July 2026
For many vacationing gay men, the resort town of Provincetown becomes a summer social whirl. Daytime pool parties at the Crown and Anchor or at the Provincetown Inn, way out at the town’s southwestern perimeter. A noon trek to Boy Beach to bask in the sun. Tea Dance at the Boatslip, lubricated by their lethal rum punches. At night are big parties to attend, shows to see, multiple bars to visit. The Vault has a back room, after dark. For the curious, there’s the Dick Dock. Anyone looking to hang out with others in as little clothing as possible has plenty of opportunities, any hour of the day.
I approach my Ptown sojourns a little more slowly. I’ll wake up when I want, have a light breakfast, spend the morning taking in a handful of shops. Every day, I’ll pack a sandwich and chips to take to the waterfront, where I’ll relax on a shady bench to eat lunch while ferries and whale-spotting boats glide in and out of the harbor. Later I might swap watching seals for gazing at the truly diverse parade of people walking up and down Commercial Street, as I sit in front of Town Hall.
I’ll nap, catch up on my reading, and opt for a slushy frosé at the Canteen instead of the Tea Dance. After a leisurely outdoor dinner and maybe an ice cream, I’ll enjoy more people and dog watching, or hit drag queen karaoke at the Governor Bradford. I don’t isolate myself from others. I’ll maybe go to one Tea Dance. Someone always invites me over for a civilized cocktail with a group of men of a similar age. Big parties rapidly drain my social batteries, though. I’ve been in enough bars, including all of Ptown’s, to know what I’m not missing.
Besides, I don’t need to hit a bar tonight. I’ve been texting with this one fellow all day. His profile bio amuses me. You recognize me, huh? Maybe it’s because I get around. Looking for connected, passionate fun. It should be with you. There’s a cockiness to his come-on that doesn’t cross the line into rank arrogance. I appreciate his playfulness. One photo displays him decked out in leather gear, a startlingly handsome man solidly in his late forties. He’s muscular, bearded, furry all over. In another, he’s naked, professionally photographed leaning against a brick wall, hand around the base of his girthy cock. There’s one of him prone on a mattress, back arched, ass cleft wooly with growth. But there’s a particular picture I keep coming back to: he’s sitting on a bed with his legs spread, back against a pillow, as he stretches out the band of the athletic supporter he’s wearing to inspect the treasure within. His expression is of smug delight.
I really like that one.
I would really like a shot at meeting you, he tells me, late in the evening. We would be hot together. Can we make it happen tonight?
I’m free, I say, if you can host.
I’d be happy to host you. I’m hopping in the shower. Come over in fifteen, he tells me. I’ll turn the lights down low and let you do what you want to me.
I’d never refuse that invitation.
I know the street on which he lives; for three years running, I’d rented a condo in the unit next door. He awaits as I approach, feet in the periwinkles, forearms resting atop the white picket fence separating yard from street. He looks as good as his photos. Better, even. All he wears is a pair of running shorts. “Hey, handsome,” he calls, his chest hairs tickling the fence’s wooden stakes. When I make a display of raising my eyebrows, glancing over both shoulders, then finally resting a hand on my chest in a mock who, me? gesture, he breaks into laughter. “Get over here, you.”
Over the gate, once I’m within range, he grabs the back of my neck and hauls me in for a kiss. “Thank you for meeting. I’m Brad, by the way.”
“Thank you for making it so easy to meet,” I reply. I love when guys facilitate the hookup process. Not always can I drop everything for an immediate connection. On vacation, it’s easier. I appreciate when a man makes a statement of intent—an I want you, do you want me?—and follows it up quickly with suggestions of how we might consummate our mutual attraction. I’m never going to be one of those app profile scolds who warns men I’m not into endless texting, but certain types fray my patience: faceless, photo-less ones who demand I drop everything to meet them, the guys who moon after me without ever intending to connect, the chaps who throw everything related to logistics into my lap, as if what we’re planning isn’t a mutual concern.
