This story comes out of an experience I had when in Miami this past August. Several details have been changed – including the bodybuilder’s level of interest in me – but most of the particulars are based on reality.
_____
Manuel and I went back to Miami for the fourth time this past August. We’d really enjoyed the nightlife and the rush and bustle of the city, but our main focus was (as always) the beaches, especially Haulover Beach, the clothing-optional beach just a short drive north of where we were staying in the Art Deco district of South Beach. We really liked feeling the freedom of being unclothed under the hot sun.
This particular Saturday afternoon, the first day of our week-long vacation, we’d awakened fairly late and cooked a late breakfast (brunch, really) at the hostel where we were staying. Then we’d hopped into the rental car and driven out to Aventura Mall to pick up a couple of beach towels and an umbrella (we always forget something, whenever we travel). After heading back across the causeway to Collins Avenue, we headed north to Haulover.
Just after lunch, of course, the sun was hot. Luckily there were some breezes off the ocean, but we were looking forward to a lazy afternoon of swimming in the lukewarm, clear water and lying in the shade afterward to build up our tans slowly and evenly.
Well, really, my tan. Manuel is a little darker than I am, with blue eyes and curly dark brown hair (almost black), and he tans easily without burning. He doesn’t really have to worry: He’s a mix of Italian, African, and Indio. Me, I usually burn first and tan later unless I take serious precautions and use what seems to be the highest number of sunblock available. My ancestors came from England and Ireland, and my father was a platinum blond when he was growing up; I inherited his skin tone and my mother’s family’s medium brown hair. My beard and hair used to go gold every summer when I was working as a lifeguard at a lake beach near my parents’ house during high school and college.
We’d both worked on our bodies a bit at the local YMCA before going on vacation, since we knew we’d be taking off our clothes. So we looked like two stocky, hairy, muscular bears, one Anglo, one Hispanic, as we set out our towels and pushed our umbrella base into the tight-packed sand, angled slightly against the steady breeze from the ocean. The water was an impossibly beautiful light azure, the sun was high above us, and the crowd was an interesting mix of obviously straight and gay couples and some who we couldn’t quite figure out. Off on the horizon, several enormous container ships were passing by with slow, majestic grace. A few private boats and jet skis were out beyond the swimmers’ boundary line. Perhaps a third of the people at the beach were in the water, while others were applying sunscreen, reading, sleeping, or talking with friends.
After we’d been in and out twice or three times, we relaxed on our towels and stretched out, feeling the stress of daily life dissipate as the sun’s warmth soaked through us. It was almost like being in a huge outdoor sauna. The temperature was perfect, we agreed, talking softly to each other, the ocean breeze gently tugging at the umbrella.
I woke up to voices, both speaking Spanish, one female, one male, but both mellow and pleasant. A straight couple was setting up their blanket and chairs (no umbrella) right in front of us. The woman was about 5’7” or 5’8” and perhaps just a little darker-complected than Jennifer Lopez. Her face was sharp-featured with clean, elegant cheekbones. Her long hair had been lightened to a dark gold. She was full-figured and wasted no time getting all her clothes off and draping herself luxuriously across their blanket. Manuel, who’d defined himself as bisexual until just a couple of years before meeting me, nudged me with a sly elbow when she continued to wiggle around a bit before settling down, intentionally showing off her lush body, impressive breasts, and full hips to an appreciative audience (the male half of the couple).
Her boyfriend was much darker than she was and had a military-style haircut. His thick lips had a light pink center, which sent a jolt of sexual awareness through me (color contrasts intrigue me sexually, and I know that people’s tongue or lip color can often be a clue to the color of the most sensitive places on their genitals – the inside lining of the foreskin, for example). His chest and arms were very muscular, but not cut; a layer of baby fat overlay the thick muscles and smoothed out his body’s lines. His body was so stocky he looked about 6 inches shorter than he was (about 5'10"). His nipples were dark brownish black against his smooth dark brown chest, and the only hair I could see was on his head. As his jeans came off, I nudged Manuel and twitched my eyebrows up and down once or twice: The guy’s squarecut swimsuit showed an enormous bulge in front, perhaps the size of a bratwurst, and the thick cylinder looked as though it was lengthening as he stared at his girlfriend sprawled across their blanket. We both waited, hardly daring to breathe, as he stood and talked with a friend on his cell phone, alternately toying with the waistband of his trunks, eyeing his girlfriend’s lushness, and fondling his cock head (now the size of an apple) through the fabric. We wanted to catch the full view when he pulled down the Spandex.
