Fauxhawk

I’m surprised by the fauxhawk covering the middle third of his skull. It’s a soft landing strip of copper-colored down, a number three buzz surrounded by pink skin on either side. When I step into his cabin and let the door slam shut behind me, this young man takes me into his arms and lays his head upon my chest as he hugs me tightly.

I haven’t met him before. We haven’t even communicated much. The most that’s passed between us were a couple of texts on Scruff, when our cruise ship made land at Puerto Rico and our phones began connecting to our home services again. You’re hot. Want to come fuck me at 3 pm? he’d asked.

You’re hot too. Sure, I’d said.

And now he’s cradling me like I’m his long-lost dad. Well, his long-lost dirty dad, at least. I’m both touched and aroused. My right hand holds him tight; my left hand strokes the racing stripe of hair. After a long minute, I lift up his chin and raise his mouth to mine. Our kiss is deep, and satisfying, and long.

He’s a handsome man. Early thirties. Deep blue eyes. Fair skin. Beefy, in a worked-out way. He maneuvers me down the short hallway and into his cabin with his arms still encircling my rib cage, our mouths fixed upon each other’s. We’re able to navigate the short distance by rocking stiff-legged from side to side, like two Ken dolls a child is pretending to make waltz. When he shoves me onto the mattress, I’m scarcely all the way down when he lunges on top of me, his arms planted above my head, his mouth still hungrily kissing mine.

Have I neglected to mention he’d greeted me wearing only a Nasty Pig jock? Well, I’ve been so consumed by his kissing that I scarcely noticed myself, until now. He’s one of those men with a naturally-smooth body—or at least, I’m not detecting any shaving stubble. My hands wander from his firm pectorals down to his glutes. His ass is spectacularly round and full. I can feel the hardness of his cock, and the heat of it, as he grinds into my pelvic bone. My own dick is just as rigid, though it lies at an angle almost perpendicular to his. The weight of him, his rhythmic thrusting, his insistent pressure…it’s all working to make me desire him as much as he obviously desires me.

He rolls over and thrusts his hands beneath a pillow over his head. “Take off your clothes,” he begs.
What can I do but obey? My flip-flops hadn’t even made it as far as the bed. The only other things I’m wearing are a pair of sweat shorts that I wriggle out of and let fly off my foot across the room, and a tee that I rip off and throw onto the cabin floor. I roll on top of him and press myself against the man, skin against skin. We kiss again, my tongue deeply plundering his mouth. He grunts with pleasure. His legs lift; my erection batters against his crack as I mock-thrust against him. Without warning, he employs his weight to once again flip me onto my back.

“I need that cock,” he announces, and I watch as he shimmies himself down between my legs. His arms, which had been off to the sides, quickly bury themselves beneath my butt. His mouth opens to engulf me.

But as he swiftly and expertly swallows my cock, part of my brain distances itself from the proceedings. Usually I pride myself on remaining totally in the sexual moment. But there’s enough of a disconnect that my brain suddenly switches off of erotic autopilot—for I pride myself as well for being a good observer. And didn’t I observe, in that last swift motion, that this man was missing one of his hands?

It’s impossible to tell now; both his forearms are buried beneath my backside. Mentally I review every grappling position in which the two of us had so far engaged. He’d flung his arms around me when I’d entered; he’d kept his hands out of view and over my head when I’d been on the mattress. When he’d been on his back, they’d artfully been covered by a pillow. Only in that moment when he’d gone down between my legs had I noticed that he was missing his right hand at the wrist. Nowhere in his Scruff profile had he mentioned such a thing.

Nor was I really certain, honestly, that he needed to. Why did it have to be a big deal? Some gay men have occupied so much of their lifespans and their mental real estate attempting to seem normal, to fit in, to blend when they should pop, that any deviance to their agenda of homogeneity sends them into a tizzy. The wrong look, the wrong weight, a selfie taken at Wendy’s instead of the gym—I could well imagine how freaked out a shallow man might be about an absent body part.

