Weekend on Fire Island

The humming grew louder and I heard feet on stairs coming up to my left. I turned my head. Brent Barclay entered the room, two cups of steaming coffee in his hands. He was wearing a terrycloth robe, hanging open on his naked body. For a man I knew to be in his fifties, he had a trim, hard-muscled body. He was in half erection.

"Ah, good, you're awake. Here, you need this and more, I think." He handed me the coffee and I raised my torso enough to accept the mug and take a drink. The coffee was strong. I sensed that he was right that I'd need several mugs of it before I could fully return to the land of the living, but I already was feeling better with the first sip.

He was standing by the bed, drinking from the other mug, completely oblivious to the fact that his robe was hanging open and he was hanging out. I realized that I was naked too. I hadn't closed my legs yet. I still lay there, legs spread and bent, feet flat on the mattress. From what I could remember from the previous night, it might be some time before I could close my legs.

Well, that was something I'd never done before.

Yes, he must have fucked me last night. I couldn't remember any of it, but he was much too casual in this situation not to have had me. I had a twinge of regret that I didn't remember any of it.

He looked at me quizzically over the rim of his mug. "You're wondering if we fucked last night," he said, his eyes reflecting his amusement.

"It seems like--"

"Yes, of course we did. You're a great lay."

I knew who Brent Barclay was, although there was no reason he would know me. He was an acclaimed star of Broadway plays in New York City--one of the lions of the moment of the theater. I had seen him in two plays my theater arts class had gone to and then studied and discussed the plays and the actors, including Barclay, afterward. He indeed was in his early fifties, I knew from my studies, frequently married and just as frequently divorced. There were rumors about his sexuality, which would have more to say about the divorces than the marriages. I thought now that I could put those rumors to rest. He was tall, slim and well-muscled for his age, graying at the temples, as handsome up close as he appeared to be on stage. He had a pleasant smile and, now that I could see him up close, gray eyes that must drive the women--and, apparently, some men--wild.

"You were at the party last night," I said, as we both looked at each other and drank our coffee. Another sip and I was feeling better yet.

"Yes. It was just a few doors down from me. I heard the loud music and went to investigate."

"But you didn't leave. You stayed around and partied."

"Yes, a bit."

"You fucked guys at the party. You fucked me."

"You were putting on quite a show. I saw that you were drugged up, not really involved in what was happening to you, just a receiver too far gone to resist--if you wanted to."

Yeah, just like with Edge Gordon, I thought. Just sports equipment. "But you got in line and fucked me there, at the party, before bringing me here. And you fucked me here too, afterward."

He smiled and said, "Playing the martyr, are we?" doing so in a way that told me it wouldn't be good to go too far down that road. "As I said," he continued, "you were putting on quite a show, but you were out of it. I prefer my young men fully there with me. Sex is for two, a mutual act, with me, not just me getting it off."

"So, you're now saying you haven't fucked me?"

"No, I'm not saying that. I'm saying I like my guys to be there with me in the fuck. It's isn't just me getting my rocks off. It was better getting you alone--just you and me."

Not just getting his rocks off. Unlike Edge Gordon, I thought. Yeah, I could like this guy--beyond the fact that he was gorgeous for his age and had all the success in the theater that I wanted to have too.

"So, you're saying we aren't finished here?"

He just smiled and took a swig of his coffee. He wasn't directly answering the questions. "I'm awake now, fully conscious of what I'm doing," I said.

"If a little green around the gills still and uneasy on your feet," he responded.

"Yes, that," I admitted. I thought he might back off then, give me more time to recover, considering what he said about wanting his sex partner to be fully invested in the act. "But feeling better."

We paused to drink more coffee, our eyes locked. More needed to be said, need be done here.

"I'm not really like this," I said. "I don't generally go to parties and let strangers gangbang me."

"But you did last night, didn't you?" he asked.

"Yes, I did." I didn't tell him why. I didn't know why myself, really--beyond having reacted badly to Edge Gordon treating me like a piece of exercise equipment. Wasn't that what the guys on the beach had done--and on the bed in the other beach house? If Brent Barclay had fucked me at the party and then again, when I still wasn't fully conscious, in his house afterward, wasn't that the same?

