by Neil Plakcy
“We’ve never met,” he said, “but I know you.”
Before I could follow up, one of the drunken brothers slapped the other end of the bar, startling me and causing me to turn.
“What’re you mumbling about down there, old man?” he said. “Get us another round.”
I moved down the bar. “You’ve had enough already,” I suggested.
“Not if my brother’s still standing,” he insisted. “He doesn’t have his beer legs yet.”
After I glanced at my watch, I relented and opened two more bottles of Sam Adams. The brothers wouldn’t have much longer to drink, and I knew if they didn’t fall in the harbor as they wobbled down the dock, they could sleep it off on their boat.
The captain sat at the bar the rest of the night, nursing his rum and watching me work. No one approached him and no one spoke to him but me. He still occupied Pete’s stool at last call and was still there at closing time a few minutes later after all the other patrons had been shooed out. I cashed out, switched off all but the night-lights, poured the last of the captain’s rum in a clear plastic to-go cup and escorted him to the exit.
When I opened the door to the street I found Pete reaching for the knob. He wore cheap cotton pajamas with the nursing home logo printed over the left breast and he appeared clear-eyed and freshly shaven for the first time in more than a year. He stood in the open doorway, grabbed my head between his hands and held it while he planted his lips on mine, right there in front of the captain. When he finally pulled his face back, Pete said, “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” I told him.
The captain said, “I’ll wait.”
Then he stepped past us and sat on the curb, his plastic cup of dark rum still gripped in one meaty fist.
After Pete entered the bar, I locked the door behind him. He took my hand and led me up the steps to the room that had been his. Once inside, he pushed me back against the door and kissed me again. His kiss was deep, penetrating, breath-stealing, and it filled me with the same desire and quivering anticipation that our assignations after skinny-dipping in the cove had all those years earlier, when our bodies had been young and hard and we were still searching for ourselves.
He unbuttoned my shirt, pulled it free of my chinos, and pushed it off my shoulders. My undershirt followed, then my shoes, socks, chinos and BVDs. His pajamas joined my clothing on the floor and, as our clothes fell away, so did our wrinkles and the ravages of aging. Perhaps it was just memories of better times clouding my vision, but I saw the young man I had fallen in love with rising naked from the water in our secluded cove, stepping off the Greyhound bus fresh from the war in his navy dress whites, disembarking from one of the American seiners in his plaid wool shirt and jeans after a long day at sea.
His broad shoulders and thick chest tapered down to a flat stomach and narrow waist held aloft by powerful legs, and the mast that was his cock rose from the wild tangle of dark hair at his crotch without need of chemical assistance or manual manipulation, just as it had when we were young and still navigating the uncharted waters between lust and love.
As I dropped to my knees before Pete, I wrapped one hand around the thick shaft of his cock, surprised and delighted at how firm it felt in my fist. Several times I slid my fist up and down Pete’s tumescent cock before I leaned forward and wrapped my lips around the spongy soft head. A bead of precum oozed out of the tip and I licked it away.
I slid my lips down Pete’s mast, taking ever more of his cock into my mouth until I had to move my hand out of the way so that I could take it all in. Then I drew back until my teeth caught on his glans. I did it again and again, and each time I took his entire length into my mouth, the dark tangle of Pete’s pubic hair tickled my nose and his heavy balls bounced against my chin like a pair of boat fenders.
I wrapped my arms around his powerful thighs, caught his asscheeks in my hands, and felt them tighten and relax as he began moving his hips forward and back, meeting my oral caresses with increasing vigor. When his ball sac began to tighten and he wrapped his thick fingers in my hair, I knew he wouldn’t last much longer.
And he didn’t. With one final thrust, he came, sending wave after wave of salty sperm splashing against the back of my throat. I swallowed and swallowed again, and when Pete’s cock finally stopped spasming in my mouth, I pulled away and looked up at him.
