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.

Pedestal

There’s a party going on in the distance. Spotlights flail to the beat of a thudding drum and bass, sending their columns of light criss-crossing into the night sky. Orion rules the black night sky; one of the jewels of his belt blinks more brightly than the others. There’s a scent of ocean water on the breeze.

I’m in the darkness, hidden away from the party lights, the video screens, the brightly-illuminated dance floor where hundreds of men gyrate in skimpy outfits. I can hear it all. The raucous laughter, the shouts, the whoops of happiness when the song changes to something familiar. No, where I am is shadowed, unlit by any light that’s not reflected multiple times before finally easing the last, weak parts of itself at the nether end of nowhere where I roam.

There are a handful of men here. Our eyes flash and glint, locked on each other, as we pass. I’m in no hurry to pick. I’ve got time. My hands are stuck deep in the pockets of my shorts as I stroll along the dark, open spaces. In a corner, behind where the staff have piled a stack of lounge chairs, someone is noisily sucking cock. A crowd is gathering, one or two men at a time, where the action is. I stroll by and glance at the man on his knees, his mouth wrapped around the shaft of an older guy in board shorts and a Tommy Bahama shirt. The man’s shirt is open. Someone’s hand reaches out to run over the velvety texture of silver chest hair. Another reaches out to tweak his nipples.

Men crowd around to try to get in on the action; they hope they’ll have some of the sexual good fortune rub off on themselves. Failing that, they hope to cop a feel, to see something hot, to get service themselves from the cocksucker. It would be easy for me to crowd in and partake.

I don’t, though. I’m cocky enough to believe that I don’t have to go to the action. I prefer it come to me.

So I stand at a distance, leaning against a rail by the walkway. For a few minutes I watch the men come and go. They nod at me, take their measure of my height, judge the bulge in my shorts where my fingers idly drum. More men crowd in the area where the cocksucker’s working. None of them are getting more than a handful of chest hair, but they crowd in, hopeful. I maintain my stance, keep my place, and wait.

I don’t wait long. A short man wearing a full leather uniform strides by slowly. His skin is as dark as the night itself; he’s wearing Ray-Bans that he grasps by the temple and tips down so he can stare at me as he passes. The guy’s gone to some trouble to deck himself out in gear. He’s got the cap, the halter, the collar, the leather pants. Armbands squeeze his big biceps so tightly they look like they might burst. He’s musclebound—that’s the word for him. No taller than five-foot-four. Bulges in all the right places—and in some places I didn’t know could bulge. The guy doesn’t just work out daily. He works out around the clock.

He nods. Raises his sunglasses once more. Saunters down further and leans against the same railing as I. When I look over, he’s looking back. Of course he is. And he’s got his hand resting on his crotch. When he squeezes, I stand up and stroll to his side.

“C’mon over here,” he murmurs, jerking his head in the opposite direction as the small crowd. No preamble. No conversation. He just cuts right to the chase.

I like that in a man.

There’s another stack of deck chairs in another corner of this darkened area. It’s easily three, maybe four feet high. The chairs are laid flat upon each other to make a barrier of sorts. When he takes me by the hand to lead me behind the enclosure, I’m surprised. Not at the fact he’s taking me somewhere private. I’m surprised at the gentleness of his touch, of the intimacy of his soft fingers wrapped around mine.

We’re alone now. He drops my hand reluctantly, then reaches out and rests his palms on my shoulder. I feel his touch, warm and steady, as it travels down my chest, my stomach. They stop at my waist and grasp it firmly. He kneels before me.

I think I know what he wants. My hands reached down to unbutton my shorts for him. My dick’s already hard and trying to burst out. But before I can undo them, I feel myself losing my balance. Suddenly I’m aloft as he uses his grip on my waist and his position to hoist me in the air. For several moments I’m confused, but I try not to wiggle; it looks like an awfully long way down.

It’s only a second or two later that he deposits me atop the stack of deck chairs. Then, and only then, do his hands release me and go for my button and zipper. He yanks down savagely to free my cock. It flops out. The zipper’s teeth bite, not too painfully, into my scrotum. Then he leans forward, almost at mouth level for him, and engulfs my rigid cock between his lips.

“Fuck,” I say aloud, forgetting for a moment I’m supposed to be in a dark and quiet corner. But the position he’s put me in is the opposite of private. I’m visible to everyone in these secluded shadows. I’m higher than them all, on a pedestal of deck chairs, with a leather-geared black man going at my meat like a starving dog. What are people going to crowd around, that kind of scene, or an everyday cocksucker on his knees? The crowd begins to come to me.

