Bromance on the Beach

Day One - The Arrival

“Thank God, we finally made it,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief as I dropped my suitcase on the shining white tile of our hotel room. Sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows that covered the entirety of the west-facing wall. Two sliding glass doors opened onto a small balcony overlooking a startlingly blue ocean and sand so white it gave our room’s tile a run for its money. 

“No kidding, I've had to pee since the second we got out of the airport,” Bryson said from the doorway behind me. He tossed his bags onto the floor and made a beeline for the bathroom. I laughed. “You could've peed downstairs,” I called, walking to the windows to better appreciate the view. I’d had trouble believing this place was real ever since I found it online, but being here in person somehow made it even more unbelievable. 

“I know,” he called out from the bathroom. He hadn't closed the door behind him, a detail that I quietly registered and filed away for later, and I could clearly hear the sound of him pissing into the toilet. “But I didn't think it would take so long to check in, and at a certain point I felt like I'd missed my chance.”

“Well, lucky for you, we can spend the next four days just pissing straight into the ocean and not having to search for a bathroom,” I joked. I heard him laugh over the sound of the last few drops hitting the water below. He flushed the toilet and stepped into the room. I opened the glass doors and walked out onto the balcony, putting my hands on the railing à la DiCaprio in Titanic. I took a deep breath, smelling the faint, briny odor that always accompanies the ocean, when I felt Bryson shuffle up beside me.

“Wow,” he said under his breath. “This is unreal.” 

“It really is something,” I agreed. We stood there in quiet reverence for a few more moments, listening to the sound of the wind and the waves, feeling the warm sun and the salty ocean air caress our faces. It was almost too perfect, standing there on this balcony with Bryson. I was so excited for the week ahead.

“Alright!” He exclaimed in his characteristically larger-than-life way, slapping a hand on top of mine and looking at me with intense seriousness. “We've been here for half an hour and I haven't had a drink.” 

“Hmmm,” I returned his look of overdramatic concern, “Sounds like something we need to fix immediately.”

“Shall we go find the bar? Wait for your friends to get here?” he asked, pulling his hand away from mine. 

“Sounds good to me,” I said, still feeling the warmth from where his hand had rested on mine. “I think they should be here in another hour or so anyways.” 

“Perfect, plenty of time for us to get a head start,” he laughed, flashing one of his brilliant smiles. 

Bryson and I had landed at roughly the same time and found each other in the airport. He flew in from Atlanta, where he lives, and I from Denver. We've worked together for a little over a year now, and even though we live halfway across the country, our company is based in Atlanta, so we’ve seen each other pretty often whenever I fly in for work trips. We hit it off immediately, becoming fast friends, and between work trips we are always finding excuses to talk, whether it's a standing lunch call on Teams, the endless thread of memes we send on Instagrams, or the occasional late-night phone calls when we find ourselves just a little too bored. 

Several of our coworkers had asked us when we first met or how long we'd known each other, staring in disbelief when we confessed we'd only met on the job a few months ago. I understood their shock though - we had the easy chemistry of people who had been friends for a lifetime. On top of that, we were notorious for being the life of the party, rallying groups of people for activities and after-dinner drinks, for having a quick and brutal banter that probably sounded like bullying to an unfamiliar audience, and - as one coworker had informed me after a particularly late night out - for becoming increasingly flirty the more we'd had to drink.

“I might go ahead and change for dinner,” I said. “No sense in having to come back up and change later.”

“Good call,” he agreed, grabbing his duffle back from off the floor by the bathroom. I grabbed my suitcase from beside the front door, and we both paused, looking at the large, King bed. We knew this was going to be the arrangement when I first invited Bryson to come, but staring at the one bed in front of us, I felt a slight blush warming my cheeks.

