’s prone to shouting out “WOO!” at odd intervals, it’s clear she’s having fun.

“She’s good!” I tell my neighbor. “She’s really good!”

“I know, right?” His entire focus is on her. It’s sweet.

The wife’s girlfriends are out on the floor in front of the stage, dancing. When the blonde steps forward off the stage, she and her friends attempt a twerk line that doesn’t quite work out. The husband catches every moment of it on tape. I’m wondering exactly how much she’ll appreciate the incriminating footage the next day. But honestly, he’s so into his wife’s performance that my cold black heart can’t help but melt a little.

When the song is over, I congratulate the blonde on a job well done. The three couples order a celebratory round of drinks from the front bar. The orange-and-pink Elton takes his place at the stage to shout out Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer.” There’s another straw hanging from his headdress.

Midway through the qu’est-que c’ests, Nurse Ratched and her crew rise from the chairs directly in front of us. It’s time for them to hit the Black and Gold Ball. None of us have talked to any of them all evening, but they all make a show of waving and smiling as they exit. Only the rainbow-wigged doctor lingers behind.

“Sorry if I blocked your view,” he says to me.

“Oh no. It’s fine.”

“Let me prescribe you something for your trouble.” He opens his leather medicine bag and digs into it. I hear a rattling of glass At last he produces a little bottle and hands it over.

“Well thanks!” I tell him. How many of those did he have in there? I read the label after he’s gone. Spiced rum. My stomach heaves a little, but still. It’s a nice gesture.

The drag queen at last calls my name. “YEAH!” yells the straight boy through cupped hands, even though I’m still all of about three inches away. “KNOCK ‘EM DEAD!”

I’m laughing still when I ascend the little stage. “Hi again, darling,” says the drag queen. Her cat tail bangs against the curtains in back as she hands over the microphone.

While she queues up the song on her laptop, I lean over and say, “It kind of seems that tonight you’re less karaoke hostess and more babysitter.”

“Well,” she says, grinning. “I am so glad that someone noticed. Thank you, honey.”

When I’m in a karaoke bar that’s packed, I tend to keep away from ballads and stick to songs that get people dancing. So I’ve put in a request for “Jump in the Line.” It’s one of my better tunes, and its appearance in Beetlejuice gives it a slight Halloween connection. When the familiar calypso strains begin blaring over the loudspeaker, the drag queen raises her arms in the air and begins twirling. The fringe hanging from the arms of her catsuit flies everywhere.

I’m bouncing my knees and thrusting my hips in time to the beat. When I start bellowing out instructions to shake, shake, shake, Sinora, I hear whooping from the vicinity of the bench opposite the stage. My straight buddy is fist-pumping with one hand, and...oh god, videoing me with his camera in the other. Oh well. At least he’s enthusiastic. The three women in his group are already on the floor in a conga line, and other people from around the bar are joining.

I’m unable to keep a straight face through the song as the drag queen and I dance onstage, because her fringe keeps slapping me in the face as she twirls. “Best car wash I ever had!” I call out, during a break in the lyrics. She shrugs and spins some more, laughing with genuine amusement. Mr. Syracuse has abandoned taping me, I notice with some relief. He’s out on the dance floor with a score of other bar patrons, spinning around with a beer in his hand as the conga line snakes around him.

People are having fun. The drag hostess looks like she’s getting a break from tuneless drunks. I’m enjoying myself. The song feels like it’s over too soon, and to a round of enthusiastic applause I thank the crowd, hand back the mic, and step down from the stage. I’ve done a good job.

Or maybe—I think, as I wend my way back to my seat through a flurry of back slaps—maybe I’m just that clueless guy who thinks he’s nailed it.

“DUDE.” The straight guy is slapping my hand hard the moment I sit down. “You ROCKED.”

“Hey, thanks,” I laugh, as I settle back down on the bench. Something in my pocket makes sitting difficult, though.

“Did you see all the people dancing?” he asks. “You were crazy good.”

“I saw you dancing,”I say. I reach into my pocket. I’d forgotten I’d shoved the tiny flight-sized bottle in there. I slap it down and push it in front of my straight buddy. “Want a shot?”

