Night at the Dick Dock, Part I

This year I’m an old pro at this particular cruising site. I head down the drive toward the beach without trepidation, not even casting more than a passing glance at the tide creeping in. Last year, like a noob, I made the mistake of trudging through the sand to an entrance halfway down the dock, where everyone could see my slow progress under the harsh light of the street lamps above. This year I know exactly where to round the pillar at the drive’s foot, and I slip into the shadows before I’m seen. Last year I might have been the curious explorer. This year, though, I’m a seasoned pro. This is just as much my hunting ground as it is any other man’s.

My eyes adjust to the gloom almost immediately. It’s after eleven, but there’s not much of a crowd here. Not yet. I saunter past a heavily-spectacled older gentleman with a pot belly. He’s got his fingers inserted in the fly of his almost phosphorescently-white shorts. When I pass by I feel the fingertips of his other hand brush my elbow. I can afford to bide my time a bit.

Individuals lurk the furthest recesses beneath the dock. In the darkest of shadows they wait, checking me out as I pass. I’m not ready to commit to any of these guys. I can do better. Instead, I take a position in a niche right in the middle of the dock, away from the others. I hook a thumb through one of my belt loops, lean against the post, and wait.

I’m not losing anything by waiting. I don’t go for the bait; I wait for my prey to come to me. I know my role in this sexual ecosystem. I’m the instigator. I’ll make my move when I’m ready. Not before.

Men pass me by in the night, taking in what they can see of me in the near-darkness—my narrow frame, my long body, my hand casually cupping the bulge in my shorts. Occasionally they’ll pause in front of me, hoping I’ll reach out and pull them to me. I merely nod, let them pass, and continue to wait. I’ll know what I want, when I see it.

It doesn’t take long before a man stands at the post opposite mine. I can tell by the way his head bobs and sways in the shadows that he’s trying to figure out whether I’m as good as I might seem. He’s checking me out as much as possible, using a peripheral vision that’s slightly sharper in the low light to get a better impression of me. I can tell more about him from where I stand. He’s blond. Maybe in his late twenties, early thirties. He’s got on a muscle tee. I can see his biceps, luminous against the dark. His hair is a light color. Blond, I think. I can’t really see his features, but I’m thinking he’s probably the best of the current bunch. Handsome, even.

Yeah. This is the one.

I’ve got both thumbs through the foremost belt hoops, framing my crotch. I can see his head weaving as he attempts to make sure he’s seeing what he’s seeing. I unzip. Rub my hand over my stiffening dick. Stare right in his direction. Then, just to make sure I’m crystal clear, I beckon him over with a curved index finger.

He obeys.

Yes, the man is indeed handsome. Up close he smells lightly of expensive cologne and more strongly of soap. When he presses his mouth on mine, he tastes of mint mouthwash. The guy’s a good kisser, I have to say. The hunger I feel when we connect intensifies. I force his hands down on my cock and let him feel what he’s going to be getting. He groans at the feel of my hard meat, then even as we’re kissing, I feel his hips curve into a smile. He’s happy he’s getting a big one. I like that in a man.

Like I said, I’m an instigator. Even though there are two or three dozen men milling around beneath the dock in the near pitch-blackness, no one’s having sex yet. No one except me, that is, with the hottest guy here. Right on cue, smelling the pheromones, just about everyone who’s staggering around by themselves converge on the two of us. I’ve got my hand on the back of the guy’s head as I pull him deeper into the kiss, but over the top of his head I can see the pirañas swimming nearer.

He’s down on his knees to deep-throat his prize. Scarcely has he gone down when other men are vying to take his place. I feel hands reaching for my head, hands trying to pull my face to theirs. Hands run up my stomach beneath my t-shirt, fingers tweak my nipples. I pretend not to notice. I pull my head away so that I can gaze down on the fellow on my dick. He’s my focus. When I see the glint of his eyes as he gazes up at me, I know once again I’ve picked the right one.

There’s quite a crowd around us now. Maybe twenty men are feeding from our sexual energy. My instigation is spreading as men begin to fondle each other, to kiss, to couple off, even as they attempt to pull me away from my quarry. The blond has to struggle to stand up, the crowd is so thick around us. He clutches onto my dick with his hand to keep anyone else from taking it from him, then he whispers something into my ear.

The syllables are lush and sweet, like a scented summer breeze on a foreign isle. It takes my brain a moment to register that he’s spoken to me in French. I think he’s telling me I’m a handsome man. “Thanks,” I whisper in his ear. Then, “Do you have somewhere we can go?”

He takes me by the hand and pulls me in the direction of the drive. I take a moment to buckle up and then we push our way out of the crowd. I doubt any of those on the edges are aware that we were its epicenter. Then we’re free, and walking up the drive.

I can see him better in the street lamps. He’s not just handsome. He’s hot as fuck. Blond hair, muscles, scruff on his face. “I wish to be naked with you,” he says, in what’s almost a comical French accent. It’s almost like someone attempting a Maurice Chevalier accent, but he’s completely for real. “Do you have the place to go?”

“I thought you did,” I said.

His face contorts with irritation. “I am at the—what is the words? Camp ground?” I know there’s a campground somewhere in the coastal town, but I have no clear idea of where it is. “We can go there, but it is a long, long walk. A very long walk.”

Well, fuck. My dick is still wet in my shorts, and even though I’m up for a long walk if it means getting into the guy’s ass, he seems dubious. We’re still holding hands; his fingers are intertwined with mine. I’m touched at how much like a boyfriend he’s treating me. “Let me suck you more,” he says, in that charming accent. “Let me drink you.”

I’m not going to say no to that.

Hand in hand we return to the dark area beneath the Boatslip. The action is full swing now. We push past clumps of twos and threes and occasional fours and fives to the area where we were before. The crowd is dispersed, but the little niches against the hotel’s foundation are filled with couples. We find a new spot a little further on. He drops before me worshipfully, and hooks his fingertips into my waistband.

I unbuckle, pull down my shorts, and let my heavy cock fall onto his face. He starts to suck, grunting with pleasure as he does. I lean back against the post and allow myself to enjoy it.

My eyes are closed when I feel someone lifting up my shirt. My neck shoves through the hole; I feel the fabric wrenched back like a yoke, exposing my upper body to the night air. There’s a mouth on my nipple, a pair of bearded lips on my stomach. There’s wet suction on my other nipple. Then someone draws me into a kiss.

Once again I’ve got a throng around me. Though I stay in place, I feel like a crowd-surfer at a concert. I’m throwing myself out to the masses, letting them buoy me safely in their grip. There are mouths all over me and men vying for my attention. Hungry faggots are trying to pull my Frenchman off my dick, but he’s not going anywhere. He’s planted in the goddamned dirt like a fencepost. He’s not going anywhere.

I’m the center of attention. I’m the cock of the walk, right now, right here. And I’m confident enough to know I deserve it.

When I have my orgasm, it’s not waves of pleasure. It’s almost as if I’ve got a kidney stone to pass, and the climax is the moment it leaves my system. I feel relief of the most intense kind. It’s gratification without the titillation. But the amount of cum I gush into the guy’s mouth is substantial. I can feel him gulping to keep up with it. When he’s done, he’s wiping cum and spit from his chin and panting. Once again he has to push his way up through the crowd; I let him hang onto my waist as he attempts to get his balance.

“That is what I needed,” he murmurs into my ear. I can smell my sperm on his breath. “Thank you, beautiful man.”

He holds my face in the curve of his palm, and then disappears into the darkness.