Date: Fri, 21 Aug 2009 15:25:29 +0100 From: J Smith Subject: Private Show Warning: this is erotica, written for adults. If you're underage, write and remind me what that feels like. ***** PRIVATE SHOW ~ For J.A. Welcome home. People take too much gear to the beach. I watched one family as they set up camp to my left. French, I thought, but the wind carried their chatter away from me and I couldn't tell for sure. An older woman was in charge, a severe looking matriarch but a woman nonetheless, huge breasts and sagging belly contained in a capacious black one-piece swimsuit. Her brood went about their various pre-assigned tasks. Hers was an all-female group but for a single young man, who removed his shirt to expose a hairy chest and tummy, and strong, firm arms as he swung a mallet against the end of a thick metal pole, driving it hard into the sand. Daughters and daughters-in-law created order, staking out their pitch while grandchildren happily shed clothes, eager to be splashing in the waves. Chairs, coolboxes, a portable barbeque, rugs, blankets and towels were all arranged around the spot where the young man erected a large, much-used parasol: shade, signpost, territory marker, totem pole. Do Not Lay Your Towel Near Us, said the faded green and orange stripes of the tatty, fringed umbrella. The hefty matron took her seat in the shade, and the younger women settled around her. She missed her husband, who had died the previous year; and while it was a fine thing to have her girls around her on a sunny day at the beach, she was sad to think she'd never hear her husband laugh again, or see him play with the grandchildren, or feel his urgent, blunt hardness inside her. The young man – her youngest child; a surprise long after the matriarch thought her family was complete – commenced the familiar towel routine. Facing away from his family, he wrapped a small, threadbare towel around his waist, snagged his tan shorts and black underwear out from underneath, stepped into a pair of snug blue swimming trunks and pulled them up in the same action as discarding the towel. At the very end of this age-old manoeuvre, he revealed a glimpse of the top of a hairy crack as the swimmers were pulled up over his backside. He re-arranged his balls left-handed as he marshalled the younger kids to the edge of the water. Just that briefest contact with his nuts made him recall the previous week, and the unexpected and amazing feeling of a soft tongue on his scrotum. He was desperate for it to happen again, and there was every chance it would, very soon. And then he was in the sea with the little ones, and memories of his first four blowjobs were temporarily swept aside as he splashed around, six years old again. From virgin sand to family camp in under five minutes. Impressive, in a way. Not my thing, though. When I go to the beach, I take only towel, book and water. If I want shade, I will leave. If I need to grease up with sun lotion, I will apply it beforehand. If I want food, I will go to a bar and buy it. Beaches are about minimums. They are about stripping yourself of the mundane and being free of clutter for a while. And clothes. There's no point going to a beach if you're going to wear a shirt or cover your legs. Beaches are about skin, in its many beautiful tones and colours. Only when in the shower and when making love do people reveal so much skin as they do on the beach. And beaches are about elements. I go to the beach to feel wind, heat and water on my skin. To be warmed by the sun and to plunge into cool sea. To relax and to be rejuvenated. And to look at hot guys, obviously. The beach was filling up as the after lunch crowd arrived. Earlier I'd had the place to myself but I didn't object to this invasion. People are interesting on the beach. They disclose things that aren't evident in the office, and they behave with less caution than they do at home. They remove their inhibitions as they remove their clothes. They are uncovered, naked. They wear their thoughts on the outside, and they show their desires as clearly as swimwear reveals skin. Among the newcomers was a group of five Spanish girls. Their camp was messy and informal, a number of overlapping towels with a pile of bags, and they sat, lounged and reclined more or less in a heap, tightly-knit and intimate, a close group of girlfriends with conversation their only intent. The strong breeze carried their speech directly to me, rapid, guttural and noisy. At least two spoke at every moment, and sometimes all five, yet they seemed to follow the many simultaneous strands of their discussion with ease. Magazines were passed around and commented on, phone calls taken, text messages shared, and regular waves of laughter swept through the group in delighted squeals. Their beautiful honey brown bodies were adorned only by skimpy bikinis and sunglasses, and they massaged low factor sun oil into each other's skin with the familiarity of sisters. One of the girls, in fact the eldest although they were all much the same age, enjoyed this chance to be with her friends. She had a great secret to tell, but it needed to remain undisclosed just a little while longer. And then, when she was sure of what was happening, she would tell them – and how excited they would be! Even as she smiled to herself, right in that instant, she thought she could still feel the two loads of hot semen her lover had splashed over her breasts the night before. What a revelation he was. So beautiful, so masculine, so surprisingly sensitive. Just the thought of him made her tremble with a new desire. She momentarily closed her eyes and blocked out the animated conversation of her friends. Tonight, she decided. Tonight she would give him what he'd been aching for. Tonight. Because she wanted it just as much. I turned round to lie on my stomach facing the dunes with my feet pointing towards the sea, and saw another pair of new arrivals. A middle-aged man and a boy aged perhaps ten. From the boy's happy, innocent outlook, his lopsided face and his charming interest in