Jet Lag

We flew in from London with a stop in Miami. My mother went to find the other wedding guests.

I'd never been to the Caribbean before - this was years ago, I was eighteen - and to walk out from the hotel onto the dazzling, mile-long curve of Isla Verde beach was a magic moment, an unforgettable first impression.

There was an hour or so of daylight left. I changed and went straight out to get some sun. There were only twenty or so others on the beach in front of the hotel - most of the guests seemed to prefer to lounge around the swimming pools in the hotel grounds.

I was very conscious of the people around me, mostly Americans. The men wore huge baggy swim trunks, which I'd never seen before. They came more than half way down the thigh. Nowadays of course they come down past the knee, like culottes.

I wore the skimpy little swimsuit of the type that Americans call a 'speedo' but to me that was the normal thing to wear on the beach and it was the Americans who were out of step.

As I lay there, taking sun and spying on the people around me, I became aware that a man lying near me was staring at me. I caught him twice in a few minutes. He was wearing a speedo too, which suggested that he also was from Europe.

This wasn't new to me. I was of a slight build and somewhat effeminate, and I'd always been aware that I attracted a certain type of man. And especially on the beach.

A waiter came out from the hotel and took orders for drinks - we hotel guests were identified by coloured wrist bands, another thing I'd never seen before. I ordered my first Pina Colada. It went down very easily and I ordered another one, putting it on my room bill - I didn't have any money with me.

* * *

After an hour, the sun went behind the buildings. It was still very warm and there was still sun further along the beach so I got up and walked a hundred metres or so east, away from the hotel. The beach terminated in a sea wall that rose from the sand in three big steps. I lolled on the steps in a miasma, the setting sun, two Pina Coladas, the beach, the lush aroma of tropical vegetation that permeates the whole island.

This area had a different feel though. The buildings weren't exactly run down, but they were noticeably less pristine, and the beach itself wasn't as combed and manicured. And the dozen or so people sitting on the wall catching the last of the sun seemed to be locals. I felt a little conspicuous with my light tan and my bright yellow hotel-guest wrist band.

One of the people sitting on the steps was a girl, very pretty, clearly a local. She wore a stirringly short skirt and a tight tank top. She looked me over but her eye moved on. When the sun finally moved behind a building she got up and walked across the street to a little bar, and so did several of the other people sitting on the step. On impulse, I did too.

* * *

The bar was tiny, cosy, just a room and a terrace that looked over the beach.

I sat at a tiny table and ordered an island beer. Night falls quickly in the tropics and already it was much darker outside. The terrace was dimly lit, scarcely lit at all. There was some music playing. There was an unmistakable smell of marijuana.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the light I noticed that the girl from the steps was chatting with the barman. The man who'd been staring at me on the beach was here too, complete with hotel wrist band.

I was thirsty and my beer was gone in a couple on minutes. After finishing it I headed through some curtains to what seemed to be the bathroom.

The light was even dimmer in the bathroom. There were three urinals and two stalls. The middle urinal was occupied by a figure and I walked past him and took the third one. I was still wearing my swim suit and I rolled down the front of it. I could hear that there was someone in one of the stalls too.

As my eyes accustomed to this new level of dimness I could see out of the corner of my eye that the person next to me was gently rubbing his penis. At first I thought he was just shaking it, you know how some people go to almost absurd lengths to do that. But, no, he was unmistakably smoothing his fingers along from the shaft to the head, not rhythmic, but no doubt about what he was doing, and his penis was responding by growing almost completely stiff, poking straight out in front of him.

This actually wasn't the first time I'd had this - someone making themselves stiff at the urinal next to me - and I took it to be some sort of invitation, or proposition. It excited me, but it slightly repulsed me too. I risked a sideways glance at him.

It was the girl from the beach.

In the dim light I could see that she was looking at me out of the corner of her eye. (I'm going to call her 'her', that's what I thought of her as.) She gave a slight smile and deliberately ran her fist over the head of her penis again, then drew it back, revealing the shiny, slimy head.

Another person came into the room, breaking the moment. He - at least, I assumed it was a he - stepped to the first urinal, out of my line of sight. The girl next to me turned her head slightly away from me, presumably to take in this new prospect.