I’d planned this trip with a few of my closest friends from college – two of whom were married, and the other two had recently started dating, so needless to say they weren’t too keen on sharing a room with anyone. Originally, I'd planned on taking an extra bed in the suite with Mitchell and Abigail, the married couple, but after floating the trip by Bryson on a work call one afternoon he'd been pretty vocally jealous about the fact he didn't have any friends planning such exciting summer vacations. Half-joking, I asked if he wanted to crash our vacation, admitting I wouldn't mind a Plus One to help tone down the amount of fifth-wheeling I'd have to do. To my surprise, he happily accepted. I explained the room situation, wanting to be up-front about everything and to make sure he wouldn't find it uncomfortable, to which he asked if I was afraid to share a bed with a friend and jokingly accused me of being homophobic. 

“Uh,” I began, “What side do you want?”

He looked for a second at the bed before shifting his gaze to me. “I'll take the far side,” he answered casually. “That way if anyone breaks in you’ll get murdered first.”

I laughed, grateful for the dissipated tension. “Gee, thanks.” I put my suitcase on the bed and unzipped it as Bryson dropped his duffle bag on the other side. I began carefully removing the stacks of neatly folded clothes, placing them atop the comforter next to my bag, until I found the khakis and a crocheted shirt I wanted to wear. Bryson, alternatively, began rummaging through his duffle bag like a young boy tearing through his stocking on Christmas morning. Rolled up T-shirts and pairs of underwear came flying out of the bag with no rhyme or reason until he finally dug out a pair of Sperrys and some folded shorts from somewhere in the depths. 

I was about to take my change of clothes into the bathroom when Bryson turned away from me and casually stripped off his athletic shorts, kicking them across the floor. To my surprise, he wasn’t wearing any underwear - my guess being the shorts had a liner - and my eyes immediately darted to his bare ass, which was pale and surprisingly hairless. Bryson was a fit guy. He'd been a football player all through high school, and it showed. He was a few inches shorter than me, maybe about five-foot-eight, with a broad build and plenty of muscle - the kind of stature that made me fully believe him when he claimed could lift me over his head and squat for four or five reps. His legs flexed and rippled as he stepped into a pair of gray boxer briefs and pulled it up to his waist, the elastic getting caught on his firm and shapely ass cheeks. 

He returned to his duffle bag and reached for the khaki shorts, then looked up at me, standing like a dumbfounded statue carrying a spare set of clothes. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said, trying to think of a clever reply. Thankfully, I got one: “I was just distracted by the glare coming off your pasty white ass cheeks.”

Bryson threw his head back and laughed. “Jesus, drag me, why don't you? Sorry my opportunities to sunbathe in the nude have been lacking this summer.”

“Sounds like you've had a boring summer then,” I quipped. Bryson rolled his eyes. 

Grateful to have brought some humor, and refreshed by how casual Bryson was behaving about sharing a room, I decided to follow his example and change right there by the bed. I pulled my T-shirt over my head and dropped my shorts. Bryson was pulling a few remaining items from his duffle bag, but  I felt his eyes on me as I stood across from him. I pulled my new shorts on, a pair of khakis that - I thought - hugged my ass nicely and really showed the definition of my quads. Where Bryson was all bulk, I was tall and lean, with narrow shoulders and a slim waist that looked unimpressive while clothed but, whenever the shirt came off, revealed toned arms, a round chest, and a decent set of abs.

I looked up as I unfolded my shirt and just caught Bryson diverting his gaze downwards towards his bag. I felt butterflies in my stomach at this strange ritual or checking each other out, sizing each other up, seeing each other in such an intimate and unfamiliar context. Having only interacted in different work-sanctioned events, the newness and freedom of the week ahead felt incredibly exciting.

I donned the crocheted shirt, crisp and white, leaving it unbuttoned - figuring we'd be spending most of the week without our shirts. “Ready?” I asked.

“Ready,” he confirmed with his usual nonchalance, though I swore I could see the faintest remains of a blush fading from his cheeks.

 

We found our way to the main outdoor bar, a large, shaded counter with at least two dozen seats overlooking the enormous pool area, which opened directly to the beach. White concrete glowed in the summer sunshine, interrupted by the cool turquoise of lounge chair cushions and the enormous, brown-green fronds of palm leaves. We both ordered mojitos, which we promised ourselves we would try to drink at a reasonable pace. 