After sharing a little conversation with his friend on the phone, though, he settled down in one of those white plastic chairs that people bring to the beach from their condo balconies, while his girlfriend dozed off. Manuel, tired from his summer school classes, dozed off as well. The guy leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, facing the sun, while I watched him surreptitiously through my sunglasses. His bulge didn’t twitch as it grew and shrank, as some men’s semi-erections do; instead, it elongated and contracted rhythmically and grandly with the slow deliberate movement of significant hydraulic pressure.
A few minutes went by. My world became focused on the thick cock throbbing in his Spandex swimsuit. It became increasingly difficult to keep my own cock from revealing my interest. I pictured Madeleine Albright naked, Boy George having sex with a woman, Rosie O’Donnell gettin’ her freak on. Nothing helped. I was already at full extension, if not yet at full mast.
Then he did something amazing in its simple, unaffected eroticism: He reached into his backpack and brought out a bottle of baby oil and began rubbing it into his smooth dark brown skin. He started in the hollow of his throat and worked his way down the almost pneumatically pumped-up muscles of his chest and abdomen. His big, thick-fingered hands made slow, sensual love to his own body. My own nipples tingled as he rubbed the baby oil into his chest; my treasure trail became almost unbearably sensitive in the ocean breeze as his hands moved down his torso to the waist of his suit.
The most amazing thing happened next: He didn’t stop at the waistband. He reached under his suit and rubbed the baby oil onto his genitals, his motions large and impressive under the Spandex. From his movements (he’d put both hands down his trunks at the same time), I knew he’d pulled back his foreskin and rubbed the oil into his thick, apple-sized cock head. He fondled himself a little more, his head back and pink tongue caught between his teeth, and then brought his hands out and got some more baby oil and reached back in and rubbed the oil onto his turkey-egg-sized balls, obviously savoring the feeling.
[to be continued -- and yes, this part really happened -- I'd never seen someone keep his swimsuit on but reach underneath and rub baby oil into his cock and balls -- it was incredibly erotic, especially since he was doing it IN PUBLIC]
_____
Manuel and I went back to Miami for the fourth time this past August. We’d really enjoyed the nightlife and the rush and bustle of the city, but our main focus was (as always) the beaches, especially Haulover Beach, the clothing-optional beach just a short drive north of where we were staying in the Art Deco district of South Beach. We really liked feeling the freedom of being unclothed under the hot sun.
This particular Saturday afternoon, the first day of our week-long vacation, we’d awakened fairly late and cooked a late breakfast (brunch, really) at the hostel where we were staying. Then we’d hopped into the rental car and driven out to Aventura Mall to pick up a couple of beach towels and an umbrella (we always forget something, whenever we travel). After heading back across the causeway to Collins Avenue, we headed north to Haulover.
Just after lunch, of course, the sun was hot. Luckily there were some breezes off the ocean, but we were looking forward to a lazy afternoon of swimming in the lukewarm, clear water and lying in the shade afterward to build up our tans slowly and evenly.
Well, really, my tan. Manuel is a little darker than I am, with blue eyes and curly dark brown hair (almost black), and he tans easily without burning. He doesn’t really have to worry: He’s a mix of Italian, African, and Indio. Me, I usually burn first and tan later unless I take serious precautions and use what seems to be the highest number of sunblock available. My ancestors came from England and Ireland, and my father was a platinum blond when he was growing up; I inherited his skin tone and my mother’s family’s medium brown hair. My beard and hair used to go gold every summer when I was working as a lifeguard at a lake beach near my parents’ house during high school and college.
We’d both worked on our bodies a bit at the local YMCA before going on vacation, since we knew we’d be taking off our clothes. So we looked like two stocky, hairy, muscular bears, one Anglo, one Hispanic, as we set out our towels and pushed our umbrella base into the tight-packed sand, angled slightly against the steady breeze from the ocean. The water was an impossibly beautiful light azure, the sun was high above us, and the crowd was an interesting mix of obviously straight and gay couples and some who we couldn’t quite figure out. Off on the horizon, several enormous container ships were passing by with slow, majestic grace. A few private boats and jet skis were out beyond the swimmers’ boundary line. Perhaps a third of the people at the beach were in the water, while others were applying sunscreen, reading, sleeping, or talking with friends.