I was actually glad of the interruption - after two Pina Coladas and a beer in the last hour I really did need to pee. I've always been one of those people who finds it difficult to go if distracted - by an audience, for example. Or, in this case, by a pretty 'girl' looking at me and masturbating herself at the neighbouring urinal. I shut out everything else and concentrated on peeing.

After I went, I couldn't stop myself from letting my eyes roam to the next urinal again, and I saw again that a hand was stroking her penis, but now it was a different hand. It was the person in the other urinal, he was masturbating her. After that sunk in, I could see also that she was reciprocating - beyond her, above the bowl of the first urinal, I could see her hand gently massaging the newcomer's stiff penis, and I could hear his elevated level of breathing. His penis, I could see, was also slimy.

Now I felt her turn her attention back to me. I glanced at her face again, unable to stop myself, I knew I should just leave, but our eyes met for a moment and she smiled and gave the most tiny tweak to her eyebrows, and she looked down again. Following her gaze, I saw that I was stiff too! I was still holding my penis in my hand, but now it was fully erect, poking straight out above the bowl.

Then I felt her hand move on me, across my hand, and settle tentatively, experimentally, on my erection. I involuntarily drew in my breath at the electricity of contact. She paused, then moved her hand forward and wrapped her fist around my knob, gently massaged it for a moment, giving me gentle squeezes. I knew I was going to come in ten seconds if she kept this up.

But after only a few moments she slackened her grip, and took my hand and gave it a gentle tug. I let her take it, and in a slow, even movement, she guided my hand onto her own erection. I could feel the other man's hand on her too, coming from the other side, and we both explored her and wanked her a little, even making small squelching noises in the dead silence.

She glanced over her shoulder. There was another person there, in the stall. She nodded to him and then turned her attention back to us. She took my hand in hers, stepped back from her urinal, and gently pulled me sideways until I was standing in front of her urinal, replacing her. I felt a different hand enclose my penis, and at the same time she moved my hand, and I got the idea and took the other man's penis in my fist.

She stepped away from us, and now I was masturbating with this much larger man. I glanced down and saw with a bit of a shock that his hand, masturbating me rather inexpertly, had the day-glo yellow hotel wrist band on it, and a glance at his face confirmed it - he was the man who'd been staring at me on the beach. He gave me a slight smile, looking down at me a bit smugly. He obviously recognized me. He was taller than me and his penis was much larger in my hand than the girl's had been. Not enormous, but larger. And very spunky - this was where the squelching noise had been coming from. He also had, I remember so well, enough of a belly that my forearm sort of rested on it as I masturbated him.

Behind us, the stall door creaked.

Now I was back to almost coming. The hotel-man's skill level in masturbating me was quite low - made me appreciate how expert had been the girl - but nevertheless the stimulation and the situation were combining to take me over the top. And I didn't want to. I knew from experience that an orgasm would make me bleary, and I was anxious not to look that way at dinner.

I drew in my breath, let go the man's penis, disentangled his hand from me, and stepped back from the urinal. He let out a sigh. As I left I glanced into the stall, where the 'girl' was kneeling on the floor with someone's penis in her mouth. I walked back through the curtain into the bar.

* * *

It felt as if I'd been gone for an embarrassingly long time and I had that weird sensation that everyone must be looking at me, "where's HE been?", but in fact all of this had taken less time than it takes to describe it, not much more than a minute, and of course no-one had even noticed I'd left.

I'd left my towel at the table but my shirt came down just far enough to more-or-less conceal the fact that I was erect. I had a feeling I wasn't in the kind of place where an erection need be a cause for embarrassment.

I sat back down and drank through the second beer. I didn't really want it but I was getting ready to go and I didn't want to leave it either. The girl came back from the bathroom, gave me a friendly smile, and sat back down at the bar. She said something to the barman and they both laughed. And looked at me.

As I got up to leave it hit me: I didn't have any money with me!

I had a surge of panic, but almost immediately, the solution presented itself - the man with the hotel wrist band emerged through the curtains from the bathroom. I smiled and nodded to him and he gave me a knowing look, a rather slimy look to be honest, but beggars can't be choosers - I raised a hand to him and said "Look, sorry to have to ask but - I've come out without any money. I wonder if ..."

