Hank Hodges scanned the waiting room at the Sedgewick Clinic on Kendal Drive in northern Marco Island, Florida. There weren’t many men who came to a gay men’s clinic looking for what he wanted, but he had a good reason to. His eyes went to a young, blond, tanned guy in athletic shorts and a cut-off T-shirt who was standing at the reception desk talking with a nurse practitioner. She’d just taken a cotton swab sample from the well-built young man’s mouth. She inserted it into a glass cylinder, motioned him back into the seating area, and disappeared into the back with the swab.
The young man looked around the waiting room as if unsure what to do. Hank, an exceedingly handsome and buff man in his early forties, caught the young man’s attention as the young man scanned the room. Hank smiled and the young man returned his gaze and smile. They were the best-looking men in the waiting room. The young man went back to a seat where he had a backpack and sat down. His eyes kept wandering back to Hank, and Hank made sure that his attention—and his smile—was there for each visual connection.
Hank gave the young man a nod, stood, and walked deliberately to the men’s room door and went in. He stood at a urinal, expensively and nattily dressed in tailored jeans, a sheer dress shirt that clearly showed his cut torso and the swirl of hair at his pecs and running in a line down to his belly, and a tailored jacket. The collar of his shirt was open to show curls of black hair at his throat. The hair on his head was also black, but it was gray at the temples. He looked like a professor or a rich businessman—one however who had plenty of time to spend in the gym and tanning on the golf course.
His fly was open and he was holding a thick, long cock in his hand and pissing an arc into the urinal when the young blond man entered the bathroom, saddled up to the adjoining urinal, tucked the waistband of his athletic shorts under his balls, and, holding a nice—but not nearly as nice a cock as Hank’s—shaft in his fist, let loose of a stream of piss of his own.
Each man watched the cock of the other as they pissed—and afterward, when they each gave their own shaft a couple of shakes, and also each gave his cock a few extra strokes, causing their tools to start to harden. Hank was about to reach over to touch the young man’s cock, when they heard the sound of the door from the waiting room open, and they both put their pride and joys home.
Hank fiddled with his zipper rather longer than he needed to, but did so to give the young man time to go to the sink and be replaced at the urinal by an older man, who hadn’t seemed to have noticed anything untoward having happened.
When Hank left the men’s room, he didn’t return to where he had been sitting; he took the seat next to the young blond.
“I’m Hank,” he said to the young man, who was pretending he wasn’t noticing the presence of the older man until Hank spoke to him and then he turned his face to Hank, gave him a tentative smile, and said, “Hi. I’m Jeff.”
“I’m just here for the summer,” Hank said. “I’m an architect with a firm putting up a condominium on the south side of Marco, near the Shipps Landing Condo. Just here for the summer. In and out, and then back to Atlanta. No muss and no fuss. Just once and gone is all I’m looking for.”
“I’m here just for the summer too, lifeguarding on Tigertail Beach on the northwest side of the island. I’m down from Philadelphia. U. Penn.”
“Tigertail Beach. That’s a gay hangout I’ve heard.”
“It appears to be, yes,” Jeff said, giving Hank a steady look.
“You in here for an HIV test?” Hank asked, and then, when that appeared to have disconcerted the young man, he added. “I saw the nurse giving you a swab test. That’s what I had done too. They call it an OraQuick test. We should have the results back within twenty minutes or so.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Jeff said, showing some reserve at Hank’s suggestive conversation. As he said it, the nurse was back and calling him to the desk. She handed him a piece of paper. The young man looked at it, and Hank could tell by his reaction that he was relieved.
He came back to the seats and started fiddling around with his backpack, squaring it away to put on his back. He seemed indecisive about what to do next. There was no reason why he shouldn’t be going, but he might be in the middle of establishing a hookup with a hot guy.
“Your results negative?” Hank asked.
“Yes,” Jeff answered, showing the discharge sheet to Hank obviously as just a nervous reaction.
“Mine was too,” Hank said, showing the discharge he’d gotten forty minutes earlier, before the young man had walked into the clinic. “Congrats on officially being clean—at least for now, today.”
“Thanks, man,” Jeff said. Then, nervously, he said, “I gotta go back and take a piss before I leave—for real this time,” he added with a bit of embarrassment. “So, it was . . . it was nice talking to you. Unless . . .”
“Yes it was,” Hank answered.
Jeff stood there momentarily as if he expected Hank might suggest they hook up, that they go somewhere, but Hank just smiled at him. Giving the older man a nod, Jeff then hoisted the backpack on his back and went into the men’s room. When he came out, he looked around, but Hank was gone.