He took my hand and helped me to my feet. Then he turned me around, and he stood behind me as we faced the window and looked across the harbor. Two dozen American seiners were lined up at the dock awaiting the crews that would take them to sea early the next morning, and I could see the captain’s sailboat moored at the far end of the dock.
Pete leaned over my shoulder and whispered into my ear the same things he’d told me when we were younger, about how we’d been made for each other, how our love would allow us to overcome all obstacles, how we were as good as married even if no one else knew. “Look out there,” he whispered as he pointed to the Atlantic Ocean beyond the entrance to the harbor. “What do you see?”
“Endless opportunity,” I whispered in return, a call and response from our youth when our entire lives were ahead of us and not behind us.
He kissed my shoulder and the base of my neck. One arm wrapped around me and his strong fingers trailed down my chest, down my abdomen, to my erect cock. He wrapped his hand around it, nearly engulfing it in his big fist. As he continued kissing my neck and shoulder, he stroked my cock and I leaned back against him, comfortable in his arms. I had never had Pete’s stamina and I came quickly, sending a thin stream of cum shooting toward but not quite reaching the window.
By then Pete’s mast had risen again and I could feel his cock snuggling between my asscheeks. He stepped away and returned a moment later with a partial tube of lube, last used several months before he was taken to the nursing home. He uncapped it, coated his middle two fingers and then slipped them down the length of my asscrack to my porthole of pleasure.
I bent forward and he massaged my sphincter until he could slip one finger into me. He continued his digital manipulation until he could also slip in his second finger. Then he withdrew them both, pressed his cock head against my lube-slickened hole and pushed forward.
When he was deep inside me, just as he had been so many times in the past, every memory of our lovemaking flooded through my mind, from the first time as young men after skinny-dipping in the cove to the last time in Pete’s room as old men barely able to coerce our cocks to attention. But what I remembered most were the good times, the best times, the times when we were young and could experience orgasm after orgasm as if they would have no end.
As I relived those memories, Pete stood behind me, holding my hips as if at the helm of a personal pleasure craft, and he steered us toward paradise, drawing back and pushing forward, moving slowly as if we had calm seas ahead of us forever.
But we didn’t. He began moving faster, harder, driving into me, pounding into me, the rough seas of sex lashing against us, my own cock swelling again so that I had to take it in my hand, matching my rhythm to his as I jerked my mast, and I came and Pete came and he released inside me and he held me until his cock stopped spasming and he could finally pull away.
We collapsed on his old bed and looked at each other, seeing what had been and not what was, and we held each other, feeling what had been and not what was, and we talked about what had been and not what was. For those few hours that one night we were young again, and we were whole again, but when it was over we were old men again.
“I have to go now,” Pete finally said. “The sea is calling.”
He climbed from the bed and opened the closet, where some of his clothes remained because I could never find it within myself to discard them. He dressed carefully.
“Take me with you,” I asked from the bed as he reached for the door.
Pete turned and said, “This trip’s not for you.”
He left me alone in his old room over the ba
r and clumped down the stairs.
I pushed myself off the bed and stepped to the window, where I watched the captain rise from the curb and take Pete’s arm. Together they crossed the street and headed down the dock. The sound of Pete’s wooden leg clicking against the cobblestones echoed through the still night air, replaced by the sound of his leg thumping against the weathered wood of the dock.
The captain helped Pete into his boat. Then he cast off and the Beneteau First 35 motored away from the dock. Once clear of the harbor, the mainsail rose, and I watched Pete and the captain sail into the rising sun.
I returned home before the town awoke and the dock filled with fishermen preparing for the day, and I didn’t need to answer the ringing phone that greeted me when I pushed the door open to know that one of Pete’s daughters was calling to tell me that Pete’s ship had finally come for him.
ANGEL
Bearmuffin
I was in New York City, shooting photos for an S/M article I was going to write, when Raunch magazine’s travel editor offered me a tempting assignment. He wanted me to do a piece on Turkish oil wrestling. There was a tournament next month in Edirne and he wanted me to go, all expenses paid.
