The Pilot

    A private plane buzzed the sky overhead. It seemed almost to be standing still above us. Already paranoid, I tried to look over my left shoulder and up through the leaves. But I couldn’t see anything. Had we been spotted? Was someone spying on us?

As if on cue the man I’d only met a half hour ago pulled out of me. Was he worried about the plane, too? I looked around as he backed away on his knees. His glossy penis was drooping. No, he’d already finished with me, I assumed. It had been a quick fuck.

The small plane had moved on some ways—north, the direction we were facing. Perhaps it was dragging a banner. My nameless partner was getting to his feet, sand caked to his knees.

“Did you cum?” I asked.

He began brushing the sand off.

“Do you think they spotted us?”

“Who?”

“The people in the plane?”

My new friend was standing naked in the fringe of shadow from the thick leaves of mangroves that partially concealed us. To the west the sand, dotted with scrub brush, rose up beach’s backside to the crest and from there, hidden, fell steeply away to the Gulf, the waves, the gentle rhythm, audible again now that the annoying plane had passed.

“They couldn’t see anything. He’s too high up.”

“I hope not.”

“Take my word for it. I used to be a pilot. It’s a plane not a helicopter. You can’t look straight down.”

I wanted to roll over but did not want to plunk my lubed crack in the dry sand. So I pivoted in a half roll and ended up standing, unsteadily at first, facing the man who’d just fucked me. He was pulling on his Speedo. And now I began the search for the colorful little panty I’d discarded before getting into position.

“You used to be a pilot?”

My lover wore a three days’ growth of salt-and-pepper beard. He was ruggedly handsome but middle age had caught up with his body, its middle thickness. He had muscular legs and a long, thick penis—a really nice one—which the patriotically themed nylon of his Speedo now subsumed. He nodded.

“I co-owned a Cessna with a guy. But it got to be too much, the expense. It’s been years since I flew. Anyway, my license’s expired.” After a pause he said, “Plus I had a big scare once. The engine crapped out on me and I had to make a crash landing. Fortunately I got out of it with a few scratches.”

“Jesus.”

I’d found my panty, its thin microfiber twisted into a figure-8. I shook out the sand and pulled it on as the other man looked on. I perhaps had the bikini panty to thank for having just been fucked. It was its striking leaves-of-grass design that had first drawn him to me as I walked along in the surf, the tongues of white foam. He’d come running down from a beach umbrella on beach’s crest, waving an arm. “Cute swimsuit!” he’d called out, twice.

Uninvited he’d groped me in it. Squeezed my balls; caressed my penis. I hadn’t protested, it goes without saying.

The sand beneath the waves was very rocky—treacherous on the feet—but I would now have to wade out a ways and kneel in order to wash my ass—my crack—clean. A wave of warmth washed over me, and not just from the sun, as I left the mangrove shade behind. I hadn’t been fucked in ages and now I carried inside me his load of sperm. Holding my backpack in my right hand I put my left around his bare waist and gave the stranger a sideways hug.

“Thanks for that,” I said, smiling.

“No problem,” his reply. He wasn’t exactly a poet.

“Should we resume our walk?” The northward one that had been interrupted by his suggestion we head for the privacy of beach’s unpopulated backside? For the blowjob that had turned into a fuck?

“I was thinking,” the man said, after not returning my hug, “that I’d head back to my umbrella. I have some drinks in my cooler.”

I walked beside him thinking, wondering: Was that an invitation? He’d said “I” not “Why don’t we...”

I deflected. “I need to go in the water, wash off.”

“Why?”

“The sand. The lube.”

“Oh.”

I went for it. “I could give you a massage when I get back. Rub oil onto your back.”

“Maybe after I’ve had a couple of drinks. I’m dying of thirst.”

I started to say “Me too” but held back. I mainly just wanted to spend more time with my newfound lover. Meeting him by chance like this had been great; getting fucked by him sublime—beyond, almost, my wildest hopes and fantasies. He continued:

“Bringing alcoholic beverages to this beach is illegal, but...,” and here he smiled for the first time since pulling his cock out of me, “...who’s watching?”