Hank wasn’t really gone, though. When Jeff walked out onto the street, there Hank was, leaning his ass nonchalantly on the fender of a flashy red Corvette.
“So, can I drive you somewhere?” Hank said.
“Tigertail Beach is just a couple of blocks west. I’ll be on duty at 3:00—the last shift.”
“It’s only 9:45 now, Jeff. I have a condo at the Eagle’s Nest Beach Resort south on Collier, on the ocean. I could do you twice or three times and have you back at the beach in plenty of time for your shift. Seems we both should celebrate a negative test—and take advantage of it. We’re both clean for at least the next couple of hours and we both know it. I prefer barebacking myself. It’s an opportunity for a good, risk-free time.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“You ever ridden in a red Corvette before, Jeff? Wouldn’t you like to spend the rest of the morning riding and being ridden bareback with a big-cocked man? We checked out each other in the can in there. We’re both hung good. Come on, get into the car and let me take you for a ride. Just a casual hookup. We’re both just here for the summer from other lives that we’ll be going back to.”
* * * *
They stood there, in the middle of the living room of Hank Hodges’s Eagles Nest condo, by the glass terrace doors out onto the view of the Gulf of Mexico beyond the line of condo balconies, and swayed against each other. They were naked, Hank’s clothes folded neatly on a nearby chair and Jeff’s puddled on floor on the carpet at their feet. They were kissing, Jeff’s hands gliding between Hank’s shoulder blades and his butt cheeks and Hank with one hand on the small of Jeff’s back, holding him in close. Hank’s the other hand was frotting their cocks together, rubbing Jeff’s bulb on his stomach and his on Jeff’s stomach. They were much the same height, but Jeff, the blond, was smooth and slender, while still well-muscled, and the dark, hirsute Hank was beefier, more heavily muscled.
Jeff had little idea where the coupling was to go from here—who did what with the other—but Hank, fully in control, knew. He was in control. He liked both to bareback, when he could, and to flip-flop. He knew each would do the other, if the trembling blond submitted to him fully. He showed his control now by taking his hand from the small of Jeff’s back and moving it to the young man’s shoulder and applying downward pressure, while disengaging from the kiss.
He smiled into Jeff’s face and murmured, “Suck me.”
Jeff dutifully sank slowly to his knees, running his tongue through Hank’s chest hair, kissing him on each nipple and pausing briefly to such each, and then following the line of chair down Hank’s torso and into his pubes with his tongue. He opened his mouth over Hank’s cock, and the older man held his blond head between his hands and guided the suck, his long, thick cock adding hardness, length, and thickness under the attention of the younger man’s tongue, inner cheeks, and throat. Hank hummed to the tune of Jeff’s occasional gagging sound and cough as he brought his mouth off the cock, sucked in air, mumbled about the size of what he was handling, and then returned to the task at hand.
At length, the younger man took his mouth off the cock for the last time and said, “I want you to do me now. I want this big cock in my ass.”
“Let’s move to the bedroom,” Hank said.
“OK, great . . . but I need to piss first.”
Pulling away from Jeff, Hank said, “Come this way. There’s a bathroom off the master bedroom. I’ll help you find it.”
Hank gave Jeff a special kind of help. Jeff leaned over the toilet, hands extended out to the mirror wall behind the toilet as Hank covered his body from behind, palmed his belly with one hand, and held the young man’s cock with the other as Jeff pissed a stream into the toilet. Then, when he was done urinating, Jeff groaned and grimaced and writhed a bit as Hank continued gripping his cock and began to stroke it.
“You gonna do me now, man?” Jeff asked.
“Yes, Jeff, I’m going to do you now,” the older man answered. His other hand went from Jeff’s belly to behind him, snaking into the young man’s crack; searching for his hole; penetrating it with, first, one finger and then two; and started opening him up.
The older man stroked the younger one off until he had come, arcing his spunk down into the toilet. Then, letting loose of Jeff’s cock and grasping the young man’s hips, Hank positioned himself behind the young man, mounted his ass, worked his unsheathed cock inside Jeff’s passage, and pounded him hard and long, breeding him deep inside his channel, as the young man held, trembling but steady enough, and took the bareback pounding with groans and gasps and exclamations of how big and masterful Hank was.