It was the perfect job for me. I love hunky Mediterranean men, the handsome brutes! Their dark, exotic eroticism thrills me to the core. I could easily imagine sweaty, dark Turkish hunks, their bulging muscles dripping with olive oil, stripped to the waist in leather britches, grappling in the summer heat. It gave me the biggest erection of my life just to think about it. Of course I accepted and began making travel arrangements. My plan was to take some great pictures, do some hot and heavy cruising, and maybe even come back with a husband!
I booked passage on the Ulysses, a Greek freighter bound for Istanbul. I preferred traveling on cargo ships and freighters because the passengers were usually older, more intellectual types mixed with offbeat, artistic types. Life aboard a freighter is more exciting but quite mellow and I would be able to get some writing done without being disturbed.
I find that traveling on freighters gives me the opportunity to meet some interesting people, providing some intriguing grist for my literary mill. Once in a while I would meet some really hot and trippy guy. We’d have a little affair on board for the time it took to get my destination. I still kept in contact with a few of these guys, who lived all over the world. When occasion permitted I would see them again and fuck. But I didn’t know anyone in Istanbul, so this time out I would have to make new friends.
I stood on the docks, smoked a cigarette, and watched the hunky dock workers loading cargo containers onto the ship. I couldn’t keep my eyes off them, for they looked so sturdy, so strong, so muscular. The testosterone-fueled spectacle inflamed my lusts and I found myself sporting a hard-on, which I promptly tried to hide when the first mate came up to greet me. He showed me to my cabin, which I was pleasantly surprised to find was quite comfortable, spacious and clean.
The first mate told me the Ulysses had six officers and twelve crew aboard. In addition to me, there were three other passengers. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t interfere with the crew when they are at work but you are free to go about the ship,” he said. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by interfere. Did he spot my gay vibe? Was it his way of saying the men were off-limits? Whatever.
The first mate gave me the meal times. And I had a choice. I could dine with the officers or the crew. You know me, I chose the crew. Since it was close to dinner, he expected me to join them in the mess hall in a few hours. Now, that was something to look forward to. With all those horny Greek sailors, there’s no telling what mischief I might get into.
I found the mess on the main deck. The room was big enough to accommodate three four-place tables, which had been placed together for the crew and any passengers who might choose to dine with them. I made a quick survey of the room and sat down at the table with the hunkiest and handsomest of sailors. I was to be the only passenger to dine with them, the other three passengers preferring to dine with the officers.
Some of the crew spoke English, which I didn’t think unusual since I figured they often had contact with English-speaking passengers. One of the sailors, a shaggy-haired stud with a handsome face and a lean, sinewy build, asked me where I was from and other personal questions. I didn’t mind answering because I think sharing experience is all a part of travel. Then another member of the crew commented on the fact that I didn’t have a wedding ring, so he asked me if I had a girlfriend.
I was about to say that I was gay but one of the older men at the next table blurted out, “Girls? Girls? Let him fuck girls. But not marry them. Marriage. Bah! I’ve been married three times. It was a full catastrophe!”
I had to suppress my laughter because he was right out of a favorite movie of mine, Zorba the Greek. He broke out with a broad, all-knowing smile. The rest of the men laughed. Well, he seemed so sincere that it seemed a shame to burst his bubble, so I just nodded and smiled.
I noticed that most of them sported wedding rings. My instincts told me that it would be best to be discreet with these men. I wasn’t quite sure how much they approved or disapproved of homosexuality, but they assumed I was on the make for chicks. If anybody was interested in any kind of homosexual hanky-panky, they would reveal themselves. I didn’t speak a word of Greek, but the international language of love would easily take care of that obstacle.
We were lucky the ship had a great chef, for the food was hearty and simple Greek fare but delicious and filling. My favorites were the dolmades (stuffed vine leaves), lamb kabobs and the moussaka, which is a sort of Greek lasagna made of eggplant, potato, cheese and ground beef topped with a creamy béchamel sauce and baked to perfection.
