Weekend on Fire Island

“Hold still. Focus on holding the pose I gave you, Jeffery . . . please.”

“Sorry, Colette,” I said, putting a hand on my hip and leaning into the ship’s wheel that was almost as tall as I was. I was wearing low-rise white bellbottom trousers from the coming nautical line for The Edge New York fashion house—and nothing else other than a nautical hat and a neck scarf; I even was barefoot. This was a photo shoot for the posters that would be hung in young men’s clothing departments where the clothes would be sold. It was the sex as much, if not more, to be attention getting and sold as the clothes. My torso had been buffed up; my nipples had been puffed up and airbrushed.

To make my way through theater school in New York City, I worked part time as a male Abercrombie and Fitch model. The agency did sexy ads for clothes lines like the ones The Edge sold. That’s why I was posed now barefoot and just in the white bell bottoms, a scarf around my throat and a captain’s hat on my head. The bellbottoms had a button-up fly, with the top two buttons suggestively undone, a hit of curly pubic hard just visible if you looked hard—and you were invited to look hard. The ship’s wheel and I were posed in front of a blank wall. Through the wonders of sophisticated photoshopping, I would be standing on the polished-teak deck of a yacht and there would be an Italian harbor town behind me when the poster was finished.

I didn’t really have trouble holding a pose. Modeling had been included in my schooling along with acting, singing, and dancing. I was well into the acting and singing program; dancing was being a struggle, but I was determined to find my range. I was twenty-one and had been enrolled in the school for nearly two years. I already was holding down another part-time job playing the piano and singing in a small gay nightclub in Chelsea three nights a week. Seeing Edge come into the room where they’d set up the photo studio was what had distracted me.

Edge was Edgerin Gordon, who everyone addressed as “Edge” who didn’t call him Mr. Gordon and the owner and the creative spirit behind The Edge fashion house—hence the house’s name. He was a tall, charismatic black man in his late forties, I surmised, from having seen a timeline on the history of the fashion house, but he was one of those ageless handsome men who could pass as a decade younger than he was. Everything about him was model groomed. He had come to New York from Jamaica, where I gather his family was quite wealthy. He was slender but well muscled and, in keeping with the success of the house and personalization of the brand, was always elegantly and sexily dressed in his house’s men’s fashion designs and moved like a dancer. He was the sort of man who dominated the room, with all eyes following him and wanting to be there beside him.

That’s what had happened when he came into the room to check on the photoshoot. He obviously knew all about such advertising of his clothing lines; he appeared in many of the commercial work for The Edge himself. There was no distinction between Edgerin Gordon in public purview and The Edge fashion house.

Those doing the technical work paused when Edge entered and even Colette, the fashion house’s chief of advertising, did so. The three male models wearing his clothes and being photographed gazed at him longer. Aston and Leonard sought his attention as much as I did, but those two weren’t in the current shoot, so I had been the one Colette had to bring back to earth.

Edge wasn’t helping. He was looking directly at me—singling me out and smiling. I know I was blushing, understanding what could be behind that smile. Gordon owned this narrow, ten-story building in the Garment District near the corner of 8th Avenue and West 38th street. His apartment took up the top two floors. I had been working on this photoshoot for four hours in the afternoon for the past week. After I was finished the previous day, Edge had invited me up to his apartment for a drink. The “what can I get you to drink?” had segued into “I want to lay you,” and then he had and I learned that being hung and being very, very good at cock mastery went with his legend. I don’t think I had ever been touched and worked so deeply or well before. I had been late to my classes this morning, not leaving here until after the fashion house had opened for the day. I was nearly hobbling when I left, but I was purring.

I must have pleased him, for he stayed in the studio while I finished up with the white bellbottoms shoot and intercepted me, putting a manicured hand, with long, sensuous fingers that had made me shudder and shimmer and arch my back in his bed the previous night as I rocked my pelvis on them, on my arm to make me pause. Everyone in the studio was surreptitiously looking at us while trying to make it seem they weren’t. They all now knew Edge was laying me, and I know my stock went up significantly with them—as would their cattiness about me—as he leaned over to smile at me and whisper. Edge didn’t cultivate anyone for very long. I’m sure those watching us were calculating my demise already.

“I have a beach cottage on Fire Island where I like to go for the weekend,” he said. “I like to get away from all the hustle and bustle of the week and live the simple life and think. I have some of my most creative inspirations on Fire Island. I plan to go this weekend, but I really don’t want to go alone.”

“Are you asking me to—?”

“Yes,” he said.

