I had sat there at Joey’s beachside bar for more than an hour, watching the young man playing in the surf. When I’d first arrived at the bar, both bored and out of sorts, I’d seen him on his surfboard, riding the waves and doing quite well at it. At length, however, I saw him tire of that and come up on the beach and bury the tip of the board into the wet sand, with a strong force that, in itself, would have arrested my attention.
He was probably not over twenty and had a natural sensuality that made me catch my breath. He was tall, but not overly so, and on the lithe side, but even there, it was not at the expense of natural body tone, hard muscle, and a perfect balance of symmetry and beauty. His hair was dark, as were his eyes when he came close enough for me to see them. The hair was long and silky, and I was to learn it came down to below his shoulders, although when I first saw him it was tied back in a ponytail. The sun had tanned him deeply—he might even have been of Hispanic ancestry. His legs were strongly muscled without being heavy, and much of his body was covered—but again not overly much—in tightly curled black hair. His chin had that five-o’clock shadowing that so many young men prefer these days, and the body hair was more prominent on his forearms and legs and undergirded his pectorals, with a line running down his sternum and pronounced six pack and into the waistband of his low-rise, almost thong, navy-blue swimsuit. His nipples were pronounced, the aureoles large, and peeked out of his curly chest hair enticingly. A silver ring in one nipple only heightened the sensuality and mystery of him.
It was easy for me to be smitten. I had sent Scott packing earlier that day. It wasn’t just that he had become grasping and was taking for granted that I would give him anything he wanted just to be in my bed when I wanted him there. I had become bored with him. His only conversation was about some electronic toy or clothing item he wanted. And he’d become untrustworthy, hanging out with other men his age, whispering to them knowingly—I’m sure talking to them about me and what I did for him—what he did to me. And his eyes had been roving, like he was looking for his next sugar daddy rather than concentrating on the one he had.
He hadn’t been pleased when I’d had Thomas pack his bags and put them by the front door in the foyer and laid just enough cash out on the top of a suitcase for him to fly back to New York. But I had no commitment to him. I was bored.
Unfortunately, I also was horny and I hadn’t thought ahead too well. I wanted what Scott gave me. I just didn’t want it to be Scott who gave it to me. Always before when I’d come down here to the beach, I’d had someone in tow. I hadn’t had to go to bars alone or hadn’t had to try to cruise. I was a little too old for cruising, I had to admit. And I hadn’t had to do it for years. I always brought my young men down from New York—where they sought me out. Where they wanted to be close to me, to be seen with Peter Cordell, to appear perhaps in photos in the society pages, where they would be lurking behind me and whatever beautiful super model I had on my arm for public appearance sake.
When Scott was gone, I walked the streets of the resort town, thinking that I would enjoy doing so when I was free and when no young man was cajoling me to look in this shop or that and to buy him this or that. But I quickly found that I didn’t want to be alone. I just didn’t want to be constantly wheedled to give, give, give.
I’d found myself at the patio bar off the back of Joey’s—really just a vine-covered trellis over a deck out on the sand behind a rather seedy beach bar—and watching the activity on the beach. There wasn’t much of it.
But my eyes would have picked out the dark, young man even if the beach had been crowded. He moved like a dancer. Fluid motion. As he moved, I could see his burnt-gold skin stretching over hard muscle. This was accentuated when he stretched out as he drove the front edge of the surfboard into the sand. In what was almost a connected, extended motion, he’d stripped off the tight black Lycra leggings he’d been wearing to surf—and I almost became breathless at seeing him just in a skimpy swimming suit. What were surely heavy balls and a thick cock were pulling the front of the thong-type suit down to where I could see a good inch of curly black pubic hair. I found that the beer glass I was holding was trembling. I wanted to palm his belly and move my hand down under that waistband.
After he had planted the surfboard in the sand, he walked slowly up the beach toward where I sat. His eyes were cast off to the side of me, though, and his feet were carrying him on a veering path off toward my left. For the first time I looked along the beach at the verge between sand and vegetation and saw that there was a line of red- and white-striped cabanas, the door flaps of some closed and of others lifted on stakes to make a sort of entrance porch.