He stares at the bottle, then reaches for it. “What is it?”

“Spiced rum. Some guy dressed as a doctor prescribed it for me earlier.”

The guy examines the label. “You don’t want it?”

“I don’t have the stomach for spiced....” My words trail off as the straight boy uncaps the bottle without hesitation and downs it in a single swig. I actually had in mind a little addendum to my speech about how I didn’t think it wise to chug from bottles given to me by strangers, but at this point a warning would be moot. The dude is already slapping the empty container on the table, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and giving me a thumbs-up.

I just laugh and shake my head as I stand. “I’m heading to the bathroom,” I tell my friend on the right. Up on the stage, a woman in her mid-fifties is gyrating her hips and wailing out the lyrics to “My Humps.” I have to push through the three twerking wives to get through the dance floor. On the way toward the back, a few people shake my hand as congratulations for my recent performance. I laugh, thank them, and try to pick my way through the packed tables toward the men’s rooms.

The restroom is a veritable oasis of peace, compared to the taproom outside. The fixtures are old and worn, like everything else in the Governor Bradford, but I’m just there to piss. I hear the door behind me swing open on its creaky hinges, admitting another blast of “My Humps.” I shake, zip, and turn to wash my hands.

Syracuse is leaning against the toilet stall, blocking the men’s room door. In the brightness of the restroom, I can tell he’s drunk enough that he’s using the sturdy frame to keep himself standing. “Hey,” I say, soaping up. “Your wife was really good earlier. Is she a singer?”

“You don’t like rum?” He’s not quite slurring. But he’s inebriated enough to be amusing.

I rinse, and grab for a paper towel. “What? Oh.” I wipe off the moisture. “Spiced rum is just not my thing.”

I’m ready to head back out. He doesn’t exactly step in my way and block me, when I move for the door. On the other hand, he’s not exactly moving aside, either. “You want to see what it tastes like?”

“Huh?”

This time he does block my exit by propelling himself from his leaning position until he’s standing in front of me. The dude is only five-six, something like that, so he has to tilt his head back slightly to look me in the eye. “I said,” he repeats, loudly and clearly, as if I’m the drunk one, “do you wanna see what it tastes like?”

“I’m not sure what….”

That’s when he cups the back of my neck and kisses me.

His tongue has been deep in my mouth for several seconds before the reality of what’s happening sinks in. I can indeed taste the lingering prickle of the spiced rum, the sourness of many beers on his breath, as he holds my head and hungrily makes out with me. His body presses against mine. Against my leg I feel the hardness inside his sweats, as it rubs my thigh.

For a microsecond I wonder if I’m taking advantage of a drunk dude. But no, I reason. If anything, he’s taking advantage of me. When I wrap my arms around his shoulders, he relaxes into the embrace, and allows me to invade his mouth with my probing tongue. His hands clutch my rib cage, and he kisses me harder.

Outside, it sounds like the whole bar is chanting along with the Black-Eyed Peas. The realization that anyone could walk in, at any moment, though, brings me to my senses. I manage to separate myself from the boy’s amorous grasp. He regards me with liquid adoration. “You’re hot, dude,” he whispers. Then, “I’ve never made out with a guy before.”

Oh, fuck it.

Once again my mouth covers his. This time, I’m the aggressor, pushing in deeper, harder. His erection burns like a brand through layers of thick cotton and denim. He grapples with me to draw me in closer. As we furiously make out, grunting, moaning, breathing heavily through our noses, one of his hands begins to quest lower. It gives my butt a squeeze. Makes contact with my hip. Then searches at the crotch of my jeans. My rock-hard dick is at an awkward angle down my left leg, but at last he finds it, all at once discovering its length and girth and firmness.

“Whoa.” Suddenly the dude backs off. His hand flies back, as if it’s been scorched. He stares at me. There’s fear in his eyes. Maybe even panic.

Too far, I think. I smile, then wipe my sloppy beard with the back of a hand. Then I nod, recognizing I’ve hit a limit. “It’s okay.”

