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I woke up, my face filmed with sweat, and had a drink from the glass of flat, room temperature water on the bedside table. I could hear the sounds of people in the pool, having a morning swim; the rasp of crickets in the grass; the chirp of birds. Through the slats in the shutter I could tell that the sky was clear as ever.

Great, I thought gloomily. Another beautiful day.

Going on holiday by myself had seemed like a great idea. I”d be free and unencumbered and none of my friends would be around to move in on any interesting woman I encountered. And there were plenty of interesting women at the hotel, but most of them seemed to be either married, or partnered, or 18 and looking for horny male 18-year-olds, not a horny male 28-year-old. I was in good shape and not bad-looking and I kept myself fit, but unlike a lot of the men in the hotel I didn’t tan. I had dark hair and pale skin and after the first day, sunburn on my shoulders and back where I hadn’t been able to reach with the sunspray. My face got a good colour but the rest of me remained obstinately pale.

So that first week, I consistently went to bed alone. It wasn’t for want of trying. I managed to chat to some cute women at the bar, a young, single Englishwoman who was on holiday with friends and a rather drunk Dutch girl who actually snogged me and suggested we date, and then went to the toilet and never came back. By the time I’d been in the hotel for a week, I was becoming increasingly frustrated.

I had a routine. I got up, had breakfast, swam for a couple of hours, had lunch, then took a siesta in which I read, or wrote, or napped. Then I went for another swim, groomed myself, ate some dinner and hit the bars. But it seemed like nothing could shake the aura I had of Lonely Single Man.

After a while, however, I became aware that someone was watching me.

There were other single men at the hotel but most of them were fat, or middle-aged, or even more obviously desperate than I. But one of them was different.

He was older, probably sixty, and tall, taller than I am, with short cropped silver hair and a goatee. He had a deep tan and a lean, rangy body, visible whenever he went swimming (which was often, in a pair of tight trunks that couldn’t have been more different from my baggy blue swim shorts) and an air of remote amusement. And I was sure that he was watching me. Whenever I glanced his way, his eyes would be on me. Sometimes he’d return my gaze until I broke away, sometimes he’d go back to his book or stare out to sea or pretend that he hadn’t been looking at me.

I found this slightly unnerving, in that I had no idea why he was staring at me, unless he just found the spectacle of a young man trying to pick up girls very funny. He himself appeared to be alone, although once in a while I saw him dining with friends — always a different set every time. He would be chatting and drinking wine and being charming, and then he would glance over at me and his gaze seemed to contain an element of taunt: don”t you wish you were doing this?

After a couple of days in which his attention seemed to wander off me I decided that he’d lost interest in me. I couldn’t blame him. I’d almost lost interest in myself at that point, and spent my late nights staying up and playing World of Warcraft and drinking the contents of the minibar.

Then, the day I woke up and noticed with gloom that it was a beautiful day, he finally said hello.

I had my customary light breakfast, read for a bit and then went back to my room and put on my trunks and headed down to the beach.

It was blisteringly hot and I was, as usual, coated in sunscreen. After an hour of crawling up and down and basking and watching the wildlife, I had just about accepted that this was going to be a day like any other when all of a sudden, he surfaced next to me, blinking the water out of his eyes. He smiled.

“Hello,” he said.


“Another beautiful day,” he said drily. I smiled.

“Yeah,” I said.

“They can get a bit monotonous, can’t they?” His accent was middle-class south of England, slightly refined; beyond that I couldn’t be sure.

“A little bit.”

“If you’re with company it can be fun.”

“It happens that I’m not,” I said.

“Oh dear,” he said.

“Not for the want of trying, mind you,” I said, feeling that I shouldn”t moan too much on a first acquaintance.

“We can only try,” he agreed.

We floated there for a while in a peaceful silence.

“Are you staying at the hotel?” I asked out of mere politeness.

“Oh no,” he said. “I have a house down the coast.”

“Ah,” I said.

“They let me use the beach because I have shares in the hotel,” he said.

“Nice,” I said.

“It is,” he said. “Very convenient for meeting people.”

There was another pause. Then he said “Well, better crack on. It was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I said, reflecting that this was the longest conversation I’d had in days. He smiled warmly and struck bursa escort off in his powerful crawl.