Did my fauxhawked friend hope that I simply wouldn’t notice? Was he so practiced and expert at concealment that he’d gotten away with his partners not noticing before? In no way does he need any of my pity. Yet pity isn’t what I’m feeling for him. Not for his injury, not for his lack, at least. I feel angry that someone, sometime, had embarrassed him about himself. I feel dismay that he has the compulsion to hide.

Honestly, though, I’m not able to formulate much of a coherent response in the moment, because the fucker’s mouth is making my dick feel so damned good.

“Let me eat your hole,” I suggest.

In a flash he maneuvers himself into a kneeling position, keeping me firmly on his left side so that I can’t see his right arm as it swings swiftly into place beneath the pillow. I kneel behind him, planting my lips onto the smooth pucker he presents. It relaxes and blossoms on my tongue as I lap at it. “You like that,” I state, and am rewarded an answer in groans.

I drag the unused pillow beneath his hips and rim him for several minutes, giving him pleasure just as he’d given it to me moments before. I’m rough and relentless at times as I gnaw at this private place with vigor, or abrade it with my short beard. At other points I’m romantic, making out with the hole to let it know how very badly I desire it. The pink tip of his cock, angled down and to the side, peeks out of the stretchy fabric of his jock. Its slit glistens with sticky fluid.

At last I rise and plant my knees between his. I raise my palm and spit in it, then smooth the slickness over my meat. His hips rise in anticipation; when I begin to slide inside his warm chute, he murmurs obscenities into the pillow. “Just enjoy it,” I whisper.

“I am,” he promises. “Oh god, I really am.”

I’m in. He’s well-fucked, this one; there’s barely any resistance, all the way down. I pause when I reach the base, then pull apart those globes and force myself in an extra half-inch. His back is arched; his neck as well, as he lifts his head to let out a mighty sob of pleasure.

“Right there,” he whispers. “Right…right there. Oh god, you’re hitting that spot I love.”

“You want to sit on it?” I murmur. “I’ll get in real deep if you sit on it.”

I sense some hesitation. Maybe he’s wondering how he can once more hide his right arm; maybe he’s plotting the combination of moves he’ll use, the vectors that will have to come into play for the concealment. But it’s bullshit. If he wants that spot hit, he needs to let me deploy him into a position in which I can hit that spot over and over again.

“Sit on it,” I order.

I turn over on my back, and prop up my head with some pillows. He turns himself over, right arm held out of sight behind his back. Then, as I hold my cock upright, he straddles me and lowers himself down. His eyes close as he sinks onto me.

“Yes” I whisper. It feels right. It feels good.

He must be feeling good, himself. When he’s fully down on me, his head jerks back once more to let me know I’ve found that spot again. I hold my hands to his chest and let his weight fall upon them. He’s still angling his arm awkwardly to keep it out of sight. To me it’s obvious that the charade is interfering with his ultimate enjoyment.

“Come here,” I whisper. I take his left hand in my right, then raise my left hand in the same position. He responds by trying to lean forward and plant his right arm over my head, but it’s a bumbling angle that lessens the pleasure for us both. Finally, I push him back upright. I hold out my left hand, cupped, as I thrust inside him. Then, when his eyes close and he loses himself a little in the pleasure of my big dick so deep within, I take hold of his right forearm. Our fingers are entwined to my right; he’s finally no longer concealing anything and resting in my grasp, on my left. Our eyes meet.

“You like this?” I ask him.

He nods. “Yes.”

“Is this what you want?”

“Yes sir,” he says.

Even though he’s on top of me, I’m still the one doing the work. I thrust upward with my hips as I support him with my hands and upper thighs; his dick throbs. His jock becomes wetter with every thrust. The man gazes down at me through slitted eyelids as I stare at him squarely on. I gauge my thrusts by his every little reaction, banging harder when I sense he needs it, slowing down when I get too close. It’s impossible to hold off forever, though. “Are you ready for my load?” I ask, finally.

His fingers tighten around my right hand. “I’ve been ready since you walked through the door, sir.”

There’s such a look of need in his eyes that I can’t hold off any more. My fingers clutch at his hand and arm tightly as I let loose. I’m still jetting into him when I untangle my right hand from his and claw open his jock. His short cock is slicker than even mine, all from his own precum; I close a fist around it and force him into climax with just a few short strokes.