Someone does walk into the men’s room right then. Thankfully, it’s just a townie looking to use the urinal. “So, um, thanks for that shot, dude,” says my straight boy. Outside, the song has mercifully come to a conclusion to raucous applause. He looks around and grabs the door’s handle, ready to make an escape.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, and head to the sink to wash my hands once again.

“Later.” He’s gone.

I don’t really need to scrub again, but somehow it seems wise to give him some time before I emerge from the men’s room. Wiser still to give my dick time to deflate. This is going to be awkward, I think to myself, as I wander through the crowd back to my bench again. Syracuse is dancing—I guess that’s what we’ll call his shuffle-step with a beer held aloft—with his wife when I get back. I don’t even attempt eye contact.

I’m alone on the bench for a few minutes until my friends and I decide it’s time to move on. That’s when the straight boy decides we’re friends again. “Hey, hey, hey!” he yells while I try to put on my coat. He sits beside me once more and throws his arm around my neck, like we’re the best of friends. “The night is young! You and your boyfriend can’t go!”

“He’s not my—“

I realize, too late, that he’s joking. He bursts into laughter. Once again, he holds out his fist. This time there’s only the slightest hesitation before I bump it. And then clasp. And then slap palms. His whole group yell out their goodbyes.

There’s a great load off my mind when I part as friends with Syracuse. At least he doesn’t seem to bear any ill will against me. Will he even remember that men’s room encounter tomorrow? I have no idea.

What I do know is that I can still taste the spiced rum on my tongue.

Dick Dock 2015: Transition

The week I vacation in Provincetown is one of transition. When I arrive, the boys flocking to the daily Tea Dance are the twinks, the party boys, the thin little things with curly locks and tight clothes and disdain for anything much beyond the tips of their pretty little turned-up noses and their designer drinks. The Saturday I leave, however, is the official start of Bear Week. Thursday is really when the town’s population starts to get heavier. Furrier. The tight Capri pants give way to bulky cargo shorts, the dainty flip-flops to athletic socks and combat boots. By week’s end there are fewer smooth pecs and a lot of hairy expanses of chest. More nipple rings. More tattoos. More testosterone.

Under the dock on my last night, I can already tell the difference by who’s cruising. The silhouettes against the lit beach are broad-shouldered, taller, stockier. I’m seeing fewer chins and a lot more beards.

But there are a few hold-ons among the twinks. One of them starts following immediately when I reach the bottom of the steps down to the sand and turn the sharp corner to duck under the dock above. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for me. Our eyes meet. I take in his slightly scruffy chin, the blond hair, his open dress shirt, the moonlike luminescence of his pale chest. He nods, ever so slightly, then simply falls into step with me. We pass a half-dozen men lurking the shadows, slouched against the pillars supporting the wood planks above. The sand sides through my sandals and cools my toes as we shuffle through it to a quiet place past the clusters of men huddled together. I lean back against a girder, and turn to him.

He stares me in the eyes. I feel his palm cup my shorts. They’re soccer shorts, made of a synthetic material. I’ve worn them around town all day with no underwear beneath. Nothing but a cock ring, to show off the bounce of my package and the outline of my head beneath the sleazy fabric. He seems surprised at the warmth of me. I feel his fingers travel the length of my hardening meat, then the release of elastic as he pulls the shorts away from my hips and down to my knees.

“Yes,” I sigh into the night. The kid grasps my cock firmly in one hand. The other he curls around the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss. He’s a good kisser, this one. Young, eager, and hungry for attention. Our lips wrestle for dominance; he seems determined to prove to me how good a kisser he is, however, so I let him take control as he sucks my tongue deep into the recesses of his mouth.

Finally he pulls away. Our eyes lock once more. The kid must be something spectacular in the light. Pity I’ll never see him again. One by one, he takes my nipples into his mouth, suckling at them until they’re tingling with blood and desire. Then he drops to his knees.

I hear him unzip his own slacks. I can see a flash of white briefs before he yanks them beneath his balls. The white dress shirt he’s wearing falls from his shoulders and dangles halfway down his back, suspended where the sleeves are folded at his elbows. Is he a waiter just off work, I wonder? He needed cock so badly that he couldn’t wait to change out of the clean formal shirt and dark slacks and good shoes? It’s a moot question. He pushes me firmly back against the wood and steel and wraps those soft lips of his around my cock.