“Well,” I said, raising my glass in a toast, “I am really glad you could come this week. Thank you for saving me from being a perpetual fifth-wheel, and I am stoked to finally get time to hang out outside of work.”

Bryson smiled, and lifted his glass to mine. “Dude, thank you so much for inviting me. To starting a new chapter of friendship.”

“No better way to start than unlimited booze,” I joked, and we took our first sips. It was delicious. Refreshing, sweet, and - most importantly - strong. Any lingering fears I had of mediocre, watered down cocktails were immediately assuaged, and I knew I'd have to watch myself. After too many of these, the idea of sharing a bed with Bryson would become a little too risky. 

Fortunately, we paced ourselves pretty well for the first round, talking about all sorts of work stuff - how our projects were going, whether we thought we'd be up for promotion soon, drama from other projects we'd heard floating around on Teams. It was fun and familiar, and I was relieved that our rapport hadn't suddenly disappeared outside of a work trip.

About a half hour later, or however long it took us to finish our monitors, I felt a large hand clap my shoulder and almost leapt out of my seat. I turned to see Mitchell wearing a hideous floral shirt and a beaming grin. I jumped up from my chair as he wrapped me in an enormous hug, lifting me off the ground. Mitchell was a giant. A former rugby player, he topped out at six-foot-four and was a solid 250 pounds, which contrasted humorously with the fact he had the disposition of a golden retriever.

He returned me to the ground and I moved on to hug Abigail. I introduced Bryson, who politely shook hands with the both of them, who, I noticed, still had their bags. 

“Yeah, we just checked in,” Abigail explained. “But I saw you from the lobby and figured we had to come say hello!” 

“I'm glad you did!” I exclaimed. “I think Tyler and Emily should be in right before dinner.”

“We're still hitting the buffet, right?” Mitchell asked, giddy with excitement.

“That's the plan!” I confirmed.

The two of them ordered pina coladas and left to settle into their rooms. Bryson and I stayed at the bar, ordering another round of mojitos and continuing our chats, and before we knew it, it was time to find the buffet for dinner. We took a seat on a cushioned bench at the buffet entrance and waited for the rest of the group to arrive. Mitchell and Abigail strolled in, looking refreshed after some time in their room, and a few minutes later, I heard the slapping noise of sandals hitting the marble floor and turned to see Emily running towards me. She squealed and leapt into my arms, where I embraced her in a massive hug. Behind her, Tyler sauntered up, a wide grin on his face. We hugged, and I launched into another round of introductions as we made our way into the buffet room.

The spread was incredible, overwhelming even, and the dinner was an absolute delight. We spent most of our time catching up, sharing stories of what we'd been up to, providing updates on what was new, and reminiscing about old college days. For a bit I felt bad for Bryson, who spiked politely and laughed appropriately but obviously didn't have much to contribute to the chat. I was relieved when Mitchell turned to him and asked a question about football, and the two launched into a conversation about sports. 

We spent hours at the dinner table and made our way back out to the terrace bar for multiple rounds of drinks, and I was happy to see Bryson holding his own conversations with Mitchell and Tyler now. I watched him laugh at something Tyler said, and my chest felt warm with what I could only recognize as pride - pride to know such a cool person, pride to call him my friend, pride to have him along for the amazing week that may ahead. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't proud to have made a friend in someone so hot and charming, but that might have just been the mojitos talking.

 

We get back to our room a little after 10:30. We'd kept things pretty tame for our first night, all a little tired from the day of travel and conscious of not wanting to burn the torches too brightly on the first day.

“Well,” I said as we stood in the room, “You ready to call it a night?”

Bryson, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt, looked like he was contemplating the question for a second before looking at me. “Not really,” he admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “You?”

“Nope,” I grinned. I walked over to the minibar and opened the fridge, retrieving a bottle of white wine. “Care to join me for a drink on the balcony?” I asked. 