Both of us are breathing heavily when the sexual haze subsides. He sinks down onto my dick and, as I raise my hips once more, collapses on top of my body. Still connected, ass to cock, my sperm making his insides slippery, we make out in languorous fashion.

After a very long minute, he lifts his head and strokes my hair. “I really like you,” he says.

“I really like you, too,” I tell him.

Nothing more needs to be said. We understand each other.

A Sloth of Bears

After midnight, the busiest part of the ship isn’t the Lido buffet, or the party happening poolside, or the piano bar across from the casino. Most of the traffic take place in a spot that’s the darkest and most remote. Men hike to the forward part of the vessel, climb the stairs up from Deck 11, and wander to the ship's uppermost level. Hands in pockets, their paces slow and meandering, as if they've merely decided to take an evening stroll, adventure-seekers saunter to the railing in front, where clusters of strangers already congregate in small groups.

The Dick Deck, they call it. Every cruise ship has one when there's a gay charter aboard. During the daytime this adults-only area is reserved for nude sunbathing. Nothing overlooks this space; it can't be stumbled upon accidentally. On this cruise, where nearly every cabin is occupied by gay men, it's our unofficial after-hours public play space. Someone has grabbed beach towels to wrap around the low-lying lights designed ordinarily to cast an atmospheric glow on the boards underfoot. There are no floodlights; the back half of the ship is obscured. Save for the Milky Way above and the occasional glow of a phone or watch, this area is nearly completely dark.

Men cluster near the door of a stairwell that leads down to the Crow's Nest bar, a deck below. After sunset, the crew piled the sunbathing lounge chairs in a neat heap next to the stair. A fit, muscular older guy sprawls face-down on top of that stack, legs open, wearing nothing but a pair of sneakers. His clothes lie in a pile on the planks. He groans noisily—someone has stepped up to the deck chairs and applied his mouth to the man's ass, which lies right at face level. I don't find the guy doing the rimming especially attractive, but my opinion doesn't matter. The older man writhes and bucks so vigorously from the attention that the stack of chairs begin to scrape and inch noisily across the deck.

I'm standing about a dozen feet away, alone, leaning against the rail. I could join the group that's milling around the deck chairs, but inserting myself in the midst of the action isn't really my style. I'm dressed to cruise, though—a pair of shorts with no underwear beneath, a dark tee, sneakers. I'm not hard, but my dick is full enough to form a noticeable bulge beneath the thin fabric draped over it. The group surrounding the chairs swells in size as more men amble into this dark, all-male space; they're craning necks to see the action, looking around to see if anyone else wants to start something. I'm not surprised when nothing happens among the crush of bodies. Men come in two stripes: those who instigate sex, and those who hope proximity to sex will lend them an allure they don't have. The men in that anonymous pack are mostly the latter.

I'm one of the former. It would be easy enough to go over and grab a hand and put it to my crotch, to take a handful of ass and watch whatever fellow I clutch groan with gratitude. Those pickings are too easy, though. So I summon my patience, and rest my elbows on the railing at the small of my back, and wait.

It's not long before a man appears from the direction of the spa stairwell who catches my eye. Tall guy—even taller than I am. Maybe six-four, six-five. Beefy. Furry. A long beard that ends mid-ribcage. Nice face. He's a big slab of bear, this one. I like the look. He's wearing an unbuttoned flowered Hawaiian shirt that reveals a mass of chest hair, yellow shorts, and a pair of flip-flops. My eyes follow him as he paces with obvious interest to the gang by the deck chairs. He takes a glance, looks around the crowd, then detaches to walk in my direction.

Our eyes lock. I nod. He smiles in return. It's one of those goofy grins I find instantly endearing, but he glides past and walks on. While the sloppy sounds of butt-munching and the muscled older guy's grunting continues to my left, I watch the big bear stride over to the quiet end of the deck. Up at the stars he stares, as if taking a quiet moment. Then he turns, leans against the rail, and looks my way.

I meet his gaze. It doesn't take long for him to react. He pushes himself from the rail and begins—oh so casually—to stroll back my way. He smiles again as he passes, closer this time. Then rests his behind on the railing about four feet from where I stand.