No, this guy named Brad stated his interest, made himself available, and extended his hospitality. From online spark to first kiss, barely a half hour has passed. Into the house he leads me, then from the entry hallway into his condo. Though outside the building is one hundred percent Cape Cod cottage, Brad has obviously renovated the interior of his subdivided portion, at least, sometime within the past couple of years. Wood planks shine with a high gloss, while the walls are painted in dark colors with white trim that conceals recessed lighting. A high granite-topped island divides kitchen from living area. Everything is sleek. Dark. Modern.
I’m scarcely able to look around, though, because the man stands before me to cup in his hands the sides and bottom of my head, as if I’m a big snifter of cognac and he is preparing to drink me in.
I feel his lips on one cheek, then another. He plants a soft kiss upon my brow, then looks me in the eyes. “Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi,” I say back.
He smells of soap and tastes faintly of lemon when his tongue slides into my mouth. We pull the other in, eyes closed, bodies pressed tight, to kiss more deeply. My right hand dips beneath the band of his shorts and encounters more elastic: a jock. Maybe the same he’s wearing in that one photo I liked so much. I round my hand beneath it as well, and let my digits dance down his furry crack.
My fingertips meet his soft pucker as we make out next to the pile of boots and sandals by his doorway. He gasps when I manipulate his soft flesh. Separating his face from mine, he nods ever so slightly. I push a little harder and am rewarded by his moist, pliant warmth. Once again his head jerks up and down; I watch his pupils flare and dilate. “Bedroom,” he insists, a little breathless.
I nod and follow.
Brad is the first to get naked. Then again, he only has to step out of his athletic shorts and shimmy the worn jock from his narrow waist. I have to kick off my shoes, peel off my socks, drop my shorts. I skim out of my tee and wrestle my trunks from around my hard, already-insistent dick. The man uses both hands to pull me up onto the king-sized bed. The sigh of contentment he makes as my weight presses into him is music to my ears. “Are you going to fuck me, dad?” he asks.
I’m sixteen years his senior. In theory, I could be his dad. But the time for math is long past. The only calculation I consider is how quickly I can get his legs over my shoulders. “I will get so deep inside you, son.”
“Ffffuck.” He draws out the fricative as long as he can.
“I am going to stretch open that butt of yours with my big dick,” I promise.
“Is it going to hurt?”
Neither of us blinks during our hushed conversation. We stare into the other’s eyes while our private parts grind. I shrug a little. “It might,” I say, managing to imply that it definitely will. His breath catches. “But you’ll be a good boy and make dad proud, won’t you.”
His nod creates such vigorous friction against the cotton pillowcase I’m surprised it doesn’t catch aflame. “Make it hurt if you need. I won’t complain.”
“Let me look at you, son.”
I roll myself off and lay to his side. Brad is definitely one of the more handsome men I’ve bedded in recent memory. A tight fade on the sides of his head rises to a short salt-and-pepper crown. He’s got the body of someone who works out not for the mere drudgery of staying in shape, but who actually enjoys his gains. Two hard pecs adorned by broad, pointed nipples. A flat stomach with definition around the abs. I’m a thigh man, and his trunk-like stems are solid enough to make me nod in appreciation. His blue eyes dance as I take in the thick curve of his cock against his hipbone, the long toes that wriggle in anticipation, the stubble where his pubes should be. “Am I all right?” he asks.
I’m the one who should be asking that about my pale carcass, almost pearlescent next to his tanned skin. He hasn't invited me tonight to narrate my self-doubt, though. I lean in for another kiss, long and slow. When our lips separate, I nod. “You’re beautiful,” I tell him. He lets out a slight gasp; I can see his body shiver. “Turn over,” I tell him.
I pull a single pillow from the several at the bed’s head, and let him bury his face in the others. I manage to get him to raise his hips so I can slide the cushion underneath. Already he’s gripping the bedclothes in anticipation, bunching them up in his fists. I haven’t even touched him, yet.
But now I do. I climb atop the man and straddle him at the hips. Leaning down, I kiss the top of his head. His neck. My lips move across his shoulders. My beard brushes between the shoulder blades, up the spine to his nape. “You are so beautiful,” I whisper into an ear. Another kiss, another abrasion from my facial hair. “Just look at you, son.”