Later, after they’d showered and toweled each other off, Hank had Jeff lay, stretched out, on his back on the bed and Hank saddled his ass on the younger man’s pelvis, facing him, and lowered his passage on Jeff’s unsheathed cock. Leaning back, arms extending to the mattress behind him, supporting the weight of his body, Hank rode Jeff’s cock hard, while Jeff gripped the rungs of the headboard over his head and thrust his hips up to counterpunch Hank’s wild ride. Hank’s oversized cock flopped around on Jeff’s belly until the younger man took control of it with a hand and stroked it while they bucked their bodies against each other. His own cock slid inside Hank’s channel walls, was periodically gripped and squeezed by Hank’s experience passage wall muscles, and was milked of ejaculate. The two men came almost simultaneously amid cries in harmony of “Fuck, I’m coming!”
“Shit, that was intense,” Jeff murmured as they lay, stretched out against each other, on the bed, cooling down from their bedroom calisthenics. “Fuck, you’re big.”
“It’s better because we could bareback, don’t you think?” Hank said.
“Yeah, it is. Good thing we just happened to be in the clinic at the same time for HIV tests and knew the other had tested negative. Takes the risk out of it. We could fuck raw without worry.”
“Yes, quite a coincidence,” Hank agreed, knowing that it wasn’t a coincidence at all—that this was how he got his bareback fucks—going to clinics, getting tested, and zeroing in on a desirable young man also getting tested negative. Then banging the hell out of him bareback, knowing they were both safe for at least that time. And that one time was enough for Hank. He didn’t want any entanglements. It’s why he liked short-term assignments like this. He could come, pick off the young men to come with once—hopefully bareback—and then leave. No long-term commitments.
It wasn’t that he wouldn’t like to have a long-term commitment. He just couldn’t see getting there as being likely. He had had one arrangement he thought would be long-term, but it didn’t work out that way, and it nearly broke his heart.
“Great condo you got here,” Jeff murmured.
“The construction company I’m working with provided it.”
“What is it? Two bedrooms?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re the only one living here?”
“Yes.”
“They’ve got the lifeguards I’m working with housed in a dump over off Kendall, two or three guys to a bedroom. Eight guys and one bathroom. Real third world. The sex was real good here, though, wasn’t it?”
It was obvious Jeff was fishing for a housing offer, one that Hank wasn’t about to offer. “Yes, the sex was great, Jeff—is great—will be great one more time. I’m going to do you one more time, take you to lunch, drop you off at the beach, and we’ll wave good-bye to each other. Great sex for the memory banks. Just summer lovin’, though. Bang, bang and that’s it. No clutchy ties.”
While Jeff absorbed that, Hank rolled over on top of him, stuffing a pillow under the small of the young man’s back in the smooth maneuver, coaxed Jeff’s legs open, thrust inside him to the sound of Jeff’s gasp and exclamation, and banged the hell out of him in a hard bareback missionary, ending in an eruption of cum deep inside the young man’s channel.
* * * *
“This is Troy—Troy Reynolds, the supervisor of the lifeguards,” Jeff said after a young man in his mid twenties approached and greeted Todd at the Tigertail Beach Café, where Hank had taken him for lunch after the fuck session in Hank’s condo apartment.
Hank had seen the hunky redhead—not strawberry blond, more of a reddish gold—enter the café’s patio area after picking up his food inside the restaurant and coming outside to look around for a seat. Their eyes had met and something had happened. Hank instantly knew the guy would be interested; he certainly was. Then it turned out that the guy recognized Jeff and came over, greeted him, and asked if he could sit with them.
Can you ever? Hank thought. The guy had the physique of a champion gymnast. He was wearing athletic shorts with a University of Miami logo on them and a white wrestler’s T-shirt cut nearly down to the waist hem in the armholes. The neckline plunged too. The white contrasted nicely with his deep tan. The young man was movie star handsome. His eyes were an emerald green, his smile showed dazzling white, straight teeth.
Jeff did the introductions. “Hank here is an architect from Atlanta, on the island for the summer. Helping them build a big condo building at the other end of Marco Island, Troy. Troy here is the guy who comes around and makes sure all the lifeguards are on duty, have what they need, and are watching the water. That’s sometimes hard considering the eye candy on the beach.”
Which definitely includes Troy here, Hank thought. But what he said was, “You’re a local resident then, Troy?”
Jeff piped up. “Naw, he’s a summer hire too. He lives in the pit off Kendall with us other guys—the rundown house I was telling you about.”
“I’m from California,” Troy said, as he sat at the table. “I’m still in graduate school. And Jeff’s right. The house we were given is a demolition ready to happen. But the price is right. Free.”
“Grad school?” Hank said. “What are you studying. Phys Ed? Are you a gymnast? Great body.”