The young man was moving toward the first of these, his smiling eyes latched onto an older man sitting on a beach chair in the shade of the open and raised flap of the first cabana to my left. The man looked like he was in his late fifties. A banker perhaps. He too was deeply tanned. His hair was gray, including a thick patch on his chest. I wouldn’t say he was heavy, but he had the look of a man who once had been well-toned but was beginning to be defeated by time. Distinguished looking, though, at least from the side angle I got. And his eyes were plastered on the movement of the young man as he approached.
And whose wouldn’t be? I know mine were.
The two only had eyes for each other, though, and as the young man drew closer, I saw that he had a gorgeous, almost mischievous smile that melted hearts and launched propositions.
The young man stood there in front the older man for a brief moment, as they conversed. The older man had been reading a hardback book, which he turned over in his lap without closing it.
I watched, almost in shock, as the older man put a hand on one of the younger man’s thighs and the younger man leaned forward and took the older man’s lips with his, while one of his hands slipped underneath the book on the older man’s lap. The older man responded, the two of them still lost in the kiss, by raising his hand from the other man’s thigh and cupping his basket through the barely covering material.
They came out of the kiss and the older man rose and turned and walked into the cabana. The younger man looked around—I looked away just in time for him not to think that I had been watching—and then entered the cabana as well, pulling the flap closed.
I sat there, trembling, for several minutes, not realizing that I was holding my breath until I almost passed out from the lack of oxygen.
I couldn’t help myself. I was drawn to the cabana like a moth to the light. Standing and looking around to see if anyone was watching me, I sauntered—or tried to make it appear like I was aimlessly sauntering—off the deck and onto the sand. I’d already paid for my drinks. I walked off to my left, down the beach and parallel to the water’s edge until I’d passed four cabanas. When I reached the fourth one, I walked around to the rear of that cabana and started working my way back toward Joey’s, all the time looking around as casually as I could muster to see if anyone was watching me. There was almost no one there. It was late in the season and a weekday. The resort coast was nearly deserted.
I had already seen that the cabanas were constructed like panel flaps, so that the material didn’t bend around the corners and the panels of the tents would lay flat when the cabanas were taken down. The material was slit there and the corners were held together by a series of ties from ground to roof. Standing at one of the back corners of the cabana, I could easily part the panels between ties enough to spy what was going on inside.
I almost gasped as I saw the older man, chest down on a beach lounger, and up on his knees, his buttocks in the air, with the younger man, crouched athletically over his hips, hands clutching the older man’s waist, and slow fucking the older man, using the leverage of his feet on the lounger next to the older man’s thighs for control in the rhythm of the fuck. The young man’s black, silky hair had been let loose and it did, indeed, cascade to below his shoulders. It shimmered in the rhythm of the fuck. The sounds and murmurings both made indicated that they were taken with each other and thoroughly comfortable in the fuck. They weren’t hurrying; there was nothing furtive in their coupling. This wasn’t a chance encounter, I knew.
They were displayed at an angle from me, their butts toward where I was positioned. The older man’s buttocks were milky white, but there were almost indistinct tan marks on the younger man’s undulating buttocks. I watched, mesmerized, at the beautiful butt cheeks of the younger man clinching and expanding as he fucked the older man. And I gasped again when I saw the younger man’s cock withdraw a good half foot from the ass of the older man without losing purchase and then sliding in again. And again, and again, and again.
My hand went to my zipper. In time, the younger man moved the older one to his back and crouched between his thighs, lifting his legs up and out, and continued fucking him in long, steady strokes. The younger man lowered his face to the older one’s periodically and they kissed like longtime lovers.
The older man was moaning and clearly was in seventh heaven. Who wouldn’t be?
When I had come, I zipped myself back up and withdrew. I couldn’t bear anymore. I wanted the young man to do me too.
I left the beach then and went cruising. I knew all of the bars to go to, but it was low season already and the pickings were slim. I regretted having thrown Scott out now rather than when we got back to New York. But that didn’t matter much. I wouldn’t have wanted Scott for the same reason that I didn’t find anyone in the bars that night who I wanted. I wanted the young man on the beach.
I spent a restless night, dreaming of me and the young, burnt-gold man with the long, silky black hair. I got up in the morning, went to the gym, and ate a humongous breakfast at a pancake house on the main boulevard. I was fagged out when I got home and fell onto the bed and slept for two hours. At three, I got up from the bed, already knowing where I was going.