everything and everyone, it was clear he was a Downs syndrome child. He was delighted with sand, eager to get into the sea, particular as to where the towels were laid and worried about the wind. The older man, in long red shorts and a black muscle vest, assuaged him on every point then stripped the boy naked, coated him with a high factor sun cream and then helped him into a pair of big, baggy swim shorts. No towel manoeuvre, no coy messing about, just pants down and trunks on. The boy was so delighted with his new shorts that he asked the neighbouring couple, who had paid precisely no attention, whether they agreed that they were the best swimming shorts ever. The couple had been stretched out side-by-side snoozing and hadn't developed an opinion on the matter, but they were friendly and agreed that the shorts were very smart. I noticed that a cordial conversation then ensued between the married couple and the guy in the red shorts. Kids, like dogs, are great conversation starters. Was he the boy's father? I wasn't sure. The more I watched him smile and converse in faltering French – the couple were Swiss – the more I realised he was hot. For sure he was more man than boy, and with a great smile, but there was something of the dude about him too. Caring, courteous and cool, all rolled together. The dude wasn't to know, but the Swiss couple couldn't have children of their own. This had been a great disappointment to them, but now they'd accepted it. Adoption and fostering weren't for them, so they'd set about re-ordering their priorities and embracing the possibilities of a life without children. A strong, deeply loving and mutually dependent couple, they'd decided that instead of bringing up children they would devote their spare time to their marriage: to travel to interesting places, to drink good wine and to have the best sex they could. They were dozing on the beach because they were tired from the previous evening, which they'd spent making their first porno film; a gift to themselves for their tenth anniversary. They'd hired a set and a director and a couple of cameramen, and had the time of their lives making love on film in dozens of ridiculous positions, giggling at the silliness of it, but on fire with the sexiness. They planned to make one every year and build up a private archive that captured for all time the physical love that bound them together. The first one was in the bag, money shots and soundtrack and all, and the guy they'd hired was editing it and would give them the final cut by the end of the week. As the Downs boy asked them about his shorts, they were both jolted back to the reality of spending an afternoon on the beach. What a charming boy. And then he was off, moving his butterfly-like attention on to something else, and they lay down again, sad once more about the absence of children, but not so sad that they couldn't smile, cuddle and kiss. Another family unit had pitched up a little way off: a couple and a teenage boy no more than fourteen. Everything gave them away as Russian, and completely unhappy. The skinny woman wore a bikini with faux diamond dust glinting in a swirly design on the large breast cups, and shiny beads dangling at her hips. Her gold beach sandals, with substantial heels, also shone in the sun as did the long formal earrings she wore either side of her fully made-up face. Her bleached hair was scraped back, piled up on top and held in place with a clip covered in yet more sparkles. I watched as she removed her gleaming sunglasses, carefully folded them and placed in them in a brilliantly shiny specs case which she inserted into a small designer bag, possibly labelled VULGARI. Spread-eagled on the sand, she ignored her husband and son completely and concentrated on broiling her pale skin. In fact she was losing herself in fantasy. She found that when she was stretched out in the path of the sun, she could manage to forget the tedious reality of her marriage and remember the three men that she could have had instead. Vitaly, with his gappy smile and his soft hair, who had kissed her in the park behind the zoo and promised he would work every hour so she could have nice things. Sasha, with his broad shoulders and his taciturn solemnity. She'd misunderstood Sasha. She thought he'd been too quiet, but too late she realised that strong and silent was a devastating aphrodisiac, and that a man who spoke only when he had something to say was greatly to be preferred to a man who lied every time he opened his mouth. And finally Sergei. Sergei the slippery, Sergei the charmer. Sergei who could fuck like a Soviet tank. She parted her legs slightly, feeling the warmth of the sun on the inside of her thighs. Never far beneath the surface of her memory, she could always recall Sergei. Sand claimed and bags arranged, the male members of the Russian clan began their own version of the towel trick. This time a family bond permitted the father to hold the towel for his son, allowing easier movement. The son was exquisite. A new adolescent on the cusp of the very first stages of manhood. His limbs were too long, like they had grown overnight; his face clear and honest, his smile shy, his blue eyes luminous. His skin was pale like his mother's, his short hair very blond, and though his physique was still that of an overgrown boy, his legs shone with some golden down. His upper lip glistened with the first sign of facial hair, though it would be years before he needed to shave. He was awkward and ungainly, unsure of himself and his body, embarrassed by everything. His father held the towel around his son's hips and drank in the sight of him lowering his underwear. The boy looked away so he didn't meet his father's eye as he quickly pulled on his own board shorts. They were cheap and discoloured, but they gave him some security from the perils of being fourteen and on a beach. The son was in fact boiling with sexuality. In the last year he had discovered what all his classmates already knew, and masturbation had become a fanatic, frenzied, desperate