Barclay didn't wait, but it wasn't the same as with Gordon or the guys at the party. Giving me a million-dollar smile, he took the coffee mug from my hands and put that and his mug on the nightstand. He turned and sat on the bed, hovering over me. His lips lowered to mine and he took me into a prolonged, deep, tongue dueling kiss. His left hand glided down my chest, belly, and pubes, and snaked below my balls, a finger entering me, the heel of his hand pressing under my balls, pushing them up.

"This OK?" he murmured, coming out of the kiss.

"Yes," I whispered.

A second finger entered me. I elevated my pelvis to him and rocked on his hand, his fingers moving inside me, as the kiss resumed.

Pulling back momentarily, "And this?"

"Yes."

"Open your legs. Put your ankles on my shoulders."

I complied. He wasn't just taking; I was giving.

Coming out of the kiss again, he murmured, "How are you feeling now? Better?"

I wasn't feeling terrific, but I knew he wanted to fuck me. And he'd asked. He was sensitive enough to ask. "I'm feeling a lot better."

"Then, shall we try it with both of us fully conscious?"

"Sure, why not?" I answered.

He stood up beside the bed and shrugged the robe off his shoulders. It puddled around his feet. He still looked really good for his age. He was hard as a rock now. He opened the nightstand drawer and took out a condom packet and a tube of lube. I watched him roll the condom on, smooth it out, and slick it up with lube. He caught my gaze as he did so, giving a little smile, teasing me.

"God, you're big," I whispered.

"Yes, I know," he responded.

"You used a rubber last night?"

"Of course."

"Some of the others didn't."

"No, they didn't. You need to be more careful." He worked the sheathed cock some more. It stiffened out a bit more.

It was all so matter of fact, but it also was sexy. He made it seem so natural.

"Missionary, doggy, or something more strenuous?" he asked. "You showed to be flexible last night. We could go athletic." Again the bald, matter-of-fact tone of it was arousing.

"Whatever you want. Just screw me good."

"Oh, I'll fuck you very good."

He came back down on the bed, hovering over me again. The heel of his left hand pressed in under my balls again and his fingers, now well lubed, entered me. Once again, I jutted my pelvis up and rocked on the fingers. They went deeper than before, finding and rubbing my prostate. I felt his knuckles pressing into the rim of my hole. Would he sink in further--would he fist me? I shuddered and moaned.

"Fisting?" he murmured and then laughed as I tensed up at that prospect.

"Fuck me. Be good to me," I murmured.

His mouth followed where his left hand had gone, down into the hollow of my throat; onto my chest, pausing to suck on my nipples and flick them with his tongue. I buried my fists in the mattress behind me and pushed my chest into his face, liking what he was doing with my nubs--and those fingers working me in my ass. He was good. He was very good.

Then he kissed and licked down across my belly, into my pubes, and then up the side of my cock, now fully erect. He swallowed me and began giving me deep head. I arched my back more, moaned, and, lying back on the bed, cupped his head in my hands, helping to guide him on my cock.

Yes, he had fucked me before. There was a familiarity in this. He had marked this territory before. He was going to fuck me now, again.

I came for him, and, with a little laugh and humming again--a tune I recognized from one of the musicals I'd seen him in--he came up onto the bed, on top of me, his knees between my still-spread thighs, and put himself into position.

"Now," he whispered.

I gave a little jerk and a sigh as he entered me, gliding deep. He had already opened me well.

"Oh, shit. Fuck. Yes. Deep."

I stretched open for him, the muscles of my channel walls shimmering over the shaft. I clutched his shoulder blades with my hands, pressing and releasing the pressure of my fingers in the rhythm of the fuck, and I pressed my knees against his hips and rocked with his thrusts, as he nudged the walls open, stretching me. Moving in and out, in and out, he fucked me and fucked me and fucked me. Starting slow, but increasing in urgency and setting a steady rhythm.

As we were fucking, Barclay frequently asked me how it was with me--what we were doing, what he was doing with me--was it good for me, as good as it was for him? Was there more pleasure in this and that than pain? There always was and I told him so. And then he would do something else with me, and that was arousing and pleasurable too. It meant the world to me that he was attentive to my needs--and that he was getting so much pleasure out of me, as well, whispering how gorgeous I was, how sexy, what a sweet lay I was. Throughout the fuck, he held me captive with the encompassing gaze of his gray eyes.