“I would be delighted,” I answered. I must have pleased him in bed the previous night. It had been quite an experience for me. I didn’t have much time for sex. I did sleep with older men as they were the most helpful to me—but black men? And black men who were highly experienced and who were hung like gods and were virile, attentive, and good for hours at a time? Edge was the first of those. After Edge I never said no to a fit black man who wanted to lay me—and I never was disappointed. I like to think that I wasn’t a disappointment for any of them either.

* * * *

I cried out as the black bull entered, entered, entered me again, going deep, holding there as, stretching, I accommodated him. Then I panted and groaned as he reset the rhythm of the fuck. He was no thicker than the thickest of men who had gotten their shafts me, but he was impossibly long. No one had reached this far into my core and ravished me there.

I was stretched out on my belly in the queen-sized bed in the larger of the two bedrooms in Edge Gordon’s cottage on the beach on Fire Island on Saturday morning. We had arrived after dark from the city after driving the some sixty miles in an hour and a half, the traffic coming out of the city being heavy on a summer Friday evening and taking a ferry out to the island from the Long Island shore. I hadn’t been in a car in ages, and Gordon put the top down on his Audi TT Roadster. He’d stopped for carryout as soon as we hit the island and we waited for the water taxi that would take us on to near his cottage. We’d gobbled the food up after he’d shown me around the cottage, which didn’t take long, and then he’d taken me into his bedroom, stripped me, and laid me—and then laid me again—and again—snaking that extraordinarily long cock deep into my inner core, slaying me there again and again, me clutching his biceps, rubbing his hips with my knees, and whimpering, Yes, yes, yes” to his deep penetration as I rocked on his shaft.

This had gone on periodically all evening and night. The man was making the most of his weekend treat. And now, on Saturday morning, I had a bolster under my belly, rolling my buttocks up to his sport. My arms were raised above my head, my hands were fisting the brass rungs of the headboard, and Gordon was stretched on top of me, on his toes in a straight-line pushup position, his fists grasping my wrists, his face buried in the hollow of my neck, although rocking back and forth, the beads of his dreadlocks clicking together, and what must be eleven inches of an erection were moving in and out inside me, fucking me as vigorously as he had done periodically through the night.

It was quite clear why I was there this weekend and whose need and sport were paramount. This wasn’t lovemaking or anything like that. It certainly wasn’t mutual satisfaction sex. This was sports exercise—for Edge Gordon. I was just exercise equipment to him. Still, he had a godawful long cock and he knew what to do with it—how to sink it into my core and how to work me there.

I worked an arm free of his clutch and moved my hand underneath my belly, grasping my cock, and stroking myself off.

He was deep inside me, his cockhead rubbing and kissing me where no man had gone before. “Oh, shit, yes,” I murmured. “Yes, yes, work me deep.” I moved my free hand to cup his face, but he brushed it away and continued a steady rhythm of the stroking. He merely grunted in response, seemingly wanting me to just lie there docilely and take it.

But then the compliment. “Shit you can take it deep. You’re a slut for it.”

When I shuddered and came, the black stud didn’t stop pumping me. He rolled me over on my back, grasped my legs under my knees, and raised and split them, forcing his knees under my buttocks, thrusting inside me, and continuing to fuck me hard and deep to his own ejaculation.

When he’d come, he kissed me on the mouth, lowered his face to kiss and tongue me on my nipples, and then rolled off me and went to the bathroom to shower, closing the door. He called out “Scrambled eggs and a bagel, I think, for breakfast. I think I exercised enough to justify the bagel.”

“Just toast and coffee for me, I think,” I called back.

His returned, “Don’t scramble my eggs too hard,” informed me who was cooking the breakfast.

That’s obviously what I was here for this weekend—to give a big, black bull exercise and sport. I also understood that I was here to do the cooking and whatever cleanup there was to do. Someone had stocked the cottage with enough food for the weekend—I’m sure that Edge didn’t do that himself, that it was some employee of his at the fashion house. He had spent long enough in showing me around the cottage, a modified A-frame, probably built in the fifties, facing the Atlantic Ocean directly on the beach off Neptune Walk in the island’s older town of Ocean Beach for me to catch on to my duties. He made sure I knew where the sweeper and cleaning supplies were.

I was to clean it by the end of the weekend to have it ready for whoever he brought out here the next weekend to endure him going deep diving in their channel.

The cottage was compact, but more than adequate. Downstairs, the living area, with deck reaching out over the sand dunes fronted on the ocean. Behind that were a kitchen and dining alcove and behind those ran the hallway to the front door, with a bathroom on one side and a small bedroom on the other. The bigger bedroom was in a loft above, with a bathroom toward the island and a balcony above the living room with a view beyond a wall of glass of the public beach and the ocean.