I glanced up and off to our right—north. The sputtering little single-engine plane was indeed pulling a banner. An advert for some nearby beachfront bar and grill. Several hundred meters distant the pilot was now banking the plane in a westward turn. He was heading back—south. It seemed odd to me, given that the pilot was trying to attract the attention of beach-goers, that he’d flown north not just over the beach but over its backside, rather than out over the water, a hundred meters’ distant, say.

“He’s coming back,” I murmured, more or less to myself.

“Huh?”

“Nothing. The pilot.”

“They go back and forth. That’s what they’re contracted to do. He won’t head back in till he’s low on fuel.”

We’d reached the crest, and now heads turned as we began our angled descent. Some sunbathers wore knowing smiles. Envious ones.

“You come prepared,” my new friend said abruptly.

“What?”

He gestured at my backpack. “The lube, the condoms...?”

I’d asked him if he wanted to wear one but he said no. He was healthy. Besides, like everyone he hated those things. I was secretly thrilled. I’d wanted him to bareback me; to shoot what he claimed was a week’s load up my ass.

“No, just in case. Wishful thinking...,” I replied.

“Well today you got your wish.”

“Yes.” And with that I felt another rush of heat—I was secretly blushing beneath my broad-brimmed straw hat. I giggled like a school girl, a newly minted ex-virgin. “Thanks,” I again said.

The man was pointing, his left arm stiff. “That’s my umbrella over there. See it? The red-white-and blue one? Why don’t you go do what you have to do then join me for a drink? I got margaritas and pina coladas—in a can.”

“You come prepared too,” I offered. I was thrilled.

“You never know,” he grinned, “when you might get lucky.”

We parted company, I heading straight down from there to the water, while my friend headed southwest, the direction of his umbrella and beach towel and cooler with its liberating potions.

I waded into the surf, the rocks invisible beneath. I stepped on one, bringing pain to my high arch, while stubbing my toe on another. I was only in two feet of water or so when I—carefully, thinking of my knees—knelt, the incoming waves gently buffeting me. I pulled the backside of my panty down and rubbed salt water against my slippery crack and hole. As I knelt there I thought: Tonight I’ll be lying in bed alone and smiling in the darkness, languidly masturbating and thinking about this dream-come-true today. Despite my age a younger guy, a complete stranger, had picked me up on the beach and, just minutes later I was down on my knees sucking his beautiful cock and then, in invitation, after lubing him up, offering him my ass, my hole. A miracle had happened! I was in love—not love but...in a state of desire and gratitude. I wanted to repay my partner in some way. I wanted to make this a regular thing—meet him here on the beach every weekend or—he said he lived nearby—travel to his house or condo or apartment for drinks and a fuck. Maybe come over on a Saturday and spend the night? Make love again come Sunday morning?

I had an erection in my panty but so what? No one at this secluded end of the beach—the gay end—cared. I pulled the backside up. I was clean again. Like a menstruating woman in ancient times. I glanced over my left shoulder. I couldn’t spot a red-white-and-blue umbrella. Perhaps it was further down. I would collect my backpack and march toward it, south, until I found it—him.

I rose. Stepped on a rock again and winced; cursed. I was facing due west. The sputtering plane was directly in front of me, over the water, forty meters up. So close I could make out the pilot’s tanned face. He was smiling down at me as if to say: Well done. I waved. He thrust his left arm out the plane’s window and gave me the thumbs up.

I looked back—over my left shoulder. There wasn’t a beach umbrella in sight.

That night I dreamed I stood on a beach of hard yellow sand, strewn with a maze of porous rocks, and watched helplessly as a small plane not unlike this one, but without a trailing banner, fell silently at a steep angle before crashing nose-first into the Gulf. For a brief moment the plane’s tail jutted above the waves, before it too sank and the strong currents carried plane and pilot away.