He’s eager to prove himself here, too. I can tell by the way he looks up at me that he’s begging for my encouragement and praise. I run my hands through his sandy blond hair and let it ruffle between my fingers, and nod. He closes his eyes in gratitude and deep-throats the rod before him for long moments before looking up at me again to measure my enjoyment. He doesn’t need to look. He should be able to tell by the sounds I’m making, the guttural Christs! and the growled Good boys!

My grunts are attracting a crowd, yet again. They’re keeping their distance for now, which I appreciate. I want this boy to myself for a while. I can see his fist furiously beating up and down at his waist. A second later, I hear him breathing heavily and choking, as if my dick’s too much for him.

Then he’s up on his feet, scrambling to wipe the sand from his knees and shins.

“Suck me,” I urge.

“I just came. Sorry,” he says, zipping up. He does a half-assed job of trying to yank his dress shirt up and over his shoulders again. “You’ve got a great cock, though.”

“You’re through?” I ask, a little astonished. The kid hadn’t been sucking for more than a couple of minutes.

“I’m done,” he says, loudly enough for the crowd around him to hear. “Sorry, dude.”

There’s been a large bear standing in the little group around me. The second he hears the kid make his apology, he elbows him out of the way. No—he basically tackles the kid to the ground to take his place.

It’s almost cartoon-like in execution. A few years ago, I took one of my cats out into the back garden of my old house. She saw a squirrel that had climbed to the top of the wooden fence that surrounded the yard. The cat took off running, launched herself five feet into the air, and body-slammed the squirrel so thoroughly with one shoulder that both animals fell down to the ground. The fence shuddered from the impact. The squirrel was unharmed, but stunned; the cat had knocked the wind out of herself and seemed a little surprised to have connected with her target. Eventually the animals slunk their separate ways with an unspoken agreement not to mention the incident again.

That backyard encounter is what this reminds me of; the kid goes sprawling into the beach with an audible Oof! while the bear’s knees hit the dirt and send up a spray of sand I can feel on the underside of my balls. The bear’s huge. He’s so tall he couldn’t stand up straight underneath the dock, and broad as a linebacker.

“This cock is mine,” he announces in a deep bass.

Nobody contradicts the guy, least of all me. Even if I hadn’t been turned on, I would’ve been afraid to. The kid who’d been sucking me picked himself up and dusted himself off as he vanished toward the light and the street. Meanwhile, I can feel the new mouth kissing my balls and the shaft of my dick.

“Fucking beautiful,” the bear announces. He’s not shy, this one. “Mine.” He sounds proud of himself, like a five-year-old bully who’s claimed the prize toy on the playground.

“So get to work,” I tell him.

Instead of obeying immediately, there’s a long pause. I’m not sure what he’s doing at first, but then I hear wetness, followed by what sounds like his teeth clacking together. Combined, the auditory input leads me to only one inevitable conclusion. Oh Christ, I think to myself. He’s taking his dentures out.
For years now I’ve had guys offer me gum jobs, as they call them. They’ve always promised me they’re the ultimate in pleasure, but somehow I’ve never been enticed enough to give them a try. I’m kind of a captive audience now, though, and what the hell. It’s my last night in town. Why the fuck not?

I’m almost dreading what it’s going to feel like when I feel his mouth clamp down around me. But you know what? It’s not that bad. After a minute or so of him slowly sucking up and down my shaft, I can’t really even tell the difference between the gum job and a regular blow job. Which makes sense, really; most guys don’t use their teeth on my cock, anyway. (The ones who do get sent home immediately.) The best wrap their lips around their incisors. The sensation between a pair of gums and a pair of lip-wrapped teeth isn’t all that dissimilar. So after a very short period I forget it’s a gum job at all, and relax into it.

The bear is a better cocksucker than the boy had been. No contest. The boy might’ve been hungry and eager, but the bear just knows what the fuck to do. He’s stroking the sides of my nuts, tickling my hole with his knuckle, going deep and then dragging his lips up the shaft to make his mouth into a warm and sloppy pussy for my cock. “I want that load,” he announces loudly, the words made indistinct by the wet inches and the lack of his dentures. “You’re gonna give me that load.”