While he was showering I rolled out of the bed and noticed that his laptop, on top of a desk set in the slope of a side wall, was still on. I couldn’t help but notice that it was open to his e-mail account—and to an e-mail setting up a weekend here the next weekend with one of the other male models on his summer clothes line shoot, Aston.

I had a pang of jealousy, even while realizing there was no commitment involved in what I was doing. I had let Edge Gordon fuck me because he was a powerful man who could give me privilege and because he was a beautiful black stud. Those were the reasons I’d gone to his apartment with him for “a drink,” knowing that it likely was going to end up in his bed, although it was a surprise that he could keep it up and use it all night. I came here with him for the weekend because he was monstrously hung and knew how to use it. Once he had spiked me, I also gave to him because he reached deeper inside me than any man before him had been able to do.

But it did make a difference that there was no way this was leading to something more long-lasting then a casual weekend of constant sex.

I went downstairs, quickly showered in the other bathroom, pulled on a Speedo since I planned to use the beach now that we were here, and went to the kitchen to fix our breakfasts. I was fully prepared that the weekend would be a rotation of fixing our meals, opening my legs for his gigantic cock, taking it deep, fixing our meals, opening . . . and so forth. Maybe we’d wedge in some beach time. I doubted he’d be going out on the beach with me.

So, maybe only I would wedge in some beach time. Edge Gordon was a workaholic. For the rest of the morning he had his nose moving from his computer to coordinate work at the fashion house from afar and a drafting board set in the living room where he quickly sketched clothes design ideas as they came to him. After lunch he returned to doing that. He didn’t need me for any of that. When I saw him settling in at the drawing board again, I announced that I was taking a towel and going out on the beach. I don’t know if he even latched into my declaration, but that didn’t stop me from going.

The beach here was as wide as it got on the island. It wasn’t crowded, though, because this was a long section of houses that had been here since the island first became popular as a middle-class, and then an iconic gay, retreat from the city. I walked the beach in both directions. Some families were spread out on the beach outside Edge’s house, so when I settled, I did so six or seven houses toward the west. I went into the ocean and swam beyond the surf until I got tired and then came out of the water and lay down on my back on my towel.

Exhausted from the night of sex with Edge, I went to sleep and didn’t wake again until it was dark. Several sensations brought me back into wakefulness. First, a party had started up in the house behind where I was stretched out. And it must already be spilling out of the house, as there were figures on the sand around me on the sand, under the moonlight dimly lighting up the area. The beach was alive. Men were necking and some were fucking. All men. This was the tradition of the island—where gay men came to be gay. The line of men stretched back to the house and filled it with loud talk and raucous laughter. It was all men. It was a gay men’s party.

The other sensation that awakened me was that somehow I’d been folded into the party. A naked man, a bald, tattooed bodybuilder type with a magnificently muscled body—maybe in his late twenties or early thirties—had pulled the waistband of my Speedo to under my balls and had grasped my cock and was stroking it. I was hard, my dreams having been of Edge Gordon and me fucking. The tattooed bodybuilder was hard too. As he leaned over and took my mouth with his, he came over me enough to frot our erections together and stroke them. He wasn’t long, but he was beer can thick.

I didn’t push him away. My arms went around him and my fingernails dug into his shoulder blades as he hovered over me, his eyes looking intensely down into my face. I felt his beefy fingers going to my ass, pushing into the crack, one of them entering me. I pushed my pelvis up into his hand and rocked on, first, one finger and then two.

“You gonna do this?” he growled. “You gonna let me screw you?”

“Do it,” I murmured. Irrationally racing through my mind was, OK, this is to show Edge Gordon. If he wants to treat me like furniture and as just exercise, there are guys who can’t get enough of me.

“Three of us?” he asked.

Three? God, three? That raced through my mind, but before I could answer, there were, indeed three—all muscular, swarming over me, devouring me. The first one remained over me, working my ass with his fingers. A second one leaned in from the side, taking my cock in his mouth. The third was knelt at my head, lifting my shoulders in meaty hands with tattooing across the knuckles. My head arched back and found a hard cock pressing at my lips. I opened to it, took it into my throat, and gave it suck. A finger was added to those in my ass. He was up to his knuckles there. I rocked on the hands—and I came for the guy giving me head.

The hand came out of my ass and I was being turned, momentarily losing the cock in my month, but regaining it when I was on all fours on the towel. I yelped when the first guy, the bodybuilder with the beer can cock, mounted my tail and worked his shaft into me. I panted hard and moaned deep at the challenge of the stretching for the thickness of him, going through a mantra of “relax, take it; relax, open up,” until and I had, and, with a grunt, he was in and began to pump.