"This is better. You being fully into it and going with me is better," he whispered. "You are so special. So beautiful. So yielding. So sweet."

So fucked.

Brent Barclay made me feel special.

This was it. This is what I had wanted and hadn't gotten from Edge Gordon, regardless of how long he was and how deeply he could reach into my core. Brent Barclay was reaching into my core too and he was fucking me there--we weren't just fucking. We were making love. We were clinging together, kissing, mutually working toward coming together. We did come close together and he collapsed on top of me, still inside me, and we savored the shared experience.

Afterward, he was honest and direct with me and brought me down from the heavens. I shouldn't have pressed him on the issue. Barclay obviously saw nothing wrong with any of this.

"You were at the party to fuck young men, not to complain about the noise, weren't you?" I persisted.

"Yes," he answered.

"You were in the train. You fucked me at the party."

"Yes."

And that answered that. But still, I wanted something more from this man, even while not knowing what it was. We had been something more to each other in the depths of sex than I had experience with a man before. It was something I wanted.

"Tell me, though. Why did you pull me out of the party and bring me here?"

Barclay smiled, most likely, though, being irritated I was being persistent, but taking into account how young I was. He persisted with honesty himself, though. "I thought you were gorgeous. You were taking the cocks well at the party. And you were freely giving it out. I wanted it without all those other guys hanging off us. I wanted you to myself."

"You fucked me at the party and, when you brought me back here, you fucked me again while I was out of it, didn't you?"

"Yes, several times. You're a real honey, Jeffrey. I put you in several positions and enjoyed you immensely. You're a slut for it. Of course, it was more satisfying when you were conscious and fully participating in it." The smile didn't leave his face. He wasn't going to claim any romantic false pretenses.

"And you'd do it again--fuck me in train and when I was mostly out of it."

"In a minute. I'm not a saving angel and you weren't so far out of it that you didn't know you were giving yourself to a succession of men. I like to get it off with gorgeous young men. You fit the bill. I grab life as it comes. You should too. Do I regret taking advantage of you and fucking you? No, I don't. You loved it. If I told you to surrender your hole to me right now, you'd do it, wouldn't you? If I fisted you, you'd lie back and take it."

I didn't answer that. I turned from him in the bed, showing him my back. It wasn't the swiftest move. What he wanted most from me was back there. To prove his point, he put a hand on my hip and said, "fold your left knee up into your belly. Give me your hole."

I responded immediately, hearing the nightstand drawer opening again. Another condom; more lube. When he came back onto the bed, he moved his left leg over my hip, put his crowned cock in position, penetrated me, and fucked me again. Moaning softly, I took his shaft, reaching down to grasp my cock and stroke myself off again. He nuzzled my cheek with his, and I turned my face to his to take the deep kiss. I felt him tense and take his breath in. He pulled out of me. I heard the snap of the condom being jerked off, and his sigh as he came on the small of my back.

The sound of the drawer again. I turned my head and looked back. A surgical glove. He was lubing it up. I moaned--and then moaned deeper as he bunched up the fingers and put them into position. He held me fast, and I panted and moaned as his knuckles breached my sphincter muscle and he slow fisted me. I lay there in his embrace, taking it.

"You are young and ambitious, Jeffery," he said when our breathing calmed. He was still embracing me, smoothing his cum into my flesh with a finger. "I am established. You want what I have. You are here to give and I am here to take. I am on top and you are on the bottom. Someday you'll be on top and some young lad will be on the bottom for you. But not today."

And that answered that.

To be as honest as Barclay was being with me, I had nothing to complain about. I hadn't come here with Brent Barclay, though, I'd come with Edge Gordon. When Barclay left me and went into the bathroom to shower, I rolled out of the bed, found the Speedo I'd been wearing when I'd gone down to the beach the previous day--the towel was gone for good, I was afraid, although I found it in my walk back on the beach--and walked back along the line of the surf to Edge Gordon's house.

Yes, Barclay had fucked me before. Both in the train at the party, I believed, and then again when he'd brought me to his own beach house. And he fisted me, which had happened before, but not as slowly and sensuously as he did it. I had never stretched to it as easily with anyone else as I did with him. He wasn't a white knight good Samaritan when he'd pulled me out of the party. He'd wanted more of me for himself. He took what he wanted. His was a privilege I strived for. He was right there.