Troy rewarded him with a smile for the great body comment. “Yes, I was on the Stanford gym team as an undergrad, but I’m studying fine arts.” He said this almost apologetically, as if Hank wouldn’t see that as a manly profession. Their bare calves had already come into contact as they sat at the table and they’d both flinched and pulled away. There had been electricity. Hank couldn’t deny his attraction to the young man—dangerously so. His feelings were in another category than the one-night stand attitude he’d taken with Jeff. And anything deeper than that was beyond what he wanted in summer lovin’ couplings. But he could sense that Troy was strongly attracted to him too.
“Art’s a good area,” he said. “An art sense and talent is basic to architecture too.”
“Really?” Try said, perking up. Their calves came together again, and this time neither one of them pulled away.
The three of them chatted through their meal, with the only uncomfortable moment coming when Troy said, “So, where do the two of you know each other from?”
There was an embarrassed silence, which Hank broke by saying, “We were in a drugstore together, and Jeff saw my Corvette and said he liked it. I offered him a ride over here, because he said he worked over here and I wanted to try out this café anyway.”
“So, you’re just now hooking up, are you?” Troy asked. He obviously knew that Jeff was gay and he must have strongly suspected it about Hank as well, if for no other reason than the man was so obviously interested in him.
Jeff started to say something, but Hank spoke up. “Nothing like that. It was just the ride and him showing me how the café service was set up. I have a wife and kids back in Atlanta.” He was pulling out his wallet and showing a couple of photos.
Jeff nearly gagged. He turned red and suddenly remembered he was due soon on his stand out on the beach. It seemed he couldn’t make an exit fast enough then. When he was gone, Troy and Hank looked at each other and shared a wary smile.
“Jeff is gay—and active. I think you might want to know that,” Troy said. “I think he was interested in you.”
“Oh, do you think so?” Hank said, conjuring up a slightly concerned look, like he’d just escaped an embarrassing situation. “I just thought he was being friendly and helpful. So, the two of you . . . ?”
“Me? Oh, no, I have a girlfriend to go back to after the summer. But it’s OK with me if the guys I’m working with are gay—just so we keep our understandings.”
Hank was sorry he did that to Jeff, but flashing a photo of a wife and kids in Atlanta had served a couple of purposes. He had an inkling that Jeff wouldn’t be that easy to shake after they’d fit so well in the fuck. And all sorts of danger signs had been thrown up by the appearance of Troy. He’d gone hard immediately, and not just one-night-stand hard. He’d started thinking of something longer term. But he’d come here this summer just to play around; he wasn’t looking for anything deeper.
It probably was a good thing to nip any possibility with Troy in the bud.
It seemed to have worked. They chatted for a few more minutes—about sports cars and Corvettes, in particular, and then both left, walking off in different directions. But Hank faded into some bushes and watched Troy’s walk until the young man was out of sight.
* * * *
Hank was busy at work for the next couple of days, but then he had a day off. He was feeling horny, so he came back to Tigertail Beach in the late afternoon. He told himself that it was because he’d seen the beach when he’d come to the café and thought it would be a good one to check out—there had been a lot of male eye candy on the sand when he’d been here a couple of days earlier. He suppressed any thought that he might see Jeff—but really Troy—here.
He had a Speedo on under his shorts and T and staked a place out on a towel where he could watch a dozen built guys playing beach volleyball in skimpy swimsuits. He’d brought his camera with him and he fired off several shots of the guys. He could tell by the way they interacted that they were all gay and probably intermixed with their sex. He spent some time picking and choosing which one he’d go with if he had his pick. He moved on to thinking which ones he’d like in a threesome. There was a sultry, compact Hispanic guy, who was a real looker and had a pronounced bulge at the crotch of his Speedo. Hank took more shots of him than any of the others.
And then he saw Troy coming down the beach, moving from one lifeguard stand to the other and stopping to check with the lifeguard. He was just in his athletic shorts, his T-shirt hanging off the back of his waistband, and he was in great shape. Hank took a couple of photos of him while he was on the move, moving from north to south, and then a few more photos of him stretching up to talk to the guards on their stands.
Eventually, Troy passed him on the beach. His face lit up in a smile when he saw Hank. He greeted him and saluted, but he passed on. Not wanted to show too much interest, Hank leaned back on his elbows on the sand and returned his attention to the volleyball game. The young Hispanic had noticed Hank noticing him, and started to show some interest of his own. Hank posed for the young man, showing himself off at his best advantage, and they exchanged some signaling that gay guys do when they are suggesting a hookup.