necessity. Hour after hour, day after day, the desire never diminished. He could not stop thinking about it. He planned the times when he could be alone to feed this new, furious need, and outside the blessed hours of bed he crammed his habit into the smallest secret corners of the day, because he knew that if he didn't, the constant thoughts of girls and breasts and legs and underwear and lips and bras and nipples and eyes and the curve of a neck and the line of a thigh and the smoothness of a bum and the sexiness of beautiful little toes and the unbearable, light-headed ecstasy of feminine fingers sliding slowly into a pair of lacy knickers would overwhelm him and he would explode in a shower of backed-up super-heated spunk. He didn't know if it was normal to feel like this, and he had nobody to talk to about it. He had no older brother, and his friends at school thought he was a just a pretty-boy simpleton. And no way could he talk to his father. So he kept it to himself, and he just wanked and wanked and wanked in a frantic effort to keep ahead of the hormonal surge. Three times today already, but an afternoon at the beach would leave him in a jam. Maybe he could sneak off somewhere, or maybe he could persuade his mother they needed to go and get an ice cream so he could grab three minutes in a café loo, which was all he needed. The son was then compelled to hold the towel in similar fashion for his father. The father took way longer than necessary to change his gear, speaking all the time in aggressive, pushy Russian. The boy looked away, mortified, and the father pulled the boy's chin back to face him, forcing the boy to look at his naked body, and talking for another long while until he stepped into a pair of tiny red Speedos. He pouted as he wriggled into them, and then seemed to use both hands to arrange himself. The boy blushed furiously but was finally allowed to remove the towel. The father was mid-to-late-thirties, brown hair and eyes, hairy chest and furry beer belly. The small red briefs under the overhanging stomach looked ridiculous and vaguely obscene. There was nothing mighty crammed in there but still his packet drew attention to itself like a bargain sticker in a supermarket. Ready for swimming, he headed for the sea and when the boy didn't follow, he came back and put his arm around the boy's shoulder and pulled him along. The son didn't want to swim, but he wasn't given any option. In fact the father was a seething mass of prurience, jealousy and frustration. Forced into marriage by his own father, and held there by iron-clad conditions that would see his substantial income and several houses vanish should he renege, he had made it clear from the beginning that he could have no love for his wife. He cruised the parks of Moscow till the early hours looking for hard masculine men to suck and to give his ass to, and loved nothing more than being used by two or more guys that he would never see again. Promiscuity flowed in his very veins. He had never wanted a boyfriend or a full-time lover, and he felt his wife was as good a cleaner and cook as any ethnic girl he could employ. But he'd been as surprised as she was when one night, after another unspeakable embarrassment trying to meet his father's overriding and most terrifying stipulation, he managed to turn away from the intense gay piss orgy he was watching on the big screen in his bedroom and ejaculate while stuffing his penis between her soft labia. He went flaccid instantly, and couldn't look her in the eye, but somehow, despite the unpromising start, one of his little swimmers ran the course and made the match. Alexander, his pride and joy, was born early the next year. He had a son! His own father was appeased. His wife had a role and a purpose. He celebrated by attending a private party in a friend's apartment where a dozen eastern European pornstars danced and stripped and flashed their big cocks, and, for a price that every guest thought nothing of, whored themselves till breakfast the next day. He had a strong, adult need for sex and went about fulfilling it by taking whatever opportunities he could. He wasn't above cruising every guy in a bar till he got a taker. He knew straight guys could sometimes get desperate enough to be interested, and at every moment he was sniffing for such a possibility. He paid for escorts as often as he bought meals. And he certainly wasn't above preying on a fourteen year old who'd been caught short and grabbed a private three minutes in a café loo, and since his own son had reached the brink of manhood he had been consumed with jealousy at the perfection of the boy's body, his innocent looks, his soft penis and his wide eyes. It was all he could do not to sink to his knees when the boy shyly dropped his pants within the enforced communality of the shared beach towel. The dude watched their towel scene as closely as I did. When it was over and the father plunged into the surf leaving the boy doubtful at the water's edge, I caught the dude's eye. He gave a subtle nod of mock despair with a slight shrug. Even over the distance between us, and through two sets of sunglasses, his meaning was clear. Our first hint of communication. A group of Italian guys arrived. This being a cosmopolitan beach on an international island, I was used to a variety of languages drifting on the breeze. But they were good looking fit guys, and Italian always sounds the most pleasant to an eavesdropper, so I hoped they would settle nearby. They showed no sign of sitting down at all until they nearly tripped over the pile of Spanish girls and suddenly their group subconscious dictated that they should pitch up just alongside. The Italians numbered four, and the five Spanish girls took just two seconds, and without breaking their conversation, to register the newcomers, count them, assess them and form a favourable opinion without revealing that they had even noticed them. If things panned out a certain way, one of the girls could be disappointed and a frisson of competition ran through them. I