His eyes tightly shut. Strangled cries of pleasure choke his throat, whether from my words or touch. I can’t tell. I don’t care. My lips travel down his ribs, circumnavigate the small of his back. A patch of fur flourishes at a spot an inch above the middle of his ass, a small, overgrown jungle surrounded by a prairie of brown fur. When my lips snatch and tug at it, the flat of his hand slaps the mattress above me. He likes that.
We’re face-to-ass, once I settle down between his outstretched thighs. With the pillow elevating his hips, I have a perfect view of the man’s most essential and private spot. When I pry apart his ass cheeks, the pink slit blossoms, then abruptly winks shut. I lean forward, nudge at it with my nose, and am rewarded with another glimpse of soft flesh. Brad sighs when I plant a kiss on one ass cheek, then the other. He knows what’s coming.
Still, I enjoy the tease. I breathe through my mouth to allow the warm air from my lungs to tantalize those two inches of exposed hole. My hands caress his broad, hard upper legs. I rub my furry cheek over the mounds of his butt. Then, finally, I pull back on those masses and let my tongue flick out.
Brad’s cry of astonishment cuts through the quiet to echo around the dim bedroom. When I lick at him again, he muffles his joy in the pillows. “Am I hurting you?” I tease. “I can stop.”
“No!” He curls his head, looks down at me from under the upraised arm clutching at the headboard. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
I make a show of shrugging, as if his answer makes no difference to me. Then I dive in. No mere tongue flick, now. I mash in my whole face to drive his hips forward, while I wrap my hand around the man’s down-splayed dick. He swells in my grasp as I grind my beard into his tender, sweet flesh.
Simple physics: each of my actions results in an equal and opposite reaction. When I apply pressure to his hefty lever, his body lifts and falls heavily on the bed. If I bite his ass in my feral frenzy, he yells and beats at the pillows. The columns of soft air I blow from pursed lips lift his head to the clouds; my insistent separation of his cheeks further to expose him causes his whole body to shake. I enjoy this sweet science, though. I love making the man writhe. My own cock thrills with every fresh thrash of his torso, with the buck and resistance of his pelvis.
I slither up the sheets between his legs. My stiff dick leaves a trail of sticky slime on the bedcover as I crawl up onto his back. Our hips gyrate in time. He wants this as much as I. “You need to be fucked,” I whisper into his ear. I feel the shiver that starts at the base of his spine and travels outward. “I think you’re ready.”
“Go slow,” he begs. “You’re big.”
I have one last question. “Lube, or spit?”
I can see him gulp. I only ask because a bottle of clear goo lies conspicuously on the bedside table, next to a hand towel. “I…I…you choose,” he whimpers.
I spit into my hand, slap it onto my dick, and position myself. Within moments, I’m gliding in.
This isn’t just hole. This is pussy. My spit isn’t even necessary, so slick and wet is he already. “Oh god,” he moans as I hit the base. There’s no resistance, no pushback. Just a soaked chute, wide open and begging for more of me.
I love when a man is soft and well-fucked like this. Some tops prefer tight. While that has its pleasures, experienced hole offers me more: I can pull all the way out, just as I do now, knowing I won’t have to grapple and reposition when I’m ready to enter again. Tight has a tendency to push against me, to resist. Ass that’s wide open only welcomes me. I can push deeper, thrust harder, alter my angle, and know it will keep up. Brad’s hole isn’t just exposed and well-used. It’s agape. When I ease out my shaft, his ass remains a cavern, its mouth wide and welcoming.
“Roll with me,” I whisper. Still inside, I pull at his hips so that I fall onto my right side behind him. The pillow that was under his midsection, I tuck under his head. My right arm slides underneath his armpit to embrace his chest; my fingers tug and catch at his fur as I search for his nipple. My left hand pulls at his waist so that I’m deep inside him once more. “Are you okay?” I ask, checking in.