After we’d been in and out twice or three times, we relaxed on our towels and stretched out, feeling the stress of daily life dissipate as the sun’s warmth soaked through us. It was almost like being in a huge outdoor sauna. The temperature was perfect, we agreed, talking softly to each other, the ocean breeze gently tugging at the umbrella.
I woke up to voices, both speaking Spanish, one female, one male, but both mellow and pleasant. A straight couple was setting up their blanket and chairs (no umbrella) right in front of us. The woman was about 5’7” or 5’8” and perhaps just a little darker-complected than Jennifer Lopez. Her face was sharp-featured with clean, elegant cheekbones. Her long hair had been lightened to a dark gold. She was full-figured and wasted no time getting all her clothes off and draping herself luxuriously across their blanket. Manuel, who’d defined himself as bisexual until just a couple of years before meeting me, nudged me with a sly elbow when she continued to wiggle around a bit before settling down, intentionally showing off her lush body, impressive breasts, and full hips to an appreciative audience (the male half of the couple).
Her boyfriend was much darker than she was and had a military-style haircut. His thick lips had a light pink center, which sent a jolt of sexual awareness through me (color contrasts intrigue me sexually, and I know that people’s tongue or lip color can often be a clue to the color of the most sensitive places on their genitals – the inside lining of the foreskin, for example). His chest and arms were very muscular, but not cut; a layer of baby fat overlay the thick muscles and smoothed out his body’s lines. His body was so stocky he looked about 6 inches shorter than he was (about 5'10"). His nipples were dark brownish black against his smooth dark brown chest, and the only hair I could see was on his head. As his jeans came off, I nudged Manuel and twitched my eyebrows up and down once or twice: The guy’s squarecut swimsuit showed an enormous bulge in front, perhaps the size of a bratwurst, and the thick cylinder looked as though it was lengthening as he stared at his girlfriend sprawled across their blanket. We both waited, hardly daring to breathe, as he stood and talked with a friend on his cell phone, alternately toying with the waistband of his trunks, eyeing his girlfriend’s lushness, and fondling his cock head (now the size of an apple) through the fabric. We wanted to catch the full view when he pulled down the Spandex.
After sharing a little conversation with his friend on the phone, though, he settled down in one of those white plastic chairs that people bring to the beach from their condo balconies, while his girlfriend dozed off. Manuel, tired from his summer school classes, dozed off as well. The guy leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, facing the sun, while I watched him surreptitiously through my sunglasses. His bulge didn’t twitch as it grew and shrank, as some men’s semi-erections do; instead, it elongated and contracted rhythmically and grandly with the slow deliberate movement of significant hydraulic pressure.
A few minutes went by. My world became focused on the thick cock throbbing in his Spandex swimsuit. It became increasingly difficult to keep my own cock from revealing my interest. I pictured Madeleine Albright naked, Boy George having sex with a woman, Rosie O’Donnell gettin’ her freak on. Nothing helped. I was already at full extension, if not yet at full mast.
Then he did something amazing in its simple, unaffected eroticism: He reached into his backpack and brought out a bottle of baby oil and began rubbing it into his smooth dark brown skin. He started in the hollow of his throat and worked his way down the almost pneumatically pumped-up muscles of his chest and abdomen. His big, thick-fingered hands made slow, sensual love to his own body. My own nipples tingled as he rubbed the baby oil into his chest; my treasure trail became almost unbearably sensitive in the ocean breeze as his hands moved down his torso to the waist of his suit.
The most amazing thing happened next: He didn’t stop at the waistband. He reached under his suit and rubbed the baby oil onto his genitals, his motions large and impressive under the Spandex. From his movements (he’d put both hands down his trunks at the same time), I knew he’d pulled back his foreskin and rubbed the oil into his thick, apple-sized cock head. He fondled himself a little more, his head back and pink tongue caught between his teeth, and then brought his hands out and got some more baby oil and reached back in and rubbed the oil onto his turkey-egg-sized balls, obviously savoring the feeling.
[to be continued -- and yes, this part really happened -- I'd never seen someone keep his swimsuit on but reach underneath and rub baby oil into his cock and balls -- it was incredibly erotic, especially since he was doing it IN PUBLIC]