The second and third guys exchanged positions at my head while the first one plowed me and slapped me on the buttocks while he pumped. The guy at my side was running his hands all over me, a hand settling on grasping my balls, lacing them through his fingers, and distending and squeezing them.

The first guy came, withdrawing to deposit his cum on my rump. He was replaced by the second and then the third. I was thrice fucked on the beach.

Apparently thinking I was invited to the party—if anyone who was there had been invited—after the three, calling themselves Phil, Dan, and Ed, all gym rat buddies, fucked me, they pulled me up from the sand and frog marched me up to the house, where, upon entering, Phil announced to the house that I took a train. I was offered a drink and some pills. Already groggy, used, and declared the party punch, I accepted both.

I wasn’t underdressed by being only in a Speedo. Many in the house weren’t wearing anything at all. I fit right in, especially after the pills made me go a bit glassy eyed. I heard about the wild gay lifestyle parties that had been held on Fire Island for several decades, going back to the 1950s. This party was as wild as I could have imagined they would get.

I found myself very popular. I was a twenty-one-year-old Abercrombie and Fitch model after all, and if I hadn’t been casual and promiscuous before, I was now. Also, thanks to Edge Gordon and his black, something like eleven-inch dick and Phil’s beer can shaft just now, I could take any guy’s cock—or any two guy’s cocks at once—with little trouble, not too much pain, and with a good deal of pleasure.

That’s what I did in the party house that Saturday night. I got blotto enough that I danced on a table and the guys in the house found me a bed in a bedroom, put me on my back, held my legs open, and stood in line to get their cocks inside me singly and in doubles, fresh cocks penetrating me as soon as the previous ones had withdrawn. Well, no big deal, I thought. I’d taken Phil, Dan, and Ed on the beach. What are a couple . . . or three . . . or ten more?

Apparently taking the pills and liquor I was offered put me in a world of being able and willing to take all comers.

* * * *

I woke on a bed that wasn’t the one I’d been gangbanged on and wasn’t in the room where I’d half-consciously been in. The wall toward the ocean was all glass and light streamed in, the reflection off the ocean beaming strong. The walls were pristine white plaster, the bed a king-sized one with silken sheets. Everything tasteful, sparse, expensive. I smelled coffee brewing and heard the humming of a man on the level below me. I was lying on my back, my legs spread and bent, my feet pressed to the mattress.

Had I been fucked on my back in a missionary after I’d been moved here from—from wherever? This clearly wasn’t the house the party had been held in. That one was a rundown, old, wooden beach house. The bedroom I’d been in had been small, the double bed taking up most of the room, so that the dozen or so men in the room with me were crowded together, looming over me, sneering, touching, taking. This house was new, solid concrete, and expensive. The same beach and ocean opened up beyond the window, though.

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.”

“You and Edge?”

“Were you at one time, yes. Giving it up to get ahead. Selling our asses to important men—being boytoys. I did. Edge did. Don’t be down about it. You’re young and gorgeous and sexy as hell. Make use of it. Play Edge for all he’s worth. If you’ll go a couple of rounds with me, I’ll help you get parts on stage. Of that’s what you want. You told me you’re taking acting lessons. That’s how it works in the Big Apple. I don’t want you to live with me; I just want to fuck you now and again. I want to fuck you tonight.”

I didn’t say anything. I was digesting that. Barclay was being totally honest with me on hard truths. I should be grateful to him. He was the next one to speak.

“After your gig here tonight, I’d like you to come back to my apartment with me. It’s not far away. Can you do that?”

“You put enough in the bowl for that not to be a question at all,” I answered. “But . . .”

“But what?” he asked.

“The money cheapens it. If you’re not going to break my heart, you should take the money back.”

“If I do, will you come home with me tonight? My balls are aching. I need to lay someone. I want to lay you again.”

“You’ll fist me again?”

“Maybe. It means more to me that you’ll give it all to me.”

“Yes.” I watched him fish the bills back out of the bowl.

“I’m going back to Fire Island for the weekend,” he said. “I don’t want to go alone. Would you—?”

“Yes,” I interjected. I know, I just can’t learn my lessons. This man probably was going to break my heart. But, truthfully, I didn’t give a shit if he did. He was going to screw the stuffing out of me, and, in this phase of my life, that’s all that mattered. At least I knew he’d give me attention along with cock and he wouldn’t lie to me.

But to be as honest with myself as he had been with me, I would go with him in the weekend on the chance that I could build something deeper, more intimate and . . . yes . . . loving with him. I had seen signs with him that it might be possible—signs I’d yet to see with anyone else.