As response, he only purrs with contentment. We both curl into the other, rocking back and forth at the moist, heated point of our connection. I like this position because it spares him from having to bear the weight of my body, while still giving me ample room and leverage to move and thrust as I please. “I love it,” he murmurs at last. His eyes are closed; his nose nuzzled into my forearm. “I love you inside me.”
“That’s right,” I tell him, pleased. “Good boy.”
For long minutes, his soft sighs and my occasional grunts are the only noises we make. I’ll kiss his neck from time to time, making him arch his spine and push back against me. He will reach behind to clutch at my ass when he wants me especially deep. What we’re doing is lovemaking at its sweetest, its most gentle. I relish the sensation of his hot hole clutching at me. Sweat builds on our bodies to be cooled away again, as the air conditioner turns on and off.
Its fan stays on for longer as the heat build in the room. I spit into my left hand once more and reach around to cup Brad’s cock in my fingers. His jaw drops; inchoate phrases begin to form, but disappear. I wonder whether they would have been encouragement or warning. My stimulation increases the velocity of his hips. Soon I’m not thrusting at all; I lay perfectly still as he churns back and forth, impaling himself on my rigidity with one motion, then spreading his cock into my curled digits with the next. His excitement is rising. I can feel it in his ragged respiration, in the hardening of his nipple in my right hand.
Eyes lidded, he looks over his shoulder. “Can you come with me?” he asks. “Are you close enough?”
I lay the side of my head against his nape and nod. Our approach to climax is both gradual and mutual. We become copilots who alternate control, homing in on our mutual destination. He will pull me close and squeeze tight his hole and twitch his hips to maneuver me a little ahead; I will pull back a little, then spread his precum to milk his rigid inches until he’s frantic. He’ll crane to kiss me over his shoulder; I’ll pinch hard on his sensitive nipples. Back and forth we urge each other, limbs interlocked, in this three-legged race in which we’re both winners.
Brad comes first. I feel a spurt of his semen, hot and viscous, lubricate my knuckles. It spills over the back of my hand as he begins to huff. A racking orgasm causes him to clench down. His ass contracts like a vise, then becomes soft and pliant once more. Back and forth it alters, creating suction that draws me in past what feels like the root. Mere seconds after his own climax, I can’t help myself. I clutch at the man’s hip and draw him close to me in the embrace of my pinned arm. My senses rage. Loud gasps escape my lungs to abrade his shoulders.
“Yes,” he says. “Give it to me.”
And I do. It’s a sweet exchange: spurt after spurt of my juice rewards his encouragement and happy sighs. For a long moment, after, I can’t even see anything. Slowly, gradually, the fog recedes. He’s still in my arms. We’ve made a mess, but he’s in no hurry to clean it.
“Do you need me to pull out?” I ask. I’m still mostly hard inside him. I don’t want to disturb our cozy nest for two.
“No. Please don’t.” He nestles in closer, pulling me in, tight. “I like it like this.”
And so we lie there, listening to the air conditioner’s steady hum, the occasional whirr of a bicycle’s freehub from outside, or the excited chatter of people heading out for the town’s nightlife. I relax into this unhurried, quiet moment. This act of simply existing, without feeling a need for doing.
***
His voice rumbles into words after long, silent minutes. “Oh, god.” He continues moving around my dick. I’m firm enough to remain inside him. “I can’t believe we did that. I’m sorry if I was too tight, dad.”
I chuckle a little at his joke, but I’m too content to reply. My right arm has fallen asleep beneath the weight of his torso, but it hasn’t reached the pins and needles stage yet. I pull him a little closer.
He strokes my forearm and looks over his shoulder. “I wasn’t too tight, was I?”
Again I laugh before realizing: oh, he’s serious. “No,” I assure. “Why? When was the last time you were fucked?”
Brad lets out a long sigh. “Over a year ago, I guess. Probably closer to two, two and a half years. I would have warned you ahead of time, but I figured that you were probably good with super-tight holes. But the way you opened me…” By now, my belly is bouncing against his back in full-fledged, silent laughter. “What?”