"Oh, absolutely, glad to, not a problem!" An English accent.

"Thanks so much, you're a life-saver. I'm at the El San Juan, I'll pay you back when ..."

"No, think nothing of it. It's on me"

And I realised he wanted me to leave - he was focusing on the girl at the bar.

"Thanks again," I told him, and left.

* * *

The dinner was in one of the hotel restaurants, I forget its name. My mother and all the others were at the hotel to attend the wedding of a friend of theirs, to take place the next day. Third wedding actually. I myself wasn't invited to the wedding but my mother had said to me to string along for the trip anyway, take a few days in the sun.

Not being a wedding guest, I wasn't supposed to go to the dinner, but apparently one of the other guests had flown in without his wife, she was sick, so I was invited to fill the empty chair.

When we were all seated, my companion was in fact just that - an empty chair. The guest whose wife was still in London hadn't shown up either, but sent message that he would. We started the dinner without him.

When he did arrive, he manoeuvred himself into the empty chair beside me, he was fairly big it seemed, and when we glanced at one another we both got a shock - it was once again my admirer from the beach, my masturbation partner from the little bar.

He recovered first.

"You must be Andy," he said, offering a hand - a hand that had been on my stiff penis not an hour before. "I'm Bill Hunter. Pleased to meet you."

"Andrew Wilson, how do you do, Sir." Shaking his hand, unable to push from my mind the thought of this large hand wrapped around my knob. Incredibly, even in this utterly inappropriate context, my penis gave a strong twitch and went half erect. I groaned inwardly. I spent half my day with an erection back then, and I knew that once one started it was very difficult to get rid of it.

Mr Hunter responded, "Please, Andrew, don't call me Sir, it makes me feel old."

"OK, Mr Hunter."

My mother, sitting at the head of the table, she was the hostess for the dinner, called down "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise you two had never met." And, following the English convention that we didn't know one another until we had been introduced by a third party, she introduced us to one another again.

"Andrew, Mr Hunter. Bill, my youngest son, Andrew."

We shook hands again.

He turned his attention to the other guests. On the other side of me was Lady Silk, who used to come on to me regularly back in London, and as she got sloshed, was starting to let her leg brush against mine. Not helping the erection situation.

* * *

We all moved to the magnificent lobby bar for drinks after dinner, and from there, out into the hotel gardens. It was a beautiful clear tropical night with sprinkles of soft, glowing stars. More drinks were served.

Lady Silk, mercifully, got drunk enough at this point, that her husband, Sir David, led her off to bed.

I was relieved that she'd gone, but she was almost immediately replaced by Bill Hunter, lowering his big frame onto the lounge chair beside me.

"So," he said. "What's the Andy Wilson story?" I hated being called Andy.

"Oh, not much to tell. I've finished at school and I'm going up to University next month."

"Which one?"

"Cambridge." I was proud of this.

"Very nice. No summer job?"

"No. I had one lined up in the City but the firm collapsed." This was one of those periodic years when about half the small banks in London fail. "Now I'm trying to get into BBC for the summer."

"Good luck! Which firm - the one that collapsed?"

I mentioned the name and he shook his head, as if to say, well, them, what can you expect ...

I excused myself to go to the bathroom, and Mr Hunter said "me too" and got up.

"I should come with you anyway," he said, as we walked to the cabana. " ... never know what types you're going to run into in these Island bathrooms."

I laughed, nervously, but it was quite funny. There were no lights on in the bathroom, all the light was coming from the lights outside. We stood at the urinals. Neither of us peed for a moment - the distraction problem.

"Come here often?" said Mr Hunter. Very weak joke, but we both laughed.

Relaxed now, we both began to go.

Mr Hunter dropped his voice to a low, conspiratorial level and said "Have you done that sort of thing before?"

"A little."

"Enjoy it?"

"Well, I haven't done a lot of it. But ... yes."

"Me too."

I could feel my penis was erect again, and now that my eyes were more accustomed to the dim light I could see that he was getting there too, he was half erect. My heart was going a mile a minute, somehow just standing there was intensely exciting, thrilling.