Well, that was OK with me. If we'd met under different circumstances... If I hadn't come to Fire Island with Edge Gordon...

I approached Gordon's house from the beach, climbing the wooden stairs to his deck. When I reached the top of the deck, I saw that he was in the Jacuzzi, scowling at me.

"You left and didn't come back all night," he said, which, of course, was obvious and indisputable. I wanted to be sarcastic and say I was surprised he had noticed, but I didn't. He was a powerful man and I was here on his sufferance. I'd been a bad boy. I needed to be humble and apologize. He was on top and I was on the bottom.

"I'm sorry," I said, deciding to stay as close to the truth as possible. "I went to sleep on the beach and the first time I knew, I was taken up with a party down the beach. I'm afraid I accepted drink and pills and lost all track of time. Somehow I wound up being away all night." That was all true if a bit incomplete. I didn't mention winding up in Brent Barclay's bed, with Barclay's cock--and, eventually, his fist--inside me.

"I know about the party. I went there looking for you, but I didn't see you," Gordon said. "You're looking sexy," he went on to say, changing gears. "Strip off the Speedo and come into the Jacuzzi and sit on it."

With a sigh of surrender, that's what I did, climbing down in the water, finding he was naked and in magnificent erection, and, facing him, I descended in his lap, cupped his head in my hands, and rose and fell on the buried cock. He held my waist between his hands and controlled the intensity of the fuck. While we were fucking, I heard sounds coming from the house and saw a young blond man, naked, coming down the stairs from the loft and padding to the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. I recognized him from the party the previous night.

So, yes, Edge Gordon had come to the party, maybe even looking for me. But he didn't look for me too long or too hard. He found someone else to bring home and feed his something like eleven inches into. I saw that the young guy was walking around the kitchen somewhat gingerly and he was looking tired and dopey. So, I didn't think that Edge missed me too much the previous night.

He fucked me good in the Jacuzzi and I gave him everything he wanted, so the blond guy disappeared a bit later and we packed up to return to the city. Neither of us said much during the journey back to New York. I was at the end of the photoshoot for The Edge men's late summer lineup, so it was a natural place for us to cut any ties. That's what happened. I didn't hear from Edge Gordon again, but I didn't get the feeling I was blackballed for modeling work, so it was all OK. I didn't run into the model, Aston, who Edge was lining up for the next weekend trip to Fire Island, either, so I never knew if that came off or worked out.

I decided just to move on, and that was made pretty easy for me. Gordon didn't pursue me further.

* * * *

The next Tuesday night after the trip to Edge Gordon's beach house on Fire Island, I was in the gay club in Chelsea where I worked part time as a musician. I was on the piano and was singing softly below the sound of gay men shopping for other gay men. A hand hovered over the tip jar on the piano and I noticed a wad of hundred-dollar-bills slip into the glass bowl. I knew what that meant, and there were enough bills in the wad to ensure I would be agreeable unless the man was an ogre. I looked up.

Brent Barclay stood by the piano, his gray eyes boring into mine, a smile on his face.

"You left me the other day without saying good-bye," he said.

"I didn't want to say good-bye to you. You did me better than I'd ever been done before. I didn't want my heart broken."

"That doesn't have to happen," he said.

"How did you find me?"

"I had your first name for starters. And I recognized you as a model Edge Gordon has been using this year for his clothing ads. He has a cottage just up the beach from mine on the island. This is where he brings his male models to fuck. So, I asked."

"You asked Mr. Gordon?" I said, incredulous. "And he told you?"

"Oh, hell no. I don't want Edge to know I'm interested in any of his boytoys. I asked his advertising head, Colette, who he was having here for the weekend who was named Jeffery. She told me, and she told me where and when I could find you."

"She knows who Gordon takes to Fire Island on the weekend?"

"Sure. Don't look so surprised and hurt. We all know guys like you are ambitious and willing to give yourselves to get ahead. For Edge, it's his male models. For me, it's younger actors on the make."

"You make it sound so... sordid," I said.

"Not at all. It's natural. It's the way of our business. How do you think men like Edge and I have gotten to where we are? We did it on looks and ambition--and by giving our tails to whoever was at the top of the food chain at the time until we got near the top ourselves."