About 20 minutes later I got out and headed for the showers. There was a shower block on the beach, a long, low building. There were sinks, and you could wash up and put your belongings in a crude locker with a key on a chain that you wore round your neck in the shower, and then you retrieved your stuff and dressed and went back to wherever you were staying. I had left it so late that there was nobody else on the beach, although there was a solitary swimmer coming in.

I stood at the sink in my dripping trunks and washed my face with face scrub and cleanser. Then another man came in.

It was the older guy from earlier, the guy with the house down the coast, dripping wet. He nodded and smiled at me, then quickly eased his trunks down his hips and stowed them in his locker and got under a shower. I finished washing my face, slid my swim shorts down my legs and put them in a locker, then I lathered my face with shaving foam and stood in front of the sink, naked, shaving.

I didn’t mind being naked among other men, especially on holiday where everyone was nearly naked most of the time. This time seemed a little different, however. Although I wasn’t looking at him, I had the strangest suspicion that he was subtly checking me out.

I found myself standing a little differently at the sink than I had been doing. I stood up a little straighter and squared my shoulders. If strange men were going to check me out, I didn’t want to look bad. I’m not gay, and I”d never even been tempted to fool around with a guy, but on some level I felt that even a glance across the room from a possibly gay and rather elderly man was attention, and attention was what I’d been craving.

And then he spoke.

“You look fit,” he said, washing his hair. I glanced over at him and smiled briefly in response.

“Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t help darting the briefest of looks at his crotch, and I had to quickly look back at the mirror and continue shaving, because he had the longest penis I had ever seen, not that I’d seen all that many in my adult life — even flaccid, it was at least five inches long, possibly longer, and narrow, but with a bulbous tip. It was as tanned as the rest of him and hung before two brown, hairless, wrinkled testicles. I”d noticed that he shaved his body. His only hair was under his arms and on his head and face. That alone served to back up my suspicion that he was gay.

“Do you work out a lot?” he said politely.

“Not really,” I said. “I just look after myself.”

“You do a good job,” he said. “You have a nice body.”

“Thanks,” I said, genuinely grateful for the compliment but not particularly wanting the conversation to remain on that topic.

“I must admit,” he said, “I’m biased in that I prefer men”s bodies to women”s. Nothing against women as such, of course.”

“I think I’m the other way around,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, smiling, “I thought so. Otherwise I’d have invited you for a drink.”

“Oh,” I said, obscurely disappointed, and then puzzled about why I was disappointed. “Well, that would have been very nice, I’m sure, but I’m not really that way . . . you know. Inclined.”

“Never even been tempted?” he said, twinkling at me.

I looked back at him for a moment, confused.

Dammit, dammit, dammit: something about being alone, in this hot, humid, steamy room, with this man older than my father, the two of us stark naked . . . I did feel tempted. I was curious. I was also shocked at myself, for being so desperate that I’d consider a come-on from a complete stranger twice my age.

I was at a loss for words. I partly wanted to just hang around him, vicariously experience some of his fun, seeing as he appeared to have more of it than I did, but without letting him think of me as someone who I wasn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to lead him on.

“It wouldn’t be fair to lead you on,” I said.

“How would you be leading me on?” he said easily.

“Well,” I fumbled, “I’m not saying I’m not curious…but I don’t think I could, you know…actually do it.”

“Do what exactly?” he said, and then seeing my confusion and embarrassment he laughed, and the tension was broken.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “It’s me who’s leading you on, I think. I’m sure I’m harassing you when you just want to have a shower.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t feel harassed.”

“Oh,” he said. “I’m glad.”

“You seem very nice,” I said. “I’m sure you’re good company.”

“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head politely. “I like to think I have my moments. Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” I said, no longer feeling embarrassed, just relieved that he was so amicable about being turned down.

“If I were younger,” he said, “would you be tempted then?”

“Oh, it’s not about your age,” I said hastily.

“Really?” he said. “Most young fellows I’ve met prefer the company malatya escort of men their own age.”

“Right,” I said. “No, it’s not that at all. I think you’re a good-looking guy. I think if I were attracted to men, I’d definitely be attracted to you.”

