Costa Rica

In the late 80s, I had the opportunity to travel to Costa Rica to work for a few months. The pay was paltry, but my airfare and lodging were covered. I couldn’t pass that up. I ended up working in San Jose, Costa Rica for four months. A wonderful time in my life. Nearly every weekend, I would take a bus to either the Pacific or Caribbean side to enjoy the beaches, people and culture. My favorite place to visit was Cahuita on the Caribbean side. A very small village below Limon, Cahuita had a variety of beaches and people. I probably visited this place at least a half-dozen times while in Costa Rica. The hotels and food there were cheap. There was a great dance place, where you could listen to Reggae music, drink cheap beers and dance badly.

This story is true and happened in Cahuita, Costa Rica toward the end of my stay. I believe it was one of the last weekends I visited Cahuita. It was a Saturday night. I was hanging in the dance place—can’t remember its name—with some friends. I met some guys from Louisiana. New Orleans is where they were from. They were in San Jose on business and had traveled over for a few days to hang at the beach. Very nice guys.

One of the guys, Brad, was very cool. We had a lot in common. He was easy to talk to. After drinking, talking and laughing, Brad and I walked down the street toward our hotel. It just so happened that Brad and his buddies were staying at the same hotel me and two other co-workers were staying at. My co-workers and I shared one room. A bit cramped, but it kept our wallets thicker.

The hotel had this small swimming pool out front. The pool was a little strange, but what was even stranger was this large, dead tree next to the pool. On this tree’s cadaverous branches sat three or four vultures. Anyway, we got back to the hotel, and Brad suggested going for a dip in the pool. I thought it was a hilarious idea, seeing that it was dark, we had been drinking and vultures were eyeing the pool, waiting for someone to bonk their head on the side.

Even though I was a little drunk and tired, I was up for it, so I changed into my trunks in my room and headed out with a towel. Even though it was dark, it was warm and humid. Perfect conditions for a little dip in the pool. When I got out there, only Brad was there, already in the pool. I was a little bummed we were the only people out there. Oh, well.

I hopped in. The water wasn’t too cold, but it wasn’t too warm either. The vultures were still there. Brad and I talked, laughed and swam once in a while. The pool wasn’t deeper than five feet, so we could pretty much wade around without swimming. After about 30 minutes of talking and good times, Brad started splashing me with water. I returned the favor. Like I said, he was a pretty cool guy. He got closer and pushed my head underwater playfully. I tried to get him back, but he was too quick. I went under; when I came up, Brad was right there in front of me. Like inches away. He waded up against me, and it was then I felt his cock against my thigh. It was quite hard—and large. Now, I don’t know if I can recount the exact thoughts that passed through my head at that very moment, but I can tell you that I was surprised. He was there against me, cock against my thigh, face a few inches from mine. There was enough light from the hotel in the dark that I could see he was looking right into my eyes. “Can I kiss you?” he asked, shifting, so his hard cock rubbed against mine, which was not hard, but was easily on its way.

We all make choices in this life. Some good; some shit. The jury is still out on the decision I made right there in that pool with Brad, a very cool guy and pretty damn hot, as I remember. I stepped back, saying “I don’t think so” or some such stupid thing. He quickly got the message, apologizing profusely. The thing is—and it still is—I wouldn’t have minded experimenting with Brad. I easily could have. I was single, unencumbered. Nothing holding me back. But some voice in the back of my head said, “Whoa!”

I told him not to worry about it, but he was embarrassed and maybe humiliated. I didn’t want him to be. I actually thought of pulling him against me again to feel that cock and then his warm, wet lips. But I didn’t. He got out of the pool, said goodnight and disappeared into his hotel room. I stood there at the edge of the pool, watching his door close. I turned to see those vultures; still there; still staring. Were they even real?

As I toweled off, I began to fantasize about Brad, his body, what his cock looked like, our bodies together naked. I began getting hard at the thought. I came so close to knocking on Brad’s hotel room door to apologize and take my trunks off, but of course I didn’t. I did pause at his door as I walked toward mine.

I was so horny, and my cock was so hard when I got to my room, I was delirious with lust. I kick myself even now for not knocking on that door. So, I went into the bathroom—my co-workers were still out drinking and dancing. I shed my damp trunks and started jacking on my cock like I have never jacked before. It wasn’t long until I uncorked a hot load of cum into my cupped hand and licked most of it out, tasting it. I had never done that before. Even though I had shot my load, I went to sleep thinking of Brad. Was he jacking off as well? I hoped so.

I saw Brad the next morning at breakfast. His bus left in the morning; whereas, mine left about noon. We shook hands—I used the hand out of which I ate my cum just hours before. “Nice meeting you, Brad,” I said, trying to not make eye contact. But I did. “Me too,” he said. I could tell he was bummed. So was I. I don’t know whether he could see it or not.

And that’s the story of Costa Rica, Cahuita and Brad. Even though nothing happened, I think of it often and what could have been.