I was the only one that early in the day on the back deck at Joey’s on the Beach. The beach was deserted and the flap was down on my angel’s cabana. That’s how I was thinking of him—my own dark angel. And mine. After one beer, which I nursed for a half an hour, I started thinking of leaving the bar. But just as I was about to rise from the bar table, the flap came up on the cabana, and the young man jogged out into the sunlight. He was wearing a black bikini swimsuit this afternoon, the sides of which were held together by large metal rings. He had a large, multicolored beach towel under his arm, which he dropped on the beach a few yards above the high-water mark, and he was holding a pair of sunglasses in one hand, which he leaned over and put down on the towel after he had spread it out.
I took my breath in and held as I watched the muscles stretch in his lithe body as he leaned over the towel. He only lingered there a minute, though, before he turned and ran into the surf. When the water was above his knees he dove into an incoming wave and I lost sight of him. I didn’t let my breath out until I had.
He was out of sight now, swimming out into the water, although I fancied I could see his head and the curve of his churning arms from time to time out beyond where the surf was breaking.
I turned my attention to the cabana. The older man emerged, raised the flap on the poles and stood there, his eyes shielded by a hand, obviously searching for his lover out in the ocean.
I couldn’t help myself. As he stood there, I compared him to myself. He was older than I was, and not in as good a shape—certainly heavier than I was—and, although he’d been well-muscled at some point in his life, there was a sag of skin under his upper arm as he held a hand over his eyes. There were other signs that he was losing his muscle tone, and his tanned skin looked just that way—tanned to a leathery brown. I fancied from what I could see that he wasn’t as handsome as I was. I know, from my observations of the previous day, that he wasn’t as well-endowed as I was. He could be richer than I was, although most certainly not as accustomed to fame—in New York and internationally, at least. I didn’t recognize him as anyone of import. Of course, perhaps my dark angel wouldn’t be as impressed by the nature of my fame as some others would. Still, there was the possibility that my dark angel was a dancer; he certainly moved like one.
What did this old man have that would make the dark angel choose him over me? Nothing, I optimistically told myself. So, it was mostly a matter of getting the young man’s attention.
While I had been assessing the older man who now was sitting in the beach chair under the cabana flap and had opened his book, the younger man had returned from the ocean and now was lying on his belly on the towel.
I gasped and my hand involuntarily went to my crotch when I saw it—it was lying there beside him on the sand, next to the towel. The black bikini. He must be naked, taking the sun in totally, I now realized. I ached to go out onto the sand and see him this way. It didn’t matter that I’d seen him naked and fucking the older man the previous day. There was something so much more sensual about seeing him naked on a towel on the beach—where anyone else passing by could see him too.
I kept my eyes riveted to him, fantasizing going out there and straddling his hips, holding his cock erect as I descended on it, and leaning over and taking that nipple with the ring in my mouth and teething him until he groaned and lifted my face to his in a long, lingering kiss. When he turned over, I had looked away momentarily, and I castigated myself for not remaining alert and on watch, as if just a brief glance of him would make my day.
And it obviously would, because there, while I was watching him, he stood in all of his glory, facing my direction, his glorious cock and balls hanging free in a patch of black, curly hair between his thighs, as he reached down and picked up the bikini and put it back on, reattaching the rings somehow at his hips. That’s when I saw that he had a ring in his cock head too, and I felt my sphincter muscle clutch, already feeling it rub against my inner channel.
And then he was walking. Not toward the cabana, but toward Joey’s. I tore my eyes away from him, looking down into my almost-empty beer glass, as he climbed the three wooden steps to the deck. As I was looking down, I could see his feet and I wanted to groan. The feet were slim, but long, the toes also slender and long. And there was a patch of black hair on the top of each one. I was feeling very hot.
I heard him ask for a drink and then say, sorry, that he didn’t have money with him and that he’d have go to his nearby cabana and . . .
I built up the courage to intervene at that point. I think my voice sounded strained and squeaky. Nonetheless I couldn’t let the opportunity pass me by so I stood and offered to buy his drink for him—”and I need another beer too, bartender”—so that he could quench his thirst before having to traipse over to the cabana and back.
“Yes, thank you . . . if I can join you for the drink.”
Could he join me? I was doing all I could do not to hyperventilate.
“Have you been swimming in the ocean yet?” I asked. “Is it too late in the season to do that? The temperature too cold?” I felt like an idiot for not coming up with anything better to say than this. And then he proceeded to confirm my idiocy.