From time to time the leather man grabs my face and pulls it down and forward so he can kiss me. The men who are beginning to gravitate to us start growling and making grunts of approval when we kiss. The man’s tongue invades my mouth, reaches its very recesses. He’s not the gentlest kisser . . . but he’s thorough. A couple of bolder individuals try to step up and take a handful of my dick, or run their hands over the black man’s body. He’s not having any of it. He’s not rude when he pushes them away, but he’s firm about it; I’m his territory, and he’s not intending to cede it in the least.

His determination to keep his space erects an invisible wall, like glass, three feet on either side of us. Two dozen men crowd around to watch the action, but they don’t move in any further than that. The muscle man makes a show of sucking my cock. His hands are small in size, so when he grips my meat and squeezes, it looks enormous in comparison. My cock is engorged, its mushroom head flushed and ballooned to capacity. The man lewdly tongues the slit for thick, sweet globs of my precum, using it for lip balm. Then he runs those lips up and down the shaft, making certain that the crowd can see the white cock he’s claimed for his prize.

I’m turned on as much by the voyeurs as I am the blow job. I let my head loll back. I groan. I take off the stud’s cap and wear it for my own, tipped to the side. Then I run my palms over his shaved head, enjoying the sand-like sensation of the faintest stubble beneath them.

When I shoot, it’s loud and noisy. He feels my body heaving and perhaps hears the quickening of my breath. He gets enough warning to back off and wrap his right hand around my shaft, so that he can beat me to orgasm. The load splatters across his face. He nods at me, then reaches up and wipes it off his face. Making certain the crowd is watching, he then licks it off from between his fingers. Finally he wipes his hands on his chest. I can hear the men watching us murmur in approval.

Like a gentleman, he helps me down from the stack of chairs. Once again he grabs me around the waist as I lift myself up, then with dancer-like grace, he deposits me lightly on my feet. I’ve never felt so manhandled in my life. He reaches up, removes his cap from my head, and places it back on his own. He’d hooked his sunglasses onto his pants pocket at some point during the head job. They go back onto his face and make him look mean. Impassive. But before he leaves, he flashes me a quick grin.

The crowd disappears around us as we ease our way out from behind the stack of chairs. The show’s over. I saunter back over to the railing slowly, aware that men are looking at me with speculation. But I’m not ready to play again. Not yet.

Will I recognize the man among the others in the daylight? I don’t know. But I know I’ll be looking. I know I’ll be hoping that our glances lock with recognition—validation of a few minutes in a dark corner with every eye upon us.

Dick Dock

There are two paths into the darkness beneath the dock. One is sneaky, a shortcut by the wooden stairs that leads down from the hotel patio and pool above. The other is longer—a trip around the dock’s perimeter to an opening in its middle, where anyone and everyone standing in the shadows can see who’s approaching. I take the latter route, aware that I’m fully illuminated by the patio lights a dozen feet above my head. My flip-flops kick up sprays of sand as I approach.

I want to be noticed.

Behind me, the night sky is speckled with stars. Salt water waves softly rise and fall, phosphorescent and ghostly. Beneath the dock is pitch-dark, but I can hear the sounds of whispers, the wet squelch of mouths on dick. The sighs and sounds of sex. I can feel dozens of eyes upon me. I’m not imagining things, as I shuffle through the sand and duck my head to join them.

My eyes adjust within moments. Deep in the shadows, in the furthest recesses, I can see them. Men, two dozen, three dozen. A couple are making those soft, moist sounds as they suck each other. Most of them are leaning against the wooden supports, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for someone to make it happen.

I intend to be that someone.

I’m not so cocky that I think every man wants me. (I just act that way, sometimes.) What I do know is that I’m a sexual catalyst. I’m used to walking into a spot in which men gather for sex—bookstores, baths, cruising parks—where little or nothing is happening. Then I make it happen. Not much is happening here. The men have gathered. They’re standing in a long line, shifting from foot to foot, restless, against the iron girders supporting the massive dock at its rear. But they’re not doing anything.

I walk to the back. Stroll along the line. I can see the faces, pale and wraith-like, as I stroll to choose a spot. There’s all shapes here, all sizes of men. All ages. I’m pretty sure I could have my pick. To keep from banging it on the beams above, I have to keep my head bowed slightly. But in that stooped position I proceed down the line, pretending I don’t notice the heads turning to follow my progress, the hands swinging out to encourage me to linger.