settled back to watch. This could be interesting. The dude was watching too, I think. The Italians were far too cool to actually sunbathe or swim, or do anything beachy other than preen and pose. I went out with an Italian once. He was beautiful and sexy yet vulnerable and corroded by vanity. Four more such specimens were before me now. They all had the kind of body that had been super at 18 and amazing at 21, but would soon begin to soften and take on weight. Gay guys blessed with one of those Italian bodies would have preserved it for life, but these guys had only a few more years to capitalise on them before they were gone for good. Taut and lithe, athletic and boisterous, they joked among themselves and knocked a ball around with the sole purpose of showing off and making an impression. Straight guys can have a refreshing, uncontrived attraction. None of these guys trimmed their body hair or went in much for grooming at all, and it gave them a clean, naturally sexy look. All wore long shorts that hung low on the hips and came to the knees or below, and the tallest one had a tattoo on his calf. The Spanish girls, outwardly disinterested, betrayed their real attention with a sudden spike in the vivacity of their chatter. In fact the subtleties of the situation were more complicated than any could know, and probably all were headed for disappointment. The eldest Spanish girl was not interested in the Italians as she had a new lover of her own, and two of her friends had both instinctively singled out the same guy, the tall one with the Celtic band tattoo on his calf. On the other hand, the Italians thought that all the girls were great and there was nothing to choose between them, except for the tattooed guy himself, who cared not a jot for girls of any kind, Spanish or otherwise. He hung around with this crowd because they were funny, had hot bodies and liked to play football, but mainly because one of them was so damn sexy that the tattooed guy was kept in that delicious place permanently on the edge of arousal merely by being in frustrated close proximity. He had cared for a girl once before. He'd thought, like he believed his pals thought, that when you got to sixteen it was the thing to do to go with a girl and let her suck you while you fondled her breasts. It happened a couple of times just like that, but it wasn't something he was bothered about doing again. But when the girl's own brother had discreetly taken him aside and initiated a different kind of fun, he was electrified by the turn of events. He had got drunk on the pleasure. He had kissed ravenously and sucked like a demon. He had nearly fainted from the ecstasy of having his ass deflowered by a hungry mouth, a warm, wet tongue and a stubbly jaw. And he'd known he was home when he penetrated the brother, deep and hard, and he rode the wave until his climax nearly knocked him out. That was just the beginning. Now he was alive to the experience, he strongly felt this new world needed sharing. Maybe, just maybe, he could show his sexy beach buddy that girls could offer some things but boys could offer others. He was far from convinced it would work out. But he had to give it a go. Desire was like that. If you didn't try, you'd never know. Suddenly the dude stood up and I saw him clearly as he lifted his black vest over his head. He was tall and suntanned. Correction: not tanned, he was brown. His skin was not the superficial shade of a tourist who roasted for a week before proudly heading back to the cloudy north, it was the colour of a man who lived in warm weather year-round and had no need to sunbathe. His build was lean, and even though at around forty he was the oldest guy on this part of the beach, he was by a long way the most attractive, and other than the Russian boy he was probably the slimmest. But he wasn't scrawny or underweight, his build was simply that of a man in superb shape. No muscle bulk. No bulging pecs. No chunky guy who had firmed up in the gym. This was a slim, wiry guy, sinew and limbs, taut skin and smile. Something stirred in my groin. The cropped silvery hair, the tight chest and flat stomach, the dark fuzz between his nipples and the dense trail south into a pair of silky red shorts. The long brown legs. The Downs boy had none of his looks, and it was difficult to imagine they were father and son. Yet the dude was patient, caring and loving, and I watched him help the boy for a number of minutes as he got used to the goggles he was trying to fix to his face. And as the boy wandered towards me on his way to the sea, the dude looked straight at me and dropped his red shorts. Beneath were a pair of high cut white briefs, not swimmers at all, but regular quality underwear, which seemed to extend his legs forever upwards at the sides and present a beautiful manly bulge in front. Then he stowed his sunglasses safely and followed the boy. Evidently not having come prepared to swim, he was going in the water wearing just his undies. My heart jumped. The dude – and his fine body – passed close by me as he caught up with the boy, and a glint of silver on one finger flashed in the sunlight. As he retreated I swivelled slightly to look back over my shoulder and saw a superbly rounded pair of hard buns working under a tight spread of white cotton. Sensational. As I was looking, he turned back, and our eyes met for a second. Shit! He had caught me! A usually reliable rule of thumb at a regular beach is that a lone guy will be gay, and guys in groups of three or more are straight. Guys in twos can fall into either category depending on age. Straight guys are more likely to go to the beach with just one pal the younger they are; as they grow older, larger, mixed groups are more comfortable. Gay guys start to go the beach in pairs early and don't stop. The young couple to my left were one such. Gay, for sure. Beautiful, not really. Confident, not at all. Their two towels were perfectly abutted edge-to-edge as if they were two halves of a larger sheet, which made for a neat base camp, but between