Wasting no time, I slide over next to him. In turn, he closes the gap of mere inches between us by easing his hip next to mine. My hand reaches for his package; I cup his balls firmly, feel a few inches of hardness spring to life. He rubs one palm against my stiff dick beneath my shorts, and cups a hand to the back of my head to pull me close. Our lips meet. His tongue invades my mouth. My free hand explores the fur beneath his open shirt, and squeezes one of the metal bars that piece his nipples.

“Do you have a room?” he growls in my ear. I shake my head. Again his beard tickles my neck as he murmurs, “I do, but maybe you're not the kind of guy who goes to a strange man's room.”

The comment makes me laugh. “I'm the kind of guy who loves going to a strange man's room.”

“Well c'mon then.” He grabs my hand in his paw and tugs me in the direction of the stairs. When we're in the light, and walking down, he asks my name. We exchange introductions. “Rob, huh? Now I gotta use it three times so I can remember.” He's got a slight Southern drawl, even though he's just told me he's from Colorado. “All right, one: I can't wait to get into Rob's pants.”

We're at the elevators, now. The doors open; he's still holding my hands like we're sixth-grade boyfriends. A couple of men smile at us as we step inside. They've obviously been to the green-themed poolside party above; they're dressed like the Lucky Charms leprechaun, only with more spangles and higher panty lines.

“Two,” says my bear, once we’re inside. He pushes the number of his floor. “From what I felt up there, Rob has a mighty big dick and I can't wait to get it down my throat.”

“Who's Rob?” asks one of the leprechauns with obvious interest.

“This hung motherfucker right here,” says the bear, swinging our clasped hands like he owns me.
“And he's all mine, bitches.” The leprechauns burst out into laughter. One of them eyes my shorts with speculation.

I'm flustered, but only a little. My new friend is so amiably goofy that all I really can do is laugh along with them.

“Yep,” he's saying to the party-goers. “You two boys think about me choking on Rob's big hog in about five minutes, because down my throat is where that huge dong is gonna be. Hey! That's number three!” he crows.

All four of us are chuckling when the bear and I stumble out of the elevator. One of us is a little more red than the others. The bear knows I'm charmed, though. He leads me toward the ship's aft by the hand, obviously tickled at his choice of trick. I'm flattered he's so pleased. When he rests his head on my shoulder, like we're lovebirds, it's all I can do to conceal the boner pointing in the general direction of Cuba.

He's got an inside cabin. It's tidy enough, but the first thing that catches my eye is the jumbo squirt bottle of Gun Oil by the bed. This dude is ready for something. I kick off my sneakers. When I turn to face him, the bear is looking me with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Grrrrrr,” he says.

His eyes are bluer than mine. I knew he was tall. I didn't realize, until we were walking down that hall together, that he was taller than even I. How much does he weigh? Two-fifty? Thereabouts? Whatever it is, he's solid through and through. He puffs up his chest and takes two steps forward to square off with me like we're wrestlers sizing each other up before a championship match. “I'm gonna enjoy taking you down, mister,” he says in a low voice.

“You’re gonna take me down?” I reply, not breaking my stare.

His hands yank my shorts to the floor. I'm not wearing anything underneath, so my dick springs out, then bounces. Roughly he wrests my shirt over my neck. The bear’s eyes glint as he shoves me onto his bed.

“You don't know what you've gotten yourself into, son,” he says to my sprawled form. Those short of his are being held up by a belt that he unbuckles and slides out of its loops. It's so slow and deliberate an act that my heart pounds a little faster. “Daddy is going to treat you like the real bad boy you are. Y'hear?”

“Yes sir,” I respond. I mean, I've got to be a good five to ten years older than this guy, but I'm not going to object to being the boy for a couple of hours.

His shorts fall to the floor. He's wearing a much-used Bike jock, more gray than white. He pulls off the Hawaiian shirt he's been wearing all this time, swings it around a finger like a cocky son-of-a-bitch, and lets it fly. It lands on the little desk in the opposite corner. “I think I might just fuck that little boyhole of yours,” he says. He still has the belt in his hands, the leather doubled over. “Yeah. I think daddy is going to spank that little ass, then breed it deep. You want that, son?”