“Sure,” Bryson laughed. I opened the bottle and grabbed two glasses from the counter, carrying all three as Bryson opened the glass doors. A light breeze greeted us as soon as we stepped outside, and Bryson slid the door closed behind us.

In the dark, the balcony felt very private and cozy. We could hear the crashing of waves and the dull chatter drifting up from the courtyard below, but besides that the night was calm. I poured us each a glass of wine and plopped dramatically into a chair. 

“Solid first day,” Bryson observed.

“It was,” I agreed, taking in the night. “This place is insane.” 

“Right?” Bryson parked up. “It's unbelievable.”

We were quiet for a minute, each sipping our wine and settling into a state of relaxation that only happens on a warm, summer night.

“I am glad you're here,” I said, breaking our silence. In the corner of my eye, I could see Bryson turn to look at me. 

“Me too, man,” he said, kindly.

I turned and met his gaze. “I'm just thinking,” I began, looking back out at the postcard view, breathtaking even in the dark, “my friends obviously wouldn't have intentionally done anything to make me feel like a fifth wheel, but…” I paused, “I don't know man, I think they're relieved they don't have to babysit me.”  

He chuckled softly. “What makes you say that?”

“This place is romantic as shit,” I said, gesturing towards the vista before us. “I'm sure they're glad they're getting their privacy.”

Bryson nodded his head in agreement. “You think they all went back to their rooms to have sex?”

“Oh absolutely,” I exclaimed, taking a drink. “No doubt about it. I mean, wouldn't you?”

He let out a quick laugh. “Yeah, probably.”

“I know I would,” I went on, feeling the warmth of the wine start to spread through my stomach. 

“Oh yeah?” Bryson asked, taking another drink. 

“Yeah,” I went on. “We'd probably be in the bathtub by now, making an absolute mess.”

Bryson laughed, “The bathtub, huh?”

“Or the shower. Or hell, even out here on the balcony.” I took another, larger sip of my wine.  

“Damn,” Bryson commented, taking a generous drink. “Where would you do it out here?” He asked, somewhat sheepishly.

“Hmm,” I pondered, taking a large drink of wine, deciding how much detail to share. “Maybe here in the chair, or leaned up against the railing looking out at the ocean. Or,” I paused. “No, not on the table, that looks too fragile.”

Bryson chuckled. “Don't want to break that.”

“No you do not,” I agreed, finishing my wine. “Nothing sets the mood like destruction of property. What about you?” I asked, reaching for the bottle.

He was quiet for a second and downed the rest of his glass. I gestured towards him with the bottle and he placed his glass on the table. 

“I don't know,” he confessed while I poured his wine. “I've really only done it in bed before.”

“Yeah?” I asked, setting the bottle down and settling back into my chair. “Is that out of choice or just necessity?”

“I don't know,” he said, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I mean, I've only ever done it with a handful of girls. So we just didn't get very…creative, I guess.”

“That's okay,” I said. “Where would you want to?”

“I mean,” he hesitated. “It would be pretty hot to fuck out here on the balcony. Just sit back and let her ride me while I appreciate the view.”

“Which view?” I smirked, eliciting a laugh from Bryson. 

“Shit, good point. I guess both would be equally impressive,” he laughed. After several cocktails at the terrace bar, I could tell the wine was working quickly. On both of us. 

Sex wasn't a new conversation topic for us; we'd shared a few of our sexual exploits on drunken nights in Atlanta, and he always listened to stories of my hookups with guys with openness and curiosity. I knew he wasn't terribly experienced, what with being straight and being nearly five years younger than me, but we somehow found ourselves swapping stories with freedom and ease.

“I guess I need to find a hot pool boy or something,” I heard myself say. 

Bryson looked at me with some surprise. “Yeah? You'd do that?”