After a moment's silence he said, even lower "Listen, don't take this the wrong way, but ... come up to my room after this breaks up." He nodded his head to indicate he meant the drink-a-thon that was going on outside. "Ten O'clock. Room Six-Twelve."

He closed up his pants and left, leaving me alone in the bathroom, breathing deeply, trying to calm myself. My penis was so stiff it almost hurt and I had to overcome an intense desire to masturbate right there and then.

When I went out to join the party again, Mr Hunter was making his excuses - 'long flight ... bit much to drink ...' He ambled back across the grounds to the lobby.

I had to stay in the more shady parts of the party area because I still had an epic erection. After a few minutes I made my excuses and left too. I walked back though the enormous lobby area, debating in the back of my mind whether to go to Mr Hunter's room or to my own. A very pretty Puerto Rican girl smiled at me from a seat near the bar. I wondered if she was really a girl.

I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see it was only half past nine, it seemed much later, so much had happened. But it made me relax a little bit about whether to go to Mr Hunter's room, and instead I roamed out of the front of the hotel into the formal gardens there, and then out onto Avenue Isla Verde. On the other side of the avenue there was a low-rent tourist shop. On impulse I went in.

It was a hodge-podge of shot glasses, t-shirts ("A Freakin' Puerto Rican"), sun hats, sun screen, bikinis. I browsed it for a minute, the proprietor ignoring me. I picked up a little tub of cocoa butter - I'd read in Playboy that it was good for anal sex, and I knew that meant it would also be good for masturbating, and I'd forgotten to pack any Vaseline.

I came to the bikinis. The bikinis.

Looking at them I recalled the very pretty girl who turned out to be a boy. The idea of doing that entered my head fully blown. I would never in a million years have thought of such a thing on my own, but now, when I was tossing up in my mind whether to go to Mr Hunter's room in half an hour, Mr Hunter, who had exhibited some interest in boys-dressed-as-girls (I didn't really have a word for this particular perversion in those days), now, the idea suddenly attracted me.

And I found myself handling the bikinis, fingering the material, mentally framing myself in them. I can't tell you how far from my nature this was, I never thought of dressing in girls' clothing. But, well, now I did.

I quickly thumbed through the rack. The proprietor, whom I had previously thought might be dead, based on his interest in me, came to life.

"Yo like one of dese?"

"My, er, girlfriend." I smiled weakly. I had moved down from XL, and was now at Petite.

"Yes. These are Petite. Is yo's girl petite? How beeg? How beeg they breaths? How beeg they ..."

I gritted my teeth; like MacBeth, it seemed easier to keep going than to extract myself. (In my experience there is never a situation to which a classical education can't add a totally irrelevant thought.)

"Small, er breasts. But ... don't really know what size. Same height as me."

The Senor grinned at me disarmingly. "For bikini, heights no es matter. Small breaths? -- perhaps this is good."

He put a small black creation n my hands. "Thees is small, very popular." It seemed the size of a handkerchief.

"I don't really know how beeg she is," I said, looking doubtfully at the little handful of material he had given me.

"OK, no problem!" he exclaimed, warming to the task. "When not knowing size, but string." And he illustrated his point by taking another black bikini from the rack and showing me the string ties for the bras and for the sides of the pants. "Thees can fits any who is not so beeg."

I handed him the cocoa butter too and we went back to the counter.

As the shop assistant prepared the bill I looked out through the window onto Avenue Isla Verde and, to my horror, I saw Sir David Silk looking into the shop. He seemed to be looking straight at me and the timing could hardly have been worse -- the shop assistant was holding the little black bikini up to the light to get the price from the tags.

Mercifully, a few seconds later Sir David moved on. I waited a minute or two before leaving the shop to make sure I wouldn't run into him, and when I stepped back out into the street he was gone. Breathing a sigh, I quickly crossed the Avenue back to the hotel.

* * *

The corridor of the sixth floor of the Hotel El San Juan seemed dazzlingly bright as I walked warily along to room Six Twelve. I knocked hesitantly. No answer. I knocked again and a moment later Mr Hunter opened the door, grinned lasciviously, waved me in, and closed the door behind me.