Thus, it took Hank a while to realize that Troy had paused at the next guard station, was leaning on it, facing Hank, and was drawing something on the paper on his clipboard as he looked up the beach in Hank’s direction. Hank fancied that maybe Troy was sketching him. And he was. He walked back to Hank, pulled the paper off of the clipboard and handed the drawing to Hank.
“A gift from one artist to another,” he said, and smiled.
The drawing was of Hank, leaning back on his elbows, one leg bent, looking off into the distance. Troy had made Hank look as good as he looked in real life—and sexy. The guy did have artistic talent.
Hank thanked him, but both now embarrassed at the recognition that something was smoldering between them even though they both had signaled otherwise by mentioning female connections, they fumbled for a few moments, Hank praying that Troy wouldn’t see that he was going hard, and then Troy turned and resumed his inspection trip south, along the beach.
Hank’s attention went back to the beach volleyball game, which was breaking up. The afternoon was late and the sun hung low on the horizon over the water. His Speedo felt tight and he was in high heat ache. He didn’t want Troy’s appearance on the beach to heighten his need for a man, but it had.
The Hispanic guy was looking at him, obviously interested in establishing eye contact. He turned from his dispersing friends and started to walk north on the beach, along the waterline. Hank gathered up his things, putting the camera back in its case and carefully rolling the drawing Troy had given and putting both in the backpack he’d brought. He didn’t bother to pull on his shorts or T. Those were folded into the backpack as well. Then he turned north and started walking behind the Hispanic guy at some distance.
They walked for a long time, beyond where the last of the sunbathers were lying out on the beach. They moved toward an old, derelict pier that looked like it had collapsed in a storm and had been just left to fall apart and disappear into the sand. Sand banks had naturally raised around the pilings of the pier on the section on the beach so that there was a very private area of sand underneath the pier.
Hank and the young Hispanic man fucked under the pier on their two towels placed side by side. Hank would have enjoyed it more if they had barebacked, but he couldn’t risk it, and so they both wore condoms. Hank’s need was great, though, so he took what he could have. The young Hispanic guy had shown heightened arousal when he realized that Hank had a flip-flop in mind.
They didn’t speak. Hank had no idea whether the Hispanic youth could even speak English. They guided each other with their hands and facial expressions, Hank doing most of the controlling. The only sounds they made—the Hispanic youth in a tenor and Hank in a deep baritone—were the gasps, groans, moans, and whimpers of sex. They sixty-nined, Hank hovering over the young man. Then Hank put the young man on all fours, mounted and penetrated him, and fucked him good. The Hispanic youth held steady under him, moaning and gasping at the size and expertise of the older man.
To the Hispanic guy’s delight, after ejaculating Hank turned the other man onto his back; threw a leg over his pelvis, with Hank facing the young man’s feet; lowered his channel on the young man’s sheathed cock; grasped his ankles with his fists; and rode the brown Hispanic cock. After he’d milked the young man’s shaft, Hank rose off him, gathered up his things, and walked back south on the beach to his car without looking back.
He’d gotten his rocks off. He’d needed to do that. He was a bit disturbed, though, that all the time his was rocking his ass on the Hispanic guy’s shaft, he had the image of Troy Reynolds in his brain.
* * * *
After the third time Hank had snapped at the foreman on the job at the Marco Island condo building site, a man he usually got along with quite well, the man finally said something.
“Hank, you know what you need?”
“No, Warren, what do I need?”
“You need to get laid, buddy. You’ve been on the job site twenty-four-seven for a week, and you’re getting on everyone’s last nerve. It’s not like you. You need to go home, dress sexy, go out on the town, run down a sexy broad, and get laid.”
Hank recognized that Warren was right, even though the man wouldn’t have known what “get laid” entailed in Hank’s temporary summer lovin’ world. It had been a week since he’d fucked the Hispanic guy under the old pier while unsuccessfully trying not to think about Troy Reynolds, and he was keyed up.
“Good idea. Think I will,” he said and turned and walked off to his Corvette. It was after 7:00 p.m. anyway, and it was getting too dark to be walking the condo project, blueprints in hand, and checking everything out for the fourth time. He returned to the condo, showered, and went through his closest, picking out tight, rust-colored jeans that showed off his bulge nicely, and a billowy Errol Flynn-type white cotton shirt that didn’t hide what was underneath. If a guy liked medium-hairy men and hard-bodied Zeus-like definition in the torso, Hank was their man. He chose to flaunt it—to use it—rather than to hide it. He wasn’t young anymore and there was little use trying to hide that. What he was, though, was mature hot sex on a stick and the promise of big-cock expertise.