“Listen,” I say into his ear. “I wouldn’t say it was exactly one of those throwing a hot dog down a hallway situations, but it was pretty damned close. You were very open.”
Now in on the joke, he joins in my mirth. “Lord. Okay. Maybe all credit is due to you, though.” He reaches around to let his fingers explore the area where we’re still connected. “I’m usually known as the Town Top.”
I laugh some more, but cease when I realize he’s serious. “Oh, really?”
“Really. There’s a significant audience out there that knows me as a total, hundred percent top. They’d be shocked to know I was doing this with you, with my reputation. My face is known out there.”
I don’t exactly freeze, but I have one of those moments in which I’m so lost in my own thoughts that the rest of the world recedes. I think back on those professional photos in his profile. The leather. The coy You recognize me, huh? Maybe it’s because I get around.
Of course people recognize him. “You’re in porn?” I ask, feeling foolish that I hadn’t put it together sooner.
He nods. “Adult film. Ad campaigns for adult companies. Modeling. Selectively.”
It’s a good thing he can’t see my face, because it’s totally red. “Well, listen,” I say after a long moment. He’s sharing something precious and private with me, right now. I intend to give him the respect he deserves. “I was unaware of who or what you might be when you started flirting with me, and for that I apologize.” He shakes his head, dismissing my regrets. “On the plus side, my ignorance meant I could approach our encounter with no expectations whatsoever. I know that when you have a certain level of fame…”
“No, not fame. I’m not famous.”
I understand. “I’m in a similar situation myself, in which what I write gives me the same…not fame, but a certain level of influence within a small sphere.”
“A small and limited sphere.”
I nod some more. “A very small and limited sphere. When I get recognized, fans sometimes burden me with a certain level of expectation and fantasy. I’m sure it’s the same with you.” He nods. “So, thank you for sharing with me, but I wouldn’t have traded what we experienced for any…what am I try to say? Foreknowledge. Of your, you know. Super-secret international top porn star fame.”
We both laugh aloud, this time. “You know the only thing that ‘fame’ buys me?” Brad makes air quotes as he talks. “I was at the Eagle in New York one night and was walking around the second floor. Full leather gear. It was supposed to be a leather night and I was probably the only one fully decked out. Anyway, whenever I walked by the pool table, I’d catch the eye of this kid there. Maybe twenty-three, twenty-four. He couldn’t stop staring at me. He had this look in his eyes. I recognize that look. I get it when they know me from the films they’ve seen. He was like, laser focused on me. Probably jacked off to my vids dozens of times, but not brave enough to say hi, or anything.” I pull Brad closer. “So at some point when I walk by, I reach out and just put a finger underneath his chin and guide his face to mine. Real slow. Then I plant a kiss on him. Just a soft…tiny…perfect little kiss on his lips. While everyone watches me. And he was so overwhelmed that—boom! His legs gave out from beneath him.”
“Jesus,” I say, imagining a cracked tailbone and a trip to the emergency room.
“No, he was fine. There were enough people around to catch him before he could do himself any damage. But picture it. So stunned by a porn actor’s kiss that his legs gave out. I mean, it was super sweet. But that’s all my kind of fame buys. Hey.” He’s still fondling the base of my cock. “You’re rock hard again.”
“Yes I am.” I’d begun stiffening during his Eagle story. I slide in more deeply, which causes his eyes to roll back. “Do you need me to stop?”
“Don’t stop.” Now his lids close. He arches his back to meet my thrusts. “Are you going to fuck me again?” His voice softens. “Please fuck me again.”
I shift him slightly so that I can pull out my numb arm. I use my outstretched palm to push his face into the pillows. “First time, I was just making love to some nice guy with a loose ass named Brad. This time, I’m nailing the Town Top.”
“Oh, fuck. Yes.” Once again his hole blossoms to welcome me. “Put that bitch in his place. He needs to be taught a lesson, dad.”
I drive in harder, dick swelling. If this is what a certain degree of ‘fame’ can buy, it’s a currency worth trading.
***
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