“Yeah,” I moan, pushing down at my hips so he can suck as much of me as possible. “I’m gonna give you my load.”

It doesn’t take long. It’s one of those lengthy, gradual orgasms that seems to begin as a humming, crescendos into a chorus, and ends with my body shrieking its own wild aria. I bang my head against the steel girder behind it, but I don’t care. With so much pleasure, I’m not going to feel the hurt.

The bear swallows every drop of it, then nurses my dick to get the remnants. “Now that’s how you suck cock,” I announce.

He’s fishing into his pocket again, under cover of the night. It’s a moment before he can say, “Fucking A, dude.”

I pull up my shorts. They barely restrain my still-hard cock, but it’ll be a minute or two before I’m back on the street at the public sees me. It’ll subside.

Twink week to bear week. I feel like I’ve had it all in the course of a single blow job. At least I’m ending the vacation on a good note . . . with my first gum job, to boot.

Bate and Switch

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Dick Dock 2015: Camp

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Dick Dock 2015: Get It Done

So I’ve had one of those days. No major disasters, knock wood, but enough encounters with idiots that I’m not suffering fools gladly. I’m not snappish. Not short-tempered. But all through the evening with friends, sitting in a tourist-filled restaurant at battered picnic tables eating fish tacos and clam chowder, I’m less jovial than usual. At the bars we hit afterward I’m not as amused by the little battalions of single straight girls woo-hooing it up with their Fireball shots or their tuneless rendition of Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch,” getting good and drunk before they have to take the ferry back to Boston in the morning.

It’s just a little much on my nerves.

I’ve had a great vacation so far. But after a hot and irritating day, feeling that itch down below after midnight, my instinct is just to get it done.

Get.

It.

Done.

So, the dick dock, then. I pad my way down Commercial Street, nodding at the couples wandering my way. Men walk hand in hand, rapt in their own conversations, chests held proud, sunglasses on despite the late hour. There’s a crowd around the pizza place, but more men are cruising and people watching on the benches outside than eating slices. Finally I reach the Boatslip. The hotel’s quiet; I can see a few men sitting beyond the plate glass window in the lounge, but most of the windows are dark. The pool area is empty. I turn down the sandy driveway that’s public access to the beat, take the steps down to the and, and make the tight U-turn that leads me to the dark area underneath the hotel’s deck.

There are already dozens of men wandering among the rafters here. I duck my head and hunch over as I make my way forward. My sandals scoop up sand between my toes and empty it out at the heel. There are already groups of men between some of the girders. I hear the sounds of slopping sucking as I pass one set, but I keep moving. I’ll know what I want when I see it.

Like I said, I’m in kind of a weird mood. Aggressive. No-nonsense. Ready just to get it done. As I get closer to the dock’s mid-section I’m spotting guys I find attractive. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman in expensive leisure clothes. It’s dark beneath the dock, but there’s enough light that when my glance rests on him and my head turns, he notices. He starts to follow.

There’s a short muscle dude in a sleeveless T proclaiming allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds. I stare into his eyes—or where I presume his eyes are, on that shadowed face. He follows too.

A few steps later I encounter face-to-face a bearded hipster type. Shaved head. Beard that reaches his nipples. Square nerd glasses. He’s shirtless, furry, lean. He’s like a super-fit and young version of comedian Brian Posehn. I stare in his eyes. He follows me.

I feel like one of those over-privileged, entitled white Greenwich matrons back home, hitting the highway underpass to pick her immigrant workers for a few hours of day labor. Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go. Get it done.

I play Pied Piper to the trio and lead them to a niche between girders only a few feet away. They all obediently follow. The bearded nerd immediately drops to his knees, starts to unbutton my shorts. The older guy stands behind me. His hands start to roam around my waist, under my shirt, up my sides. The muscled dude reaches for my neck. His lips search for mine. His mouth tastes of beer. Sweet. Yeasty.