them was an ocean of space. They were an odd pair, neither more than twenty. A very pale guy was sitting up, wearing John Lennon sunglasses, with long, wispy red-brown hair that was gathered in a ponytail at his neck and then tied back underneath itself until it was clubbed into a ball. It was a strange look that did nothing for him. I guessed he was German. He was reading a novel in English, but hadn't yet turned a page. His partner was very Mediterranean, possibly Greek. Beautiful brown skin, very dark hair, a big nose and a serious look. A close couple who'd been arguing, possibly; or lovers who'd lost the spark but were trying to rekindle something; or maybe even two guys from a one night stand who out of loneliness had decided to extend their nocturnal rutting into a beach picnic and, clothed and sober, had found themselves utterly incompatible. They spoke not at all. The Greek lounged back on his elbows, looking out to sea, while the German tried to make sense of his book. The Greek was thinking of his previous boyfriend, a much older man who had fucked him regularly and expertly but not shown him any love. The German didn't have any former boyfriends to think of, and was trying to read his book to take his mind, just for one minute, off the previous night, when he and the Greek had made love for about six hours without a break. If he could take his mind away from it for just one minute, he would be able to have the pleasure of remembering it all over again. There wasn't much sleep involved in having a boyfriend, the German decided, but it was worth the fatigue in the afternoons. And it was doing wonders for their English, as physicality aside they had no other way to communicate. I stood up briefly, partly to stretch my legs and partly to see if I could see the dude. He and the boy were swimming some way out beyond the splashing group of French children and the young man with the hairy crack. From standing height I looked down and saw that though there was no vocal interaction between the German and the Greek, their feet were in fact lined up precisely, twenty wriggling toes all gently snuggled together, the nails all neatly buffed and shining in the sun. I smiled. Maybe it wasn't that they hadn't anything to say. Maybe it was that they hadn't learned how to say it yet. The Russian boy came back from his obligatory swim, and sat down next to his unmoving mother. His father was still in the water, probably because it gave him a better view of the four Italian guys who'd moved their courtship dance to the edge of the sea. They were currently doing tricks with their football and flicking it between them in a manner perfectly contrived to splash their torsos with surf and then glint in the sun. The tallest Italian guy didn't care whether the Spanish girls were watching, because he could hardly tear his eyes from the heart-stopping perfection of his buddy's chest misted in a sheen of salty spray. But he needed to, because his perpetual half-hardon was aching to stiffen further, and though his shorts were baggy and could hide a lot, he had a lot to hide. I dozed. Always a possibility when your body is bathed in beautiful warm light, it's a beach rule of mine never to resist the seductive wave of sleep. I drifted into an intensely erotic daydream. A tall masculine man stood behind me and, encircling me in his arms, he was kissing my neck and running his hands over my chest and then he was sucking me as I cradled his head in the sun and then I was splayed out at the very edge of the sea while his hands massaged my hairy legs and his darting tongue made love to my most private place and the waves broke over our bodies and then I was on my back in the sand while his firm fingers rubbed my nipples and brushed my lips and then I was kissing him like we were hungry for touch and togetherness and the delicious place where two guys can hang in the balance of orgasm, where skin glows and breath catches and balls tighten and cocks throb as solid and rigid and heavy as marble posts and where brown limbs and suntanned bodies tumble over and over and over. I felt something on my skin: a sudden splash of reality that caused me to float back to full consciousness. It was a few drops of cool seawater which had fallen on me as the dude in the white briefs and the boy passed by returning to their towels after a long swim. When my eyes focussed, they feasted. His undies, skimpy anyway and now drenched, had become little more than clingy, see-through nothingness. His legs looked browner and even longer than before, and the twin halves of his hard ass rode high and tight. For all the decency his briefs afforded him he may as well have been wearing nothing at all. Why does a grown man swim in revealing underwear on a public beach? Surely because the boy had wanted it, and that the man had no swimmers with him was therefore irrelevant. The glories of his body were visible solely because of his devotion to the boy, and that revelation turned me on even more. I sighed deeply and turned away. It was so rude to stare. But I couldn't help it. My eyes were drawn back to him after about one second. The dude and the boy reached their patch of sand. I was lying on my stomach facing them directly. The dude bent right over to pick up a small towel, so that his legs were taut and his ass cheeks splayed under the soaking, elastic fabric. Oh God. I had to suppress a strong primal urge to sneak up behind him on my knees, bury my face in his buns and try to chew my way through the thin, clammy cotton. What an ass. What a total marvel. He set about drying the boy off. He towelled him both roughly and with care, and then tried to persuade him that he no longer needed the goggles. I stared, unblinking, not caring if I was observed. As his arms and torso moved, his cheeks tightened and strained under the wet briefs, stretching the transparent cotton across the hard muscle and parting his crack, luscious and secret and dark. My head dropped towards the sand. Oh God. I couldn't look any more. Yes I could. He stood upright. The