I looked at him, ready to fire off some one-line, but something in his expression made me pause. “I mean…no, I wouldn't kick you out of our room so I could hook up with someone,” I explained. His face betrayed a sense of relief. “But I would ab-so-lutely fuck a cute pool boy on this balcony.”

Bryson laughed and rolled his eyes. We sat for a few minutes in a cozy silence, until I heard Bryson shift in his seat. “So, uh,” he started. “I don't think I've ever asked, but, like, when you… What do you usually… Like do you prefer to, uh…”

I realized what he was trying to ask and couldn't help but toss my head back and laugh. “Are you asking if I'm a top or bottom?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, blushing. “Sorry, that's probably too personal.”

“Oh, not at all, it's a fair question,” I waved his apology away. “For me, it really just depends. I mean, I would say I usually top, and I feel more comfortable topping…but I definitely don't mind bottoming from time to time.”

He listened intently and nodded as if processing my answer. “What makes you decide to switch it up?” He asked.

“Usually depends on the guy,” I explained. 

“How so?”

“Um,” I contemplated how to answer. “I guess this might sound weird, but it kinda depends on his look. His build. Just, like, what type he is.” Bryson looked at me, clearly expecting more explanation. “Like, if I'm meeting up with some younger, fit, twenty-four-year-old twink, I'm gonna top. But if in meeting up with a guy that's, you know,” I found myself gesturing towards him and stopped myself before saying something really incriminating, “a bit bulkier or stockier or whatever, I'd bottom.”

Bryson nodded his head. “I guess that makes sense. I've never thought of that before.”

“And, that's just me. I'm sure everybody is different when it comes to that.” I clarified. “But that’s just what makes sense to me. Like, take my friends. I'd probably top Tyler; he's a bit shorter than me, he's trim, and fit. I'd fuck him. But, like you wouldn't see me trying to top Mitchell. The dude is huge, I'd much rather he threw me around a little bit.”

Bryson laughed. “Okay, when you put it that way, it makes sense.”

“But, if I'm honest, the best is when you're both vers. And you just get to take turns.”

Bryson’s eyebrows raised. “Oh. I didn't know that was a thing.”

“Oh, it's a thing,” I confirmed, feeling myself get aroused by the conversation. “It's a wonderful thing.”

“Damn,” he said, finishing his wine and setting the glass on the table. “That actually sounds hot.”

“It is,” I said, my dick swelling in my shorts. In my peripherals, I thought I saw Bryson reach down and adjust himself. “I would ask you the same, but I feel like I already know the answer,” I flashed a mischievous grin and drained my wine.

Bryson let out a giggle. “If I'm a top or bottom?”

“Yeah,” I laughed.

“Uh, so far, top,” he said playfully. His hand returned to his lap, and this time I definitely saw him adjust himself. “But, I don't know, sometimes I wonder.”

“Wonder what?” I asked, shifting my legs to reduce the obvious tent in my shorts. 

“What it would be like…on the bottom,” he confessed, waiting for a reaction, and I had the thought this was probably the first time he'd ever admitted that to anyone. 

“Honestly, it feels pretty great. You should try it sometime,” I said. He looked at me with a blank expression, save for one cocked eyebrow. “What? Pegging is a thing.”

His face remained neutral. “Yeah, I guess. Just don't know how well that's gonna go over on a Tinder date.”

I laughed. “That's fair, either she's gonna find it uncomfortable or she's gonna be way too into it which probably should make you uncomfortable.” 

He smiled at that. “Exactly.”

“Have you thought about getting a dildo?” I asked after a moment's silence.

Bryson looked at me like he was unsure whether or not I was making a joke. 

“No!” He said, a little defensively.

“Why not?” I asked as casually as could be. “If you've been curious, that's a pretty safe place to start.”

He paused for a second, and I could tell he was evaluating his own defensiveness. “I mean. I guess I just thought only girls use dildos. Girls and, you know…” He gestured at me.

I laughed and looked at him, his face still surprisingly blank. “I don't know, I've got a friend who's married and he's got a few toys for, ya know, back there. He's pretty into it.” Bryson looked like he was thinking of more excuses. “And you can get some that aren't realistic if you don't want it to look like an actual dick. I've got one like that and it's great.”