I haven’t said a word, but all three of them are working in unison. The bearded guy has sucked me hard. He goes right for the root, choking himself in the process. As he coughs and gulps and sputters, I feel the spray of his saliva on my pubes, across my thighs. The Cincinnati Reds guy pulls away from making out long enough with me to say, “I love the sound of a cocksucker choking on a big dick.” He dives to chew on one of my nipples. The older guy behind me has pulled down my pants and my shorts. He’s got my shirt unbuttoned. His muscular arms surround me; I lean back against his chest. One of his hands reaches down and parts my crack. I feel his fingertips probe against my hole.

They’re getting it done. The muscular guys drops to his knees and joins the beardo in the sand. They start taking turns sucking. I can tell them apart by their style. Cincinnati’s mouth feels firmer, more insistent. He might be using a hand in there. The bearded nerd is soft, sloppy. Extra wet. My older buddy takes a moment to raise his fingers to his mouth. He wets them, then spreads the spit over my hole. At some point he’s managed to release his own dick from his tan slacks. I feel it pressing against my ass. When I reach back, I feel that it’s uncut. Thick. At least seven inches.

As his head teases my ass, he rubs his jaw against my cheek. Whispers in my ear. “Come to the corner. I’ll fuck you over there.”

“Fuck me right here,” I grunt back.

Cincinnati’s mouth is on my balls. The beardo has his fist around my meat; he’s squeezing it hard to make it swell. The lenses of his glasses glint as he looks up at me. “I’m gonna get your cum,” he announces. It’s not a question. He’s not asking. He’s telling me.

I just nod. I expect him to get it done.

Back to work he goes gobbling my inches, while Cincinnati licks and slobbers over my nuts and the bottom two inches. The older guy, in the meantime, is proving himself no gentleman. He shoves me roughly forward. My lower back arches for him. He stabs at my ass with his cock. The first two tries, he attempts to impale the bottom of my spine. Third time’s the charm. My hole stings as it parts for his rough entry. I yell out as he slides up and into me.

Two men on my cock. One man barebacking my hole. There’s a crowd gathering around us, watching the show. Someone reaches for my nipples. Someone else is reaching down and attempting to grope my cock despite the warring mouths around it. I think someone tries to kiss me. I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. I’m all sensation in the moment; all my resentments and anger at the day, all my quirks and dickishness erased by sharp pulses of pain around my hole, blooms of pleasure where his cock head hits my prostate, and the urgent need to spray my seed. I can’t keep track of what else is happening. All I feel is the pain of the cock and the pleasure of the tongues, and the scratchiness of the sand in my sandals, the occasional cool of the ocean breeze, the sound of surf and sex and sighs.

The older guy shoots first. I hear him grunt, then quickly reach for his cock. He pulls out; I feel a warmth coat my hole and my ass cheeks, and then the ticklish descent of his semen as it starts to drip downward. He shoves his cock back inside me. It’s that sensation that pushes me over the edge. The bearded dude grunts as he tastes a big glob of my precum; then I start to gush my load down his throat. Cincinnati struggles back to his feet, rising through the crowd of strange bodies to pull my face down to his once more. I continue to cum as Cincinnati and I make out.

The older guy’s cock slithers from my hole just as the last of my orgasm subsides. I feel him rest his head on my shoulder as his arms surround me; he gives me a tight squeeze, then releases and vanishes. Cincinnati lets go. He pulls up his shorts. Conceals his boner. Gives me a pat on the chest, walks off. The bearded nerd is the last to go. I help him up to his feet. He’s been wearing his t-shirt as a yoke, and now he lifts up his arms and rearranges it so that it falls back into place. We exchange one deep kiss. “I love your load,” he tells me. “You are fucking hot.”

I nod as I button myself back up. The crowd around me dissipates. The action’s over—nothing more to see. They’re moving along. I hunch over once again and maneuver my tall frame beneath the rafters holding up the deck overhead. My shoes are filled with sand by the time I squeeze between the deck’s edge and the staircase leading up from the beach. I take a moment to empty them, and look at my phone for the time.

Twenty minutes. That’s how long I was under there, from start to finish. Two cocksuckers, one top. Twenty minutes, some multitasking, and some supernaturally efficient cruising is all it took to get it done.