Then I spot one. He’s wearing a white tank top and a pair of white shorts. In the lightless enclosure, he’s practically glowing in the dark. The kid’s a puppy, a short little fucker—five-four and muscular, maybe twenty-one, twenty-two, tops. He actually steps forward when I approach, as if to block me from going any further.

Like I don’t already know I’ve found what I want.

His mouth tastes like liquor. He’s obviously a little drunk; I can tell he’s unsteady when he raises himself on tiptoe to kiss me hungrily. My hands run over the trace of fuzz outlining his jaw, stroke his hard biceps, then pull him in. He’s shoving his hand down the front of my jeans and mauling my dick, treating it like a squeeze toy. I grab his wrist, choke it, pull him off me. My asserting control instantly makes him cool a little down.

It’s time for me to unbutton. My jeans drop to my knees; my shorts follow. His fingers fumble with the buttons on my shirt. I loosen the top two for him. Anonymous hands from behind me reach around to undo the others. I’m standing there in the cool night air, most of my skin exposed, with a hot-looking horny little pup pulling my mouth down to his. And I’m thinking to myself, fuck, at this moment my life is so good.

The pup goes down on my dick. His mouth is deep, hot, and sloppy. Trails of his spit slide down my nuts. The hands behind me squeeze on my nipples. Another man steps forward to take the boy’s place on my lips. He’s muscular as well—a short, beefy guy with a cue ball of a head. His fingers reach around the base of my dick while the boy sucks on it. He’s an aggressive kisser, too. I moan and lose myself in the softness of his lips.

My power as a sexual catalyst is beginning to work. Men are clustering around us, now. Our threesome is five people, then seven, then ten. There are hands all over my body as men reach out to touch me. Hands on my dick, on my shoulders, rubbing my close-cropped hair. I feel a mouth on my crack, and then hands pulling apart my cheeks. A tongue invades my hole. I don’t know who the fuck it is, and I don’t care. I just know it feels good.

I’m tempted to lose myself in the sexual charge of the surge of men around me, to crowd surf on the crests of sexual pleasure as men go at me, up and down and front and back. But I have a wallet in my pants pocket, so I retain some watchfulness to keep track of that. Still. It’s a fucking hot feeling as the crowd gets bigger and bigger, with the three of us at its center.

Around me the men who’ve been touching me, licking me, tasting me, are playing with each other now. I feel dicks jut into my thigh, bare asses back up against me. The pup abandons my cock and falls back onto the sand with his pants around his ankles. Almost immediately, an older man squats over him and lowers his hole down onto the pup’s face. The bald dude takes the pup’s place on my dick. For a few minutes we swap blow jobs back and forth, while other men touch and stroke me. My bald buddy comes suddenly and without much warning while I’m sucking him. I feel his hands on the side of my head, pulling me in, and then find my tongue covered with a salty bath. He tastes good. I swallow him down, stand up, and share the last traces with a deep kiss. He whispers thanks in my ear, then disappears into the night.

There’s plenty more to enjoy, though.

The pup’s back on his feet. He’s mine once again. The kid actually pushes away whoever’s kneeling behind me and munching out my ass and positions himself between my thighs. I feel his cock stab at my butt. Part of me wants to laugh—he thinks he’s going to dom me? It’s like watching a fucking chihuahua try to mount a bullmastiff. All I’d have to do is shrug and the little runt would fly off. It’s adorable and funny to watch him try, though, so I let him do his thing. He’s so drunk that he doesn’t even know where my hole is; he keeps hugging me around the waist and grinding up against my backside while he searches for it with his little boy dick.

I’m sure to the crowd it looks like I’m getting fucked by the pup, but he’s really not even close.

A hole backs onto my cock. I don’t even know what what its owner looks like. Men are pulling my head to theirs for deep kisses, drawing my hand by the wrist to their cocks, trying to get me to choose them. I pick a guy in leather. He’s in his forties or fifties. Solid as a rock. A built motherfucker. He’s wearing a leather harness and vest, boots, and a leather pouch beneath his jeans—which he loses fast enough. Once the hole’s off my dick, the leather guy bends down to clean me off. His mouth is hotter than even the pup’s.

He and I kiss. His mouth surrounds mine completely as his tongue forces itself between my lips. His dick is thick and rock hard. The prince albert in its head is a heavy gauge, probably a double-zero. I try sucking on his meat for a little bit, but there’s too much metal knocking around in there; I don’t want to have present chipped teeth to my dentist the following week. He loves sucking on me, though. Knowing I have a hot boy still stabbing fruitlessly at my hole and an even hotter leather daddy on my dick makes me feel like the fucking king of Provincetown. My hands grab onto the beam above and I swing back on it, chest and underarms exposed to the ocean breeze.