I hadn't exactly envisioned this encounter going quite in this direction, but what the fuck. I'm having fun. I've haven't had a dick up my ass in half a decade or more. Let's run with it and see where it goes, I figure. Good sex—the best sex—is like comedy improv. And the first rule of improv is never to shut down what your creative partner suggests. In both sex and comedy, partners say yes to what's suggested. They build upon what the other brings to the scene.

So I say: “I want what dad wants. Sir.”

“Damn right you do, son,” he barks. “Now, let dad choke on that cock you got. That monster meat you got from my side of the family.”

I'd felt the bear's erection up on the Dick Deck. If I'd gotten my monster meat from his side of the family, it must've skipped a generation, I think. But like a good boy I keep my opinions to myself.

Besides, the only thing coming out of my mouth right now are groans and gasps—this guy is making good on his promise to take my big hog down his gullet. There's no choking, though. He swallows my eight inches whole, nuzzling the base with his lips and nose after it has slipped without effort down his throat. “Fuck,” I manage to grunt out. I try to lift myself up to watch what he's doing, but without breaking the rhythm of his deep-throating, he shoves me back into the pillows.

It's only after a good five minutes of him swallowing me whole that he disengages and rises to his feet. “Here,” he says, as he walks over to the desk where he'd thrown his shirt. He picks up a silver rectangular gadget, takes a moment to fiddle with its buttons, and hands it to me. It's a point-and-shoot camera. “I want some photos of me with this god-damned masterpiece in my mouth.” Then he's back to work.

I take a number of shots, with and without flash, of him staring into the lens with hunger. My god-damned masterpiece is nowhere to be seen in any of them; it's all the way down his throat the entire time. Whenever I attempt to set the camera down, he grunts and gestures for me to take more photos. Thirty, forty, fifty shots click by.

Finally he allows me to set aside the point-and-shoot. “Now I'm gonna eat that beautiful ass, son,” he growls. “Get you ready for fuckin'. On your knees, boy.”

I obey. He positions me near the bottom of the bed with my knees spread and my face in the pillow.
“God damn. Lookit that pucker.” The dirtier he talks, the more of a drawl he affects. Then again, I’m a little like that, myself. “Arch your back, son. Show off that bubble butt.”

I don’t in the least have a bubble butt, and at my advanced age I’m no longer certain my back actually can arch any longer, but I do my best.

“Fuck yeah,” he says, giving my ass a light slap. “That’s the way to make a man want to fuckin’ rape you. Cocktease. Little faggot hole. Wiggle it.” Again, I obey. “Put your hands on your ass and pull it apart for me. Now, boy. Fuck yeah. Gotta get some shots of that!”

What is he—? Oh shit. He’s taking shots of me spreading my hole. Welp. Might as well look good on camera. I arch my back and show it off, chagrined slightly that I’m getting even harder doing it.

The man lets loose a rumbling note of appreciation deep from his chest. “Makin’ daddy rock hard here. Gotta taste it.” I gasp as his tongue flicks against my hole. His beard scrapes and grinds into the sensitive skin, making me catch my breath. “You like that, don’t you, little faggot. Big ol’ man eatin' that pussy of yours.”

“Yes sir,” I wheeze into the pillow.

“What’s that?” he barks before chewing on my hole again.

“Yes sir!”

I might be in a daze—it’s been a while since anyone ate my hole, much less made me put it on display—but I can swear I hear the faint mechanical click of a card key in the cabin door. “Fuck,” says the bear. “My husband’s back.” A hundred thoughts pulse through my brain in the milliseconds following that statement, all of them dire. But the bear follows up with, “Don’t worry, he’ll like what I’ve brought home. Don’t move, boy.”

The cabin door opens. I hear footsteps and the jingling of metal. And there I am, face down, on my knees, ass up at the bed’s edge, my fingers clawing at the edges of my hole to expose it. “Look what I got, honey,” says the bear to someone unknown.

“Looks mighty good,” I hear a deep voice rumble. Unlike his husband, the newcomer lacks a Southern twang. “Looks ready to fuck.”