He’d go off island for the evening, there not being any good gay bars on Marco Island to his knowledge. Naples was just a short drive up the coast to the north on the Florida peninsula. He’d heard of a place called the Bambusa Bar and Grill near the Naples municipal airport that had good dance music and an eclectic clientele, so he took off for there.
The music, the bar had, and it was crowded on this Friday night. The crowd indeed was mixed and eclectic, but, most important, it was tolerant, letting anything be as it wanted to be and letting anything develop as it would. The dance floor was packed, the music loud and raucous, the dancers daring and half looped—not only on booze but on drugs and raging hormones and deep sexual want as well. You didn’t need to arrive on the dance floor with a partner—one would materialize if you were half decent looking and could move well with the beat. Maybe more than one partner at a time would show up to dance with you. Hank was gorgeous for his age and had the rhythm and daring of a professional dancer.
A series of dancers came into Hank’s sphere on the dance floor, and, although he treated them all right and his close, focused undulating with them made all of the women revolving around him feel sexy and, in more than one case, completed right there on the dance floor, eventually it intuitively became obvious that it wasn’t women he’d come to dance with. As the women swirled out of his isolated dance-floor world, young men swirled in.
One young, lithe and pretty-faced black man was a better dancer than the others—slightly better than Hank even—and had professional-grade sensual moves in which, when he and Hank came together—came closely together—made it seem like they were having sex right there on the dance floor.
Miraculously, though, before they could be busted for fucking on the dance floor the young man leaned left when Hank had done so, as well, and was pulled away by the close-packed, gyrating crowd. He was replaced with—Troy Reynolds—or at least someone Hank was conjuring up in his heightened arousal to be Troy Reynolds. The two took up the dance of seduction where Hank and the black youth had left off. The two were basket to basket, crotches plastered together, as Hank gripped the young Troy’s waist between his hands, the young man arched back, palming the floor of the dance square, and the two ground their packages together, both obviously hard, to the beat of the music. Then they were reversed, a simulation of the doggie fuck, to the sway and beat of the music, as Hank bent over, palms of the floor and, with Troy crouched over him and grasping his hips, undulated his ass against Troy’s basket.
Rising off Hank as both approached the point of no return in jacking off, Troy was jostled off to the side by the crowd and the young black man appeared once more, close, in front of Hank. The music segued, almost awkwardly from a strong jungle beat to a soft love song. Hank and the black guy instinctively went into an intimate embrace. Their lips met in a deep kiss, the black youth climbed Hank’s hips with his knees, and, with Hank going into a slight crouch to redistribute the balance of the weight of the two of them, now become one, the young black man moved his hips, back and forth against Hank’s bulging, pulsating basket.
In the cheap motel room on the south side of Naples an hour later, both Hank and the young black man, whose name was Corbin, naked, Hank stood in a near crouch to balance the weight of the two of them, now become one, his hands gripping and spreading Corbin’s butt cheeks to open him wide for what Hank had inside him. Corbin’s knees were hooked on Hank’s hips, his arms were flung around Hank’s neck, and the two men were in a deep kiss. Only Corbin’s pelvis was in motion, moving forward and back. The young black man was fucking himself on Hank’s long, thick, hard, throbbing cock.
They were barebacking, Hank so keyed up by the dance with Troy, whether real or an apparition, that he was willing to take the risk, swallow antibiotics in the morning, and make a trip to the Sedgewick clinic.
Taking command, Hank brushed Corbin’s knees off his hips; barked for the flexible black dancer to arch back and palm the carpet in back of him, which Corbin did; and, palming and manipulating the black man’s buttocks with his hands, pulled Corbin’s channel on and off his deeply buried cock until, with three heavy blasts of cum, he seeded the young dancer.
The night progressed with the two of them on the lumpy-mattressed bed, on their sides, Han’s buttocks pulled into Corbin’s pelvis, and Corbin fucking Hank’s ass with a very nice, long black cock.
Hank woke in the morning, all alone, in the small Motel 6 room with the lamp on the credenza across the room doing a dying flicker and finally giving up the ghost with a small zapping sound. He remembered the dancing at Bambusa, that he’d drunk a bit more than he should have and maybe shouldn’t have taken more than one drag on the offered reefer. He remembered Corbin too, and his divine provocative dancing, and his sweet, willing body. His head ached and his cock and channel were sore. But the bit about Troy was hazy in his mind. Was it the real Troy who was there, dirty dancing with him last night? Or was his mind so obsessed with the young reddish-gold-haired young man that he was hallucinating about him?