“But you’re not,” he said, smiling and staring at me.

Once again, I found myself fumbling for the words.

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re attractive,” I said. “It’s just that I”ve never . . . done that.”

He shut off the water and walked towards me, slowly, smiling. I rinsed my face and turned to face him.

“I have to admit that I do find you very attractive,” he said with a hint of sheepishness.

“Thank you,” I said, my mouth dry.

“Attractive,” he said, “but also . . . provocative. There’s something about you that just seems to invite attention. I’m sorry but there is. I hope you’re not offended.”

“Not at all,” I said softly.

“It’s not often you meet a younger man who’s attractive, intelligent and friendly,” he said. “I would have kicked myself if I hadn’t at least tried something.”

“What have you tried?” I asked, looking him in the eyes. His eyes were green and clear.

“I’ve tried talking to you,” he said. “I’ve tried sweet-talking you. But I’m still getting mixed signals. You say you don’t think you could do it. But you don’t seem to want the conversation to end.”

“I don’t,” I said.

“Why’s that?” he said.

“I like talking to you,” I admitted.

“My name’s John,” he said quietly. He was standing three feet from me, resting his weight on one leg. I was leaning slightly backwards, my buttocks against the sink. We were both naked.

“Mine’s Alex,” I said.

“Hello, Alex,” he said, smiling.

“Hello, John.” I looked up at him, my lips parted, not thinking of anything except how he was looking at me.

“Alex,” he said, “either you walk out now or I’m going to have to kiss you.”

“Nobody’s ever called me “provocative” before,” I said quietly.

We looked at each other for a moment, then he stepped up to me and took me in his arms and we kissed, our naked male bodies touching, his cock against mine, our chests pressed together, his hands caressing my body, his arms pressing me to him, his tongue pushing into my mouth. I gasped and submitted to it, moaning quietly into his mouth, letting him take me, yielding to the extraordinary new sensation of being so bodily intimate with another man. His hands came up to my head and mine went down to his bare hips and we held each other in place as we kissed.

And then he let go of my face and I stared up at him, feeling myself falling into those clear green eyes.

“Alex,” he said, “can I buy you a drink?”

“Yes please,” I breathed.

John smiled.

“Then have a shower,” he said, “and meet me in the bar this evening for a drink. Say, seven. That’ll give you time to think it all over. Okay?”

“We’re not gonna . . . um . . . now?” I asked. John shook his head firmly.

“I want to be sure you really want it,” he said. “Anyway, someone might come in. See you later.”

He smiled, broke free from me and went to put on his clothes. I got under the shower and washed off, feeling bewildered and happy and alarmed and apprehensive.


I spent the whole of the day in a kind of daze of anticipation, my body remembering the thrill of John taking me in his arms, my lips remembering his kiss, my cock remembering the feel of his . . . and all the while with the dark secret forbidden excitement of knowing what John wanted to do with me.

It wasn’t like any experience I’d had before. Until now, with one or two exceptions, I had always known what sort of basic encounter was in store. Ever since I’d lost my virginity, I had known what intercourse felt like. But now I found myself not knowing what it was going to feel like — always assuming that John liked me enough to want to have intercourse with me. Whatever that meant.

I realised, after a while, that I was in the unprecedented situation, for me, of being the person who was being pursued. Up until now, I had always been the one trying to persuade a girl to go to bed with me. But now, a guy was trying to persuade me to go to bed with him.

I had lunch in a kind of daze, and spent much of siesta time surfing the internet, trying to find out as much information as possible about what exactly gay men did to each other in bed — not that I hadn’t had fantasies about it from time to time, but I had very little idea of the mechanics of it. Then, when I felt I knew enough, I went out to the hotel pharmacy and somewhat shamefacedly bought some heavy-duty condoms and a couple of tubes of lubrication, and one or two other things.

I realised, of course, that to do so was potentially hexing my chances of whatever this evening was going to turn into. But I didn’t want John to think that I was gauche. I went back to my room and stripped off and shaved once again, then I used çanakkale escort one of the things I’d bought in the pharmacist to do something so intimate and embarrassing that I don’t really want to go into details. Then, I took a long shower and washed the day’s sweat and accumulated sunblock off myself, then when I was finished I dressed in the smartest, simplest clothes I owned and, feeling clean and cleansed and fresh inside and out, I left my room and headed down to the bar.