In my head I’m calculating the unlikelihood of being able to take two dicks in my hole sequentially, when it’s been eons since I’ve had even one. But then I hear a third voice say, “Why don’t we all have a shot.”

And a fourth voice says, “I wouldn’t mind wettin’ my dick in that.”

Oh, crap. This situation has gotten thoroughly out of hand. I know plenty of bottoms who would love to be gang-banged by a bunch of bears, but what had begun as a situation for which I was game has, in the space of thirty seconds, turned into something for which I wasn’t in the least prepared.

I’m beginning to panic slightly when I feel a pair of hands on my waist. They pivot me onto my back. Someone lifts my hips and slides a pillow underneath. A slightly older gentleman, gray-haired, muscular, bearded, wearing a lime pair of spandex shorts and a tank top, leans down to kiss me. A younger bear in Kelly green from shorts to tee kneels down and begins licking my hole. A very tanned and bearded older man kneels on the bed beside me and starts to twist my nipples.

And my bear, my Southern daddy, kneels opposite to deep-throat my cock again.
“Take turns on this little bitch’s ass,” says the man twisting my nipples. I could have pointed out, if my mouth hadn’t been occupied by a stranger’s tongue, that I was taller and larger than any of them save the Southern bear, but I’m already squirming with too much sensation to really protest. Each man has his area of concentration—mouth, nipples, dick, hole—and they’re all lavishing me with attention. All at once, it’s both too much—and yet not enough.

The gray-haired man removes his lips from mine and begins to pull down his spandex. The man twisting my tits takes over kissing until the gray-haired fellow knees straddle my head. He lifts me up to suck an uncut fat six-incher, only half-hard, sporting a thick Prince Albert.

I’m being pushed close to the edge by the sheer amount of attention I’m getting. “Use this,” I hear my bear say as my chest begins to heave with more vigor. The man torturing my nipples bounces the mattress as he stands up, but someone—I think the man whose dick is in my mouth—takes over nipple duty. I hear clicking noises, and see an occasional bright flash. That motherfucker is taking more photos of me being worked over by the other three bears.

“Come on, baby,” says the bear I’d picked up on the Dick Deck. “Shoot for daddy.” His fist clutches tight around my meat as he jacks up and down the distended wet flesh. I couldn’t hold back if I’d wanted. From my core I feel lava surge through my balls and up the shaft. “Fuck! Look at that hog shoot!” the bear roars, as the others grunt in appreciation. For a moment, all noise recedes as I shudder and convulse from the orgasm. Two jets of semen land somewhere on my belly, but the bear buries my inches into his throat once again to catch the rest. Whimpering, my jerky agitations subside. Suddenly the nipple-twisting becomes painful.

“That’s the way my boy does it. Just like I taught him,” announces the bear. I shiver at the sensation of his rough tongue lapping up the cum on my belly. “Atta boy, son.” The fellow above me pulls his semi-hard dick from my mouth.

“Shit,” I stammer. “I’ve never….”

“Never what?” asks my bear.

His husband chuckles. “Never been molested by a sloth of bears, he means.”

“A what of what?”

“It’s a collective noun.” The gray-haired man shrugs. “I don’t know how I know that.”

“That’s what I meant,” I agree. “Fuck, that was…intense.”

The men all laugh at once. “Worth it for that sweet load, son,” says my bear. He and the man in spandex pull me up to the top of the bed and cuddle me between them. The other two pile in on either side. The man who’d originally assigned himself to twist my nipples hands back my bear his camera.

“Selfie time,” says the bear. He makes all of us crowd in and smile up at the ceiling as we take an exhausted last couple of photos.

I leave about ten minutes later, when I feel like I can walk again. It’s not until I get back to my own cabin in those wee hours of the morning that I realize I’ve forgotten to give the bear my email address so I can I get copies of some of those photos for myself. Oh well, I think. I can do it when I see them around the ship, later in the week.

The odd thing is, though, that I never see any of those guys again. And I never get to see the shots either I or they took.

So if anyone out there happens to see some badly-lit photos of me on all fours spreading my pasty ass for the world to see…let me know, would you?