Whichever it was, his need had been scratched last night, but it was a nagging itch that hadn’t gone away. He was losing this battle of a determined casual summer lovin’ period down here in southern Florida. But then, maybe he just never would see Troy again—either in the flesh or in illusion.
In any event, he could see the finish line for this summer’s project—both his job on the condo project and his determination to do a three-month man crawl and to keep it casual. It was mid August already.
* * * *
Hank coped with an obsession with Troy for the next few weeks by applying himself to his work and by dulling his senses by becoming engrossed to the wrap-up of the professional baseball season and start-up of the pro football season in a depth he’d never gone to before. That was eased by the other guys on the construction site who already lived and breathed the stuff.
On the last Friday in September, he had a run to make from the construction site to the Lowes hardware store to return some defective hardware culled from a huge order of kitchen cabinet pulls and handles that were being installed in the condos in the last stages of the build out. It was a business run, so he took one of the company’s pickup trucks.
He’d no more than turned left on South Collier on his way into the center of the island when he spied a guy in motorcycle gear standing by the road and looking forlornly down at a motorbike with a flat tire. Hank pulled over just beyond, got out of the truck, and walked back.
The guy took off his helmet. It was Troy Reynolds.
“Having trouble with your bike?” Hank asked in a tight voice. He was working hard trying to control himself. One part of him wasn’t under control, though. He’d gone instantly hard.
“Oh, hi,” Troy said, his look of concern changed to a smile. “Jeff’s friend, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I was having lunch at the same table as a guy named Jeff a month or so ago when you came by. You’re the guy who drew a sketch of me on Tigertail Beach, aren’t you?”
“Right. I’m Troy Reynolds.”
“Hank Hodges here. You had trouble with your bike, I see.”
“Yeah. Blown tire. There’s so much construction at this end of the island that some nails probably scattered on the road and caught my tire. Careless. But sorry, you said you were working on a condo development down here yourself, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. But I know what you mean about construction material getting bounced out onto the road. It doesn’t look like you’re going anywhere on that bike until it’s fixed. Do you know of a place you can take it?”
“Yeah, there’s a shop on Kendall. Not far from Tigertail Beach.”
“You want a lift? The bike will fit in the bed of the pickup.”
“That would be great,” Troy said, leaning over to pick his bike up. He flashed Hank another smile, which made the older man a bit trembly.
“Do you know what direction to take to Kendall?” he asked when they’d stowed the bike and were starting north on South Collier.
“Sure. There’s not much chance to go wrong on the island,” Hank said. His voice was clipped, he was shifting gears in jerky motions, he felt like he was moved in slow motion under water, and the crotch of his jeans was straining.
They’d ridden for a few minutes in silence when Troy said. “Jeff. You know Jeff told me about you and him—that you’d just done it royally that day we met at the beach café.”
“He did, did he?” Hank said, his voice tight.
“Yes. It’s fine. Jeff and I’d gone a few rounds ourselves, both before you did him and after. It’s OK. It’s cool. You’re not just cool, though. You’re hot. Up in Naples, a couple of weeks ago, when we were dancing at Bambusa. I thought maybe you’d come looking for me afterward . . . that we’d—”
“That was you, on the dance floor at the bar? I wasn’t sure . . . not afterward. It was so noisy and crowded. And I’d had too much to drink. I thought maybe I’d dreamed it.”
“Is that what you’ve done? Have you dreamed about me and seen me in other people? It’s OK, if you have, because that’s what I’ve done about you—dreamed about you. Dreamed of doing with you what Jeff told me the two of you did. You know, you doin’ me and then me doin’ you. I’ve never done it that way before. We were doin’ it that way on the dance floor. But with people there and in clothes. I’ve dreamed about doin’ it without—”
“Maybe not talking about it any more right now,” Hank growled.
“Sorry. I got a little carried away. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about—”
“Yeah, me too. I’ve been thinking about you too. But you keep goin’ on like that and I’ll cream my shorts right here.”
“Maybe you could pull over someplace and I could give you a blow job,” Troy said. “I think I give good blow jobs.”
“I’ll bet you do. But we’re in town now.”
Troy noticed now that the pickup was stopped. It was stopped in front the Sedgewick clinic. “Why are we stopped here?” he asked.
“Are we going to fuck or aren’t we?” Hank asked, his voice low and thick with need.
“Yeah, I want that.”