He was in there, sitting at a table, with a glass of chilled white wine in front of him. He rose and smiled warmly and said “Hello, Alex. I’m glad you came.”

I blushed and smiled at him somewhat sheepishly.

“So am I,” I said.

“You thought about it, then?”

“I did. I decided that life is short.”

“It is. What can I get you?”

I asked for a beer. It occurred to me after I’d asked for one that he might think beer was vulgar, but he just nodded approvingly and ordered me a Heineken.

“So,” he said after my drink had come, “you were saying that nobody had ever called you ‘provocative’ before.”

“Nope,” I said. “Cute, yes, nice-looking, but not provocative. I’m still not sure what you meant.”

“Maybe it’s just personal to me,” he said. “All my life I’ve preferred men to women. There was just something about you that meant I had to talk to you.”

“It must be nice to want the same thing your whole life,” I said.

“It’s made things simpler in some ways and very complicated in others,” he said. “When I was younger it was much more difficult. You see, Alex, I’m not that much of a fan of, you know, the gay lifestyle. I don’t much like dancing or dressing up and I’m not really into the scene. My trouble has always been that, basically, I’m only attracted to straight men.”

“Ahh,” I said, feeling a pang of sympathy. “I can see how that would be difficult.”

“Yes,” he said. “And when I was younger, people were much more straight than they are — I mean, straight people. One of the best things about growing older is that I’ve lived to see a time when people who are normally straight are willing to be a little bit more, you know. Adventurous.” He smiled.

“That’s why I came,” I admitted. “I’m not totally sure what we’re doing here, but basically, are we having a date?”

“Yes,” he said after the tiniest pause.

“I thought so,” I said. “Just so I know.”

“I don’t want you to be under any illusions,” he said. “I will try to seduce you.” He grinned. I blushed.

“I don’t want you to be under any illusions, either,” I said. “Since it’s a regular date like any other, I’m not promising anything. We’ll just see how the evening goes.”

“That seems fair,” he said. “Shall we get some food?”

We went to a restaurant down the beach. It was twilight, and a heavy pink sun was setting behind the mountains across the bay. We ordered fish and seafood and drank cold beer and talked about ourselves; he wasn’t too forthcoming with details about what he did for a living but I gathered that he was independently wealthy, partly from inheritances and partly from canny investments. He was charming company, witty and interesting and interested in me and my not very exciting job. He asked me about girls and I told about my sexual history, all of which he listened to with fascination. By the end of the meal I was very happy to be in his company but a little puzzled; he hadn’t touched me, or done much to flirt with me beyond looking me in the eyes and smiling a lot, and I was somewhat puzzled as to whether or not it was going well, from his point of view.

When he talked about his own sexual experiences I found it intoxicating and heady to be hearing such details from someone I’d only just met. I also found it arousing to imagine him as a younger man, finding his way, meeting partners, having love affairs and brief one-night stands. By then I had had about three beers and was feeling light-headed and daring.

By ten o’clock we had finished eating and he got the bill. I insisted on paying my share, which he at first resisted and then allowed. Then he suggested a walk down the beach.

We talked about the night and the sea and how beautiful it was, and I told him an anecdote about how I’d once gone skinnydipping with a group of friends and he laughed and told a similar one. Then we stopped and stood gazing out to sea.

“I’m a bit surprised,” I said.

“Why”s that?”

“Well . . . we’re out here and it’s so romantic, and you haven’t touched me.”

“You haven”t touched me either,” he pointed out.

“I don’t know how it works with men,” I said.

“Same as anyone else,” he said, smiling. “But if we were going to kiss, now would be a good time.”

I turned to face him, looking up at him, and he turned to face me, and he took my face in his hands and kissed me.

It was a long, deep kiss and he pulled me to himself and I could feel how his cock was hard. I trembled slightly. I had never been intimate with anyone so apparently physically strong before. He’d told me that he’d taken self-defence classes.

He pulled out of the kiss and looked at me. I could feel myself melting.

“Wow,” I gasped.

“That’s my house,” he said, indicating a large beach house with a balcony. “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

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