Marco Island Summer Lovin’

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."