“Did Jeff tell you how we did it? Did he tell you we barebacked—that we hooked up at the clinic here after getting HIV tested negative, so we knew we could bareback? I want to do it bareback. Bareback’s the best fuck. Do you want to go into the clinic with me and both of us get tested so we can have the best fuck?”
* * * *
The two men sat, yoga style, each with his legs encasing the hips of the other and facing each other on the master bedroom bed of the Eagles Nest Beach Resort condo. Hank was gripping Troy’s waist between his hands and Troy’s torso was arched back, his arms dangling behind him, his eyes hazily focused on the ceiling. Hank’s thick, long, unsheathed cock was throbbing deep up inside Troy’s channel. Hank was gently rocking their bodies back and forth, causing his shaft to move inside the younger man. Troy was clinching his channel walls rhythmically, making love to, milking, Hank’s cock.
When he could take it no more, Hank pushed Troy down onto his back, reached back and grasped the young man’s ankles, raised and cruelly split Troy’s legs, and rearing over Troy’s body and pressing his forehead to Troy’s forehead, he fucked the young man’s passage in hard, swift, long strokes to his ejaculation.
Later, Hank was stretched out on his belly on the bed, his hips slightly raised, his hands gripping the brass rungs of the headboard overhead. Troy was covering the older man’s body close from above, his hands gripping Hank’s wrists. His knees were pressing Hank’s thighs closed and were buried in the mattress for leverage, as he moved his pelvis, slow fucking up into Hank’s ass. And when he could take the slow rhythm of the fuck no longer, he rolled over onto his back, bringing Hank with him. Hank moved into the position of the crab, suspended on top of Troy’s body, facing the ceiling and supporting himself on his locked arms and his bent legs, Troy’s cock up his ass, and the two men thrusting and counterthrusting to an ejaculation.
Even later, as the light was dimming in the room, the two lay stretched out beside each other, in an embrace, and kissing.
“Great condo you got here,” Troy murmured.
“The construction company I’m working with provided it.”
“What is it? Two bedrooms?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re the only one living here?”
“Yes. If I remember right, you live in some sort of dump over off Kendall with Jeff and some other guys—all stuck with just one bathroom.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“You could move in with me. Put your stuff in the second bedroom, but put your body in this bed.” The same possibility had come up with Jeff, but that was when Hank was in full one-night-stand-only mode for his summer lovin’ program, and Hank had very carefully not given Jeff the offer he now was giving Troy. All of that was being tossed out of the program now, although there wasn’t much time left in the summer.
“It’s something to consider,” Troy said. The way he said it, though, and the fact that Hank’s dick was inside him and hardening again, just about ready to go again, indicated it was a very good possibility.
“You know, you surprised the hell out of me when I entered this apartment and found that drawing I’d done of you framed and hanging the wall by the hall to the bedrooms. And then when we got in here and I saw those big posters made out of photographs of me on the beach—I was just—”
“Is that when you knew you had me by the balls?”
“Well, I had you by the balls just inside the front door when I went down on my knees and gave you that blow job. I hadn’t seen the drawing or posters then.”
“And a very nice blow job it was too,” Hank said and laughed. “I mean more like it had grabbed me by the heart, I guess.”
“Is that what I’ve done? Have I got you by the balls and the heart?”
“Oh, yes. But you? What do you—?”
“Put this big cock of yours inside me again and listen to me scream how I feel about you.”
After they’d fucked again and were cooling off, Hank whispered, “I have a confession.” And when Troy didn’t pursue the point, he continued anyway. “The photos I showed you. That’s my sister and her children. I don’t have any children. I’m gay through and through.”
“I sort of guessed you were,” Troy said. They both laughed, a comfortable laugh. They had been a good fit—were a good fit sexually—and seemed both to assume that they’d continue to be a good fit sexually.
“I think I let you get the impression it was my wife and kids because I was fighting committing to more than one go at it with men this summer. I was afraid I’d want to do you again and again.”
“And?”
“And my fear was right. I want to do you again and again. But with you going back to California and me to Atlanta.”
“I told you I was from California. I don’t live there now. I’m going to school in Miami. The University of Miami. And I lied about having a girlfriend—it was my defensive response, I guess, to the family snapshot you showed me. I just go with men. I like men who are older than me—and hunks, like you. Big cocks and knowing what to do with them.”
“And barebacking?”
“Yes, when it’s safe.”
“Well, you do it very, very well.”
“But you’ll be in Atlanta.”
“My firm has an office in Miami.”
“Ah.”
“But enough of that. It’s still the time of summer lovin’ and I’m hard again.”
“I noticed.”
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