muscles in his legs and ass relaxed and his back reappeared, rising up to remind me of his height and his cropped, shining, silvery hair. I watched, captivated, fully alive yet hardly breathing. The boy was freed of towel and goggles, and wandered off. The dude kept hold of the small towel and applied it to his own head, rubbing his hair vigorously two-handed. Still facing away from me, he dabbed his chest and arms and then rubbed it over the dripping fabric covering his ass. The wet cotton didn't react well to being towelled and it scrunched, riding up over one cheek. His tan, it was now obvious, was all over. Then he turned round. Sensually, the beach is a place of extremes. Of dazzling light and dark glasses. Of hot sun, scorching sand, cool breeze and cold beer. The stimuli of a beach somehow get inside me. The sights and sounds and smells lay me wide open. They strip away my armour and my reserve, and expose a daring psychological nudity. They tap into me as a younger man. They evoke a long-forgotten hedonism and pump the raw ecstasy of a different decade into my veins. They speak to me as I once was, and remind me that I am still that person. On the beach, I am vulnerable to dreams, memories, feelings, regrets. On the beach, sunk in drowsy sensuality, the boundaries of reality blur and senses overlap. On the beach, the pleasing smoothness of warm skin has a smell. Colour has a heart-beat. Hardness has a taste. My cock throbbed, painfully. He faced me now. Still drying himself, but the warmer the sun on his chest and back, the wetter and more uncomfortable the skimpy cotton became. He shoved the small towel down the back of his ass, between his skin and the wet briefs, and rubbed hard. This must have worked, but as the now baggy briefs were pulled wide at the rear, so they clung tight like shrink-wrap at the front. In a sudden snapshot I saw the clear outline of his cock, even the ridge of its head. He removed the towel from behind, and I heard the wet elastic slap back against his ass. He shoved the towel down the front of his briefs and rummaged. The underwear seemed to have doubled in size, and was doing nothing but keeping him wet. He realised this at the same time I did. And without hesitation, he gave them up as a bad job. I held my breath. Would he? Yes he would. He dropped the briefs while standing, facing me. They fell to his ankles and he stepped out of them while he held the towel in front of his groin. I saw his long legs uncluttered now, from his calves up to way north of his waist. He towelled his genitals one-handed. The action was fast and regular, and his hips moved in synch. Then, casually and without fuss, he moved the towel back to his ass, and dried it off properly. A long, soft, brown cock, perfectly the colour of his legs, hung heavily from a luxurious dark bush. It looked sumptuous, warm and substantial – large too, considering how cold the water was – and as he dried his ass, his crotch jiggled with the action of the towel and his penis wagged lazily at me, inviting me, it seemed, to come closer and be sociable, to smell the seasalt on his balls, to explore the foreskin, to bury my nose in his bush and breathe deep. It was an utterly unexpected moment. This was a public beach, yet there was no messing with the towel manoeuvre. The transparency of his briefs, although highly revealing, had kept him within the socially acceptable; now his actions had something of the privileged camaraderie of the locker room, even the familiarity of a partner. The nonchalance of stripping naked in a public place made my heart race. And he'd done it for me. The Spanish were too far off to care. The Swiss didn't notice and the Greek and the German were occupied with themselves. One of the Italians, the tall one, may have thrown a look for a second. But that was all. Nobody had seen. Like the clandestine intimacy of a lover, who, standing in a crowded metro train, secretly licks your ear and pushes his erection into your hip. It had been a private show. Private for me. Then still standing, and satisfied he was dry, he held his white briefs up, flicked them, shook them and wrung them out, and then bending over again, laid them out to dry in the sun. As he bent, I saw him in profile: tight pecs, flat stomach and a large, floppy package that hung low, soft and generous. Oh God. Perfection. The breeze dropped and the sun blazed, making my skin tingle. The vision of the guy and the soporific warmth of the sun on my back tripped my body into hyper-awareness. Ears prickled, chest pounded, legs tensed. The sound of breaking waves receded into the distance and suddenly, in the whole world, there was only me and my overpowering sexuality. My granite-hard erection bore into my towel and I couldn't prevent my groin starting a slow, shallow hump. My back arched and my knees spread slightly to push my cock harder into the sand. A single droplet of sweat trickled down my spine, tickling, and was absorbed by the waistband of the bone-dry, dolphin-grey lycra of my snug swimming trunks. My ass clenched and unclenched beneath the material, luxuriating in the blistering heat, hungry and masculine, each involuntary contraction of my sphincter making my cock even harder. My breath all but stopped, and I was balanced on a sensual knife-edge, where the movement of a single hair could tip me over. I felt the flowering of an orgasm in my loins; it rose and teetered, unfulfilled, and faded to leave a shadow in my muscles. I sighed. Crisis averted. I discreetly slipped my hand underneath my body to free my erection from the trunks and let it lay comfortably under my stomach. It welcomed its freedom with a long, sweet strand of honey. I rubbed it from my thumb across my lips. The dude sat down. He was still naked, but sat facing me, upright, his knees drawn up close to his chest, his heels butted up to his ass. His long penis lay heavily over his large ballbag and rested on the towel in front of him. He reached for cigarettes and lighter. I was perfectly lined up with his penis. I dropped my