His eyebrows raised slightly. “I don't know, I've never bought a sex toy before,” he said. “Maybe I'll think about it.”

I grinned at him. “I will expect a full report. Spare no details.”

He rolled his eyes, but I could still see a bit of a bulge in his shorts. Mine certainly hadn't dissipated. “I bet you'd enjoy that.”

“Hell yes I would,” I said. “I'm all for broadening your sexual horizons, what else are your twenties for?”

“Like having sex in the Caribbean?” He asked with a smirk. 

“Exactly!” I laughed. “That's the newest entry on my bucket list.”

“Must be nice,” he said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms over his head. He'd left his shirt open, and I couldn't help but let my eyes wander. His chest was broad and well-defined, covered with a light dusting of hair; his skin was pale and ghostly in the moonlight; his stomach was smooth, save for a few tufts of hair leading downward from his belly button. I felt my dick twitch in my shorts, which I'm sure must have been noticeable, but he watched me looking at him, admiring him, with a neutral expression. I was starting to think that asking my fun, attractive, straight coworker to share a room with me for four days in Mexico might have been a bad idea.

“Must be,” I agreed, my eyes still locked on his torso. “Maybe next time.”

He looked at me and my eyes met his. If he had any discomfort about me staring at him, he didn't show it. He did, however, lower his arms and finish the second glass of wine, looking out at the ocean. “Guess for now I'll just have to settle for jerking off in the Caribbean.”

I let out a surprise laugh, my hand cupping my crotch instinctively. “Ain't that the truth,” I said as casually as I could. “And hey, don't let me, ya know, get in your way there,” I continued, not sounding nearly as smooth as I'd wanted to.

Bryson smirked, his eyes flashing at where my hand rested on my erection. “Likewise.” 

Shit, I thought to myself, meeting Bryson's mischievous grin. 

Feeling emboldened by the alcohol, I met his gaze and cockily raised an eyebrow. “Don't worry, I won't.” In the moonlight, I swore his cheeks went pink.

We hung out a little longer before Bryson let out a yawn and announced he was ready for bed. I finished my wine and we went inside. Over the next fifteen minutes or so, we brushed our teeth and went about our nighttime routines - though I admittedly cut out several of my normal skin care steps. It felt strange and domestic and, again, surprisingly intimate.

I went back into the room and began to undress for bed, pulling back the cool, white sheets on the plush-looking bed. I was still aroused by our conversation, and I was feeling the effects of not having my usual nighttime wank. I scrolled through Instagram for a few minutes, my dick returning to full-mast under the sheets, until Bryson came out of the bathroom. He'd stripped down to his underwear, that pair or snug, gray boxer briefs that really accentuated his bulge as he crossed the room. Whatever he was packing, it certainly filled out a pair of briefs. A small spot of moisture darkened the front, and I wondered if it was from peeing from our admittedly arousing conversation earlier.

“What's the plan for the morning? He asked, placing his folded clothes from dinner and placed them in a drawer. 

“Breakfast buffet at 9:30, then Beach Day. I answered. “What time do you think you'll be up?” 

“Not sure,” he said, pulling back the sheets and slipping into his side of the bed. “Hopefully before 9:30.”

I laughed and put my phone on the nightstand to charge. “I'll be in no hurry to get up,” I said, knowing that I'd probably be awake by eight.

“Cool,” he commented, plugging his phone in. “Well,” he turned to look at me. “Goodnight, man.”

“Night,” I echoed and turned out the bedside lamp. Bryson turned off his, and in the dark room I heard only the rustling noises of us getting comfortable, settling into bed. 

“Oh, and one more thing,” I heard Bryson's voice. 

“Yeah?” I asked.

“I totally prefer big spoon.”

“Shut up,” I laughed, and let the satisfaction of a great day - not to mention the wine - carry me off to sleep.