The leather daddy has had enough of the pup’s impertinence. He swats the boy off my backside and turns me around, then bends me over. My shoulder hits the iron support girder. I gasp when I feel that ring of thick metal press against my hole. I’m thinking there’s no way this guy’s going to be any more successful than the pup. He can shove and push all he likes, but there’s no way my hole is going to stretch for that fat pierced hog. He’s got a bottle of lube in his pocket, though, and an agenda to invade my hole. So I let him keep pushing.

The pup’s on my mouth again. He’s getting off on my grunts as the leather daddy shoves and attempts to buck into me. He pinches my nipples, stares in my slitted eyes. “Take it,” he whispers, over and over again. “Fucking take it.”

Then I do. It’s an unexpected surprise when the leather daddy’s dick just suddenly slides into me. My hole was a barrier moments before. Now it’s an opening, a tunnel, a chute tightly wrapping around the guy’s cock. The prince albert is stretching me like crazy. My eyes fly open, my jaw drops. It’s intense—fucking intense. But it’s not agony. If it were a misery to be plowed by that dick, I wouldn’t be so god-damned rock hard. The pup squeezes my tights harder, making my ass contract.

The leather daddy is coming. He sprays his load inside me. He’s barely been in a half-minute; he hasn’t even slid back and forth. I can feel his dick contracting and expanding as he shoots, though, and I feel the warm juice dripping out of my hole as slowly and carefully he withdraws his dick. I try to stand up, to collect my pants, but the pup’s insistent. The older dog showed him how to fuck; now he’s anxious to try.

I feel the head of his cock push into me, finally finding its warm, wet target. But then he’s climaxing too, even before he’s gotten inside. Maybe he’s turned on by fucking in the other man’s leavings. A spray of the juice joins the leather daddy’s load inside me. The rest of it ends up on my ass cheeks. He hugs me tightly around the waist again as he comes. I feel his furry little face against my back, his seed dripping down my butt and down onto my calves.

I’ve been rigid this entire time. Someone wheels me around so that my back hits the girder. He’s down on his knees in front of me. It’s a silver-haired fox. When he sucks on my dick I can only see the top half of his face, but even in the darkness I can tell he’s mighty good-looking. A gym rat. I rub my hands over his mighty biceps when he reaches up to squeeze my pecs; he’s wearing a sleeveless T for easy access.

I’m getting close. Part of me wants to save the load, to keep going all night. Part of me knows it’s not going to get any better than this moment, though. I feel hands reach for my ass, fingers dipping into my cummy hole. Men around me are discussing in murmurs about whether or not I got bred. I let the hushed gossip float in one ear and out the other. The guy with the biceps is edging me closer and closer to my orgasm. When I come, it sounds loud in the quiet. Yeah, I hear guys whisper around me, encouraging me. Drop that fucking load, someone whispers in my ear. The darkness turns to shades of purple and indigo as I squeeze shut my eyes as I shoot. I can’t tell whether the rush of sound in my ears is my coursing blood or the ocean’s waves. The muscular man sucks me down and keeps his mouth on my meat, nursing out every drop of seed from the tip. Then he withdraws.

Weakly, I lean back against the girder. Someone’s sandy hand closes around my dick. The grains are painful; I wrestle him off and push him away, then cover my junk and pull up my pants. My wallet’s still there, thank god. Even as men still try to convince me with soft hands and sweet whispers to stay, to let them clean me off, to kneel down and take care of them or to turn around again and take another breeding, I fasten my fly. One of my flip-flops is buried in the sand. I find it and close my toes around the thong. Then I detach myself from the crowd and the hands and stagger in the direction of the dock’s far end, and the stairs.

My legs are weak enough that I need to sit in the dark for a moment. From the middle of a pair of cross-braces between posts I watch the army of sex hounds fill the void where I had stood. I can’t see details, but I can see single silhouettes merge with another, then with other pairs.

No one on Commercial Street casts an eye at me when I emerge from between buildings onto the sidewalk. I stroll in the direction of the town’s west end. My hole is sore enough to make me walk more slowly than usual. I’m conscious that there’s a load or two making the seat of my shorts wet. I’m not the only man who’s going to be tottering home from the dick dock with a stain or two, though. Even from a distance, I know the men in that dark crawl space are moving and merging, coming together like molecules in a chemical reaction.

And that night, at that hour, I’d been the catalyst.