head till my chin was resting on the backs of my hand, then looked along the sand and came face to face with his large sheathed cockhead, the glans poking through and looking at me. He sat there, unconcerned by his surroundings, and by his beach neighbours, and most of all by me, staring him right in the eye. He toyed with a cigarette without lighting it, apparently lost in thought. I saw his face properly for the first time. I didn't attempt to conceal the direction of my gaze, which was straight at him, through my sunglasses all the way straight to his body, to his eyes. I wanted him to see how much he had affected me. He was a good-looking man. Not ludicrously so, but handsome and desirable. Our eye contact seemed to be deliberate and sustained, and when I thought I had his attention I would look at his penis. I wanted to send a sign – of approval, of solidarity, of arousal, of anything – and I removed my sunglasses. There were a couple of moments when we seemed to stare directly at one another, but he didn't react. I was in awe of this guy. So sure of himself, so confident, so genuine. And his penis was so beautiful. How could he be so soft, while I was so hard? I humped the ground again, slowly and deeply; he must have been able to tell. After a while, he put the cigarette back in the packet, unsmoked. He reached for his red silky shorts, and shook the sand out of them, still sitting. Then there was another unexpected, perfect moment. He lifted his feet off his towel, one at a time, to get his ankles into the shorts, and then rolled quickly backwards onto his lower back, his legs rising in the air, so he could pull the shorts on without standing up. It was a neat manoeuvre, and another one which showed contempt for the prudery of those who favoured the towel routine. But the effect of it was to present to me, splayed and right in my eye line, with the view of a pair of large balls dangling into his open trench, above his neat, clean sphincter. I've got a body, a cock, and an ass, his actions seemed to say to me. And I've got a smile too. And god, did he have a smile. Sitting back up, he flashed a warm, friendly grin. It sent a bolt to my balls. This beautiful man had cruised me in the most public, sexual and amazing way I'd ever seen. And now he had smiled. Back in position with his shorts on, he replaced his sunglasses. Then he looked round for the Downs boy who was playing in the sand, and lay down on his side, facing me. Unlike the Russian woman who was perfectly positioned to exploit every thousandth part of every ray, he just put his head down as if he were in bed. I thought maybe he had done it deliberately so that he could look at me from behind his sunglasses while I could see his chest, but his utterly unmoving body convinced me that he'd just happened to collapse that way. His breathing slowed. It left me in a haze of delicious, confused possibility. What should I do now? Should I contrive some way to flash my own erection? Should I attempt conversation? Or should I wait till he woke? Would he let me snuffle in that perfect ass? Would he let me chew on his nipples or bury my nose in his armpit? Would he let me weigh those large balls in my hand while I slipped my tongue under his foreskin? Would he part my legs? From a secret vantage point in the dunes, Alexander stared agog at the distant sight of one of the Spanish girls rubbing sun lotion into the shoulders of another. With his board shorts hooked under his hairless balls, he jerked frantically on his very hard penis. One minute passed, then two, and even before the girls had recapped the bottle of factor 20, he felt the familiar rush. He gasped as his young seed splattered onto the hot, dry sand, leaving little blobs of dark moistness in an erratic shower. He sank to his knees, temporarily relieved. He felt his shoulders burning, and sadly began to tramp back to where his mother was still spread-eagled and unmoving. His mother was riding the delicious crest of a near-continuous sexual climax that she'd managed to bring about purely by immersing herself completely in the powerful memory of Sergei's strong, masculine thrusting. It was something she had got very good at now, and in fact it was a cornerstone of her own sex life. She had various occasional lovers, and a convenient arrangement with one of the technicians in their apartment building in Moscow, a virile young dynamo whom she suspected was servicing half the unsatisfied housewives in the block, but since Alexander had been born she had abandoned the idea of leaving her husband to find a more suitable partner. This way she could materially have whatever she wanted, was free to pursue any romantic or physical intrigue that fancied her, and had unrestricted access to her son. So why wish for more? Love was elusive anyway. And the memory of Sergei was with her always, and even from years ago and thousands of miles away, he could somehow bring her to the brink and leave her awash with physical pleasure. She sensed someone approaching, broke her reverie and looked up. Ah, Alexander, she thought, returning from his wank in the dunes. She was pleased. He looked relaxed at last. The heap of Spanish beauties had knocked him sideways, and a little personal time was quite in order in her view. Although he was looking red on his shoulders. She reached for some high factor cream, smiled lovingly at him, and beckoned him to sit next to her. At a more distant location in the dunes, the tall Italian sat on a tuft of flattened, coarse dune grass, made less uncomfortable by his long shorts folded up underneath his ass. He was staring out to sea through his very dark glasses, lost in a particular thought. His legs were spread wide and the sun tingled on his pale thighs. Like the previous day, and the day before that, the hairy Russian man in the red Speedos was kneeling, hungrily feasting on the Italian's superb erection and occasionally pulling on the stubby boner poking out under his own stomach. Away from his hopeless quest in pursuit of his naïve beach buddy, the