Bottles of ouzo were passed around and we all washed down the excellent Greek cuisine with the strong liquor, which tasted like black licorice. It sounds sort of gross but actually was quite good.
I drank some more ouzo and told the crew some of my travel stories, making sure to include some made-up tales of wild sex, which they especially appreciated. I was in the middle of a story when this Greek youth walked in and sat down in front of me. I was immediately taken by his beauty. I figured him to be in his early twenties with a lean, muscular physique and an alluring but commanding presence. I got an instant hard-on. I wondered if he could see the lust in my eyes.
I had a hard time concentrating on my story, and to this day I don’t remember what I was saying. His eyes were mesmerizing; he looked right into me, and I felt my pulse quicken. All I was conscious of was this stud who looked like a Greek god come to life. I had fallen under his spell. I dared not look at him for fear of losing control and doing something I’d regret. For I wanted to go to him, embrace him. I’d hold him in my arms and nuzzle my face in his hair, behind his ears and neck and then kiss him, fervently, passionately while I felt up his impressive muscles. Fortunately, somehow I was able to restrain myself.
I heard some of the men call him “Angel” and that’s exactly what he was. An angel of almost ethereal manly beauty. The Ancient Greeks believed that the gods produced offspring with mortals. Angel could have been the son of Adonis and some beautiful water nymph. He had a neatly trimmed beard and a mustache that framed his sensuously curved lips. Lips that begged to be kissed. Kissed by me! And I would kiss the rest of him: pecs, abs and his ass.
I fantasized about his cock. Yeah, I’d get his big Greek cock totally hard. I’d roll the foreskin back over his cockhead, stroke the rock-hard shaft, watching the foreskin slide back and forth over the head until he squirted a salty load of hot cum all over my face.
I was so fucking horny that I knew I’d come in a flash if I didn’t restrain myself. All he had to do was stick his hard cock up my ass, give my hot ass a good pumping and I’d shoot hot loads of cum all the way from here to Pittsburgh.
I noticed he glanced at me a few times, once smiled, but didn’t seem interested. And how could I blame him? Here I was passing myself off as straight, and
right in front of me was the most desirable man I’d ever seen. Oh well. As Elizabeth Taylor once said: “You can’t always fry the fish you want to fry.”
After dinner I walked on deck for some exercise. But I was feeling a bit tipsy from all that ouzo, so I decided to turn in early. I had a couple of gay novels I had purchased in New York. Those and a bottle of good Russian vodka would be my company for the night.
I started reading my novel but I couldn’t help but stroke my cock a few times as erotic images of the young Greek studs I had met at dinner fueled my homoerotic fantasies. Angel, the divine Angel especially, was in my thoughts. I imagined doing the nasty with that hot Greek stud. I opened the vodka and had a few doubles. Still I couldn’t sleep, so I went on deck to check out the action.
On deck some off-duty sailors were smoking and talking. The night was warm but crisp. The ocean calm. A warm breeze caressed my face and the salty sea air was invigorating. I had a sense of freedom being on the freighter; the power of the wide open spaces made me think of destiny and fortune. “O Fortuna” from Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana kept going through my mind.
My initial reaction was to join them and strike up a conversation, but I had second thoughts about that. Perhaps they were discussing their job, or even talking about loved ones they’d left behind, a girlfriend or wife perhaps. I felt I’d be a third wheel. And I found myself feeling a bit lonely, wishing that I had someone special to think about back home.
I banished these sad thoughts and fished out my cell phone and started looking at some pictures I had taken back in London of me and this hot stud having sex. Rimming, fucking and sucking. The basics. Once again, I became quickly aroused and my cock began to stiffen in my jeans.
I suddenly heard a friendly hello behind me. I turned around to see Angel looking at me with a curious expression on his face, interest tinged with excitement. I gazed upon his face for a moment and was struck by his natural masculine beauty. His hair was curly and black, his eyes also black. The face was angular and open. His jaw was strong, his teeth perfectly white. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his uniform, which fitted him tightly and emphasized his robust physique. He truly had a body to tempt the very gods themselves.