“Surely you know I’ve been swimming in the ocean, Mr. Cordell. You’ve watched me do it, haven’t you? Yesterday as well as today.”
I was shocked, but then I felt all sorts of posturing and foreplay was being brushed aside. He obviously was in the game. And I knew this game so well. He was approachable.
“You know who I am, do you?” I didn’t have to sound surprised. I was. Not necessarily that he’d know who I was, given what he obviously was. But that he would be so straightforward in getting to the bottom line. It was almost refreshing.
“Yes, of course. You’re the Peter Cordell who produces for the Metropolitan Opera, aren’t you? I read the New York papers.”
“Yes, you have me there. And you are?”
“Raul. You can just call me Raul.”
Ah, yes, Hispanic. I very much liked the passion of a Latin lover. Scott was West coast, sun, beaches, muscle shirts, and all about himself.
“Ah, the newspapers.”
“And we have a few mutual friends too.”
“Yes. For instance, I know one of the members of the Met’s permanent dance troupe. Jason Deavers. You might remember him.”
“Yes, of course.” Certainly I remembered Jason. I opened my legs for him nightly for a month two years ago. Raul most certainly was direct. Well, I could be direct too.
“I would like to see you. Away from the beach,” I said. I turned my face to him and looked directly in his eyes.
“I’m rather attached,” he responded.
“Yes, I have seen that. But you may be interested in reassessing your situation.”
“I rather doubt that,” he answered. I looked away then. This obviously was going to be expensive. He wanted to haggle. But then he surprised me.
“Did you know that they give performances in the old opera house in Charleston?” He asked. “The local troupe is quite good, I think. I have an extra ticket for a performance of Mozart’s Idomeneo for tonight. It’s a powerful work—Greeks and fated lovers and tragic promises and all. Very melodramatic, but not much performed anymore. If you wouldn’t be too averse to a busman’s holiday . . .”
“He certainly is resourceful,” was my thought as I clothed myself in a tuxedo that evening, after having already been to the barbers and then having a long shower and primping and making myself the best I could be. He was going to great lengths with me. This then, I knew, was going to be very, very expensive. But I had seen him fucking the older man, and I was assured that he would be very, very worth it.
The ticket he left for me was for one of the private boxes high up above and at the corner of the stage. It was angled, so that no one from the audience could look into the box, and only singers positioned well up into the height of the set could see much of anything in the shadows.
I was the only one in the box until shortly after the first interval. In the interval, I had craned my head out around the edge of the box and scanned the audience and seen that, yes, both Raul and the older man were seated in the orchestra section. Raul looked magnificent in his tuxedo. That must have cost the older man a fortune. And the older man was probably paying for all of these empty seats in this box as well—and perhaps didn’t even like opera. Raul had his hooks into that man really good. He should be grateful that I intended to take Raul away from him.
After the lights went down following the interval, I felt more than heard that someone had entered the box. I turned my face and saw that it, indeed, was Raul.
There were practically no preliminaries. I heard the zipper of his tux trousers being lowered after he’d sat in the chair beside me and felt the hand on the back of my neck, coaxing my face down into his lap. And to the glorious live, opera music of Mozart, sung rather well for the provinces, I gave Raul the best blow job performance I could muster up—luxuriating in my tongue’s play with his cock ring.
He stopped me short of making him come, though, and I watched in fascination as he took a condom packet and a tube of lubricant out of his jacket pocket. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Strip off your trousers and briefs, please, and sit on my cock. Oh, and you look quite handsome tonight.”
I sat, skewered by his cock, holding myself slightly off his lap at his request, bearing my weight on the balls of my feet, while I watched and listened to a Mozart opera on stage and he rhythmically fucked up into my channel. I made a little yipping noise each time that cock ring dragged across my prostate. He had his hands snaked up under my shirt and worried my nipples while I stroked my cock to completion. At his suggestion I had my linen handkerchief draped over my lap to catch as much of the cum I spouted as possible—to keep both of our tuxes clean. At the point of my ejaculation, his mouth went to the hollow of my neck and he lightly teethed my throbbing artery as I sighed my release. Timing was everything, and I knew I would remember that moment forever—the ejaculation came at the height of a love duet on stage.
He left me just before the second interval, after standing close beside me in the shadows and holding my face to his crotch as I cleaned his cock with my mouth and then helped to readjust his tux. As he was leaving, I gave him my card and hissed that I had to see him again—that he could come to my beach home any time he could get away. The sooner the better.