Italian had been the recipient of many blowjobs over the last few years, and now he was a good judge of what he liked. His particular enjoyment was when a man brought him all the way from flaccid to orgasm using only his mouth. In that respect, when, a couple of days before, he'd eventually given in to the Russian's covert but relentless pursuit of him – right in front of the Italian's buddies, and the Russian's own wife and son – he'd been pleased to find himself on the receiving end of some world class head. On that occasion, and at roughly the same time the following day when the Italian had decided there was nothing stopping a re-run, that mouthwork had extended southwards to his balls and beyond, and now on the third afternoon the Italian was perfectly content to give the Russian access for as long as he wanted. His buddies were still on the beach showing off for the Spanish girls, and they thought he'd gone back to the car to make a long call to his girlfriend, a mysterious girl of no name that they'd never met because she did not exist. One more month, the Italian decided. If he didn't find an opportunity to lure his buddy into a situation by the end of the summer, he would extricate himself from the group and go and get a boyfriend. Jesus, he had had enough offers. But no boyfriend could ever give him the thrill that he got when he saw his buddy smile, or chest a football, or plunge into the water. The Russian worked slow and thoroughly. He deep throated for long periods, groaning in ecstasy when he held the Italian's entire shaft inside him. The Italian lay back against the hard, rough grass, and stared up at the deep blue sky. It was easy to imagine the mouth belonged to his buddy. Very, very easy. The German couldn't resist any more, and though the Greek had warned against public affection on the beach, he wriggled over until he was lying next to him, propped up on his elbows. The Greek smiled, and ran his hand down side of the German's flawless body. From shoulder to hip his skin was pale, clear and virgin. He reached in their bag and withdrew a bottle of complete sunblock, and started to apply it liberally to his boyfriend's perfect white skin. Then he leaned over and kissed the German briefly on his neck, and cuddled alongside him. How were they going to live together? The Greek knew that the tug of war between sunny Mediterranean hedonism and prevailing Catholicism would in time disturb the German, who was a Berliner at heart, and knew that it was his right to kiss and hold hands and make out whenever he wanted, and share a mortgage and marry and adopt kids. The Greek felt it would be he who would have to compromise. But could he ever live in Germany? Could he learn that strange language, and live without the sun? He thought of the previous night. The German had an unbelievable sensuality, a compelling, erotic innocence. The Greek's heart raced whenever the German was near, and his cock throbbed relentlessly when they were together. But there was more. There was something inside. He wanted to be with the German so much that tears sometimes welled up. Maybe he could live in Berlin. He would have to try. Maybe it was five minutes, maybe it was ten. The dude woke. He glanced around quickly, as if startled, to locate the boy, who was a little way off digging in the sand. Then, relaxed, he stirred like a child in a cartoon, stretching awkwardly and rubbing his eyes. He sat up again, in the same position as before albeit wearing his shorts, facing me with his heels pulled up to his ass cheeks and his knees against his chest. He stared out to sea. Or was he staring at me? It was impossible to tell. Two more minutes passed. Three. He moved. He fumbled in a small bag, and pulled out his cigarettes. He put one in his mouth without lighting it. Another minute passed. Then he stretched his legs, yawned again, and stood slowly. Then he took a step, and another. Both these steps were in my direction. So was the third. Then he stopped, and looked at the boy again. The boy was safe. He took more steps, until he was about three paces from me. Then he stopped briefly, and took one more. Then he dropped to the sand, and sat facing me. His legs crossed, his silky shorts shining in the light, his brown body glowing, close enough to touch. He glanced over at the French sector. "People take too much stuff to the beach, don't you think?" he said, off-hand. I cleared my throat. "Sure. Way too much." He offered me a cigarette. I took it, unlit, although I gave up smoking years ago. "I prefer to pack light. But kids, y'know? They need loads of gear. My nephew needs goggles. We have such a scene if they get forgotten." I smiled. The dude continued. "I forgot his swim shorts today..." So you gave him your own, I thought. "But all's well as long you've got the goggles?" He nodded, laughing. The sound was intoxicating. I looked around. The German and the Greek were dozing, cuddling together. Likewise the Swiss. The Spanish girls were over the diversion of the Italians and had gone back to their magazines and girl talk. The French family were in full beach mode, watching the young man with the hairy crack organise the squadron of children in a mini Olympics, races and relays and long jump. The Italians, now numbered only three, had gone back to their football. The Russian mother was talking softly with her son. Nobody was paying any attention to the fact that two guys who had been eyeing each other for an hour or so had finally struck up a conversation. He lifted his hand, and carefully brushed some sand off my shoulder. I started at the contact, and he looked at me questioningly, hoping he hadn't crossed a boundary. I smiled again and he relaxed. Finally, he offered me a light. "Do you know, in fact I don't smoke," I said. He smiled in the shy, endearing embarrassment of one caught in a ruse. "Actually, neither do I." *** Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this and would like a list of the other pieces I have archived at Nifty, please drop me an email at jsmith381@hotmail.com