It had been the best of all setups for Raul to be moving to a new sugar daddy. Not only was he a hunk to view and a stud in cock play, but he was brilliant in his choice of claiming me. I—a veteran of the New York Metropolitan Opera—had never had such an uplifting sexual experience as being fucked to a live staging of a Mozart opera. I was bowled over. I was dangerously close to being in love. I certainly was in deep want and lustful need.
It was three maddening days before he appeared at my door. He was driving a BMW sports car that, I thought, must have set his older daddy back nearly a hundred-thousand. I had gone to the beach every day, spending the entire morning and afternoon at Joey’s. But neither Raul nor his sugar daddy appeared the first day, and a family took up residence in the cabana the following two days.
He was all smiles and not the least bit apologetic for leaving me hanging. “I had business meetings,” was all he said.
Yeah, right. He had business meetings. He was out spending daddy’s money. That’s what he was doing.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I want you again.” I took him by the hand. I planned to lead him right back to my bedroom, but Raul’s Latin temperament was clicking in. We stopped in the middle of the living room and rocked back and forth against each other’s bodies, kissing and feeling and unbuttoning and unsnapping and stepping out of clothes. And then, naked, we were kissing and feeling again.
He had extracted a condom and lubricant before his trousers hit the floor, and he simply pushed me back into the center of one of my deep couches and knelt between my legs. He worked my cock briefly with his mouth and then rolled my hips up and was going after my entrance with his lips and then lubricated fingers, as I groaned and stroked my cock and floated on the clouds of heaven.
He fucked me there, crouched between my thighs, my ankles resting on his shoulders, and his hands working my cock and nipples. Bringing me to the brink again and again and then holding and then renewing the plowing until I couldn’t take it anymore and ejaculated in a cry of ecstasy. Virile young man that he was, though, he continued stroking and I was ready to come again before he did.
We held there for several minutes, as I felt him ebbing away from inside me.
“That was nice,” he said. “I do like a bit of variety now and then. If you are coming down next year, we should arrange to do this again.”
“Next year?” I exploded in surprise. “I want you in the next ten minutes again. I want you every night. I want you in my bed.”
“Sorry, old chap. I have a live in.” Raul was almost jovial, as if he wasn’t angling for anything at all here.
“A live in? That old man I saw you with at the beach?”
“Well, yes, actually. Teddy’s my permanent. He indulges me with a side blow from time to time. I have rather a fetish for interesting older men. But we’ve been together for three years now—and I plan for that to last forever.”
“Who is he? A Rockefeller?” I asked, becoming frustrated and a bit angry now. Raul hadn’t even pulled his dick out of me yet. But he’d gone flaccid, and although I was trying to arouse him again, it didn’t look like we were going to manage that. “God, I want you again now,” I growled, giving up all of my pride.
“Sorry, Teddy and I fucked before I came over here and he’ll want it again when I return. He’s insatiable.”
“Again who is he? Think of him and think of me. What does he have that I don’t.”
“My love, actually. I’m sorry. But it’s a permanent thing with us I’m afraid.”
“What is he paying you? I’ll double it. Whatever it is.”
He gave me a funny look then and pulled out of me and walked over to the center of the room and started separating his clothes from mine.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?” he suddenly asked, turning and looking at me hard.
“You’re Raul. That’s all you told me.”
“Ah, well. We’d mentioned New York papers. I rather thought you had seen my photo in the society pages at least as often as I’ve seen yours. I didn’t think I’d need to give you my last name. I’m Raul Delaplane. Of the Argentine Delaplanes.”
Delaplane. The Argentine Delaplanes. Richer than anyone not from the Persian Gulf. Oh, shit.
Then he gave me the funniest look. “Oh, you thought I was some sort of gigolo and Teddy was my sugar daddy, didn’t you?” As he was pulling his briefs on, still looking like a luscious dark angel, he reared his head back and laughed. “It’s rather the opposite, I’m afraid,” he said through attempts to cease chortling. “Teddy’s penniless other than what I give him. He was my tutor, and my first love. And, I hope, my last love.”
After Raul had gone, I lay there, my legs still open, mourning the loss of his cock, and contemplating how unfathomable this scenario of Raul and his old lover was. What was this fickle thing called love? I wondered. And would I ever find it for myself?