A Week in the Buff

© 2007 by Anel Viz. All rights reserved.

 

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Part 2:  Fun and Games

That night with Phil broke Gabe’s and my more than eight years of strict monogamy, which dated from the first time we had sex together.  I was Gabe’s first male lover.  We’d been friends for several months before we found ourselves in bed together, and I discovered he was bi-curious.  The sex was good – more than good, terrific – and since then had only got better as we came to know each other’s erogenous zones and learned to read each other’s reactions.  Gabe was curious no longer; he’d become a bottom for life – my bottom.  Nor did call himself a bi man any more; he openly identified himself as gay.  In fact, he came out before I did.

“I’d probably hide it if it weren’t for you,” he said.  “Why stay in the closet when you have a partner?”

To me that made perfect sense.

Our relationship lacked only one thing: he stubbornly refused to top me.  I didn’t mind at first.  I’d always been a top, offering up my ass on rare occasions to accommodate the man I’d hooked up with.  Now I longed to know the pleasure Gabe so openly expressed when I was inside him.  With Phil I had my chance.  Gabe wasn’t particularly happy when I suggested changing places with Phil, but he nixed my counter-suggestion, what I really wanted: to move to the bottom of the pile and feel Gabe’s cock inside me.  I hadn’t been fucked in more than ten years, and wasn’t ready to take an endowment Phil’s size, but I grit my teeth and pretended to love every minute of it, hoping it could convince Gabe I needed him to take over as top every once in a while.  And he has, and I enjoy it.

I’m an early riser.  I shook Phil awake so he could go back before anyone found out for sure that he’d spent the night with us.

Gabe’s eyes fluttered open.  I asked if I should go with Phil to get the Preparation H.  He shook his head.

“Be sure to take the long way back,” I reminded Phil.  “And no backing out of my plans for Nat.”  I’d explained my scheme in detail to him after our three-way, and he’d seemed none too enthusiastic.

“It’s your fault he cooked it up,” Phil said.

“My fault.  According to him you said something about Gabe dying of embarrassment if he knew people had heard him.”

“All the more reason to get even.  I told you what you have to do.  A bargain’s a bargain.”

“I know.  I don’t care for my role in what you’ve cooked up, but the sandwich was worth it.  Mind you, if we were anywhere else on earth, I wouldn’t.”

“Standing up in front of a few hundred guys who don’t know you and asking who fucked you Tuesday night?  Is that really more humiliating than what you’ve gone through already with people you do know?”

“I guess not.”

“Well, you’d better get a move on before Pat finds you here.”

“What if I find Pat asleep in my tent?”

“Tell him you spend the night sulking on the beach.  But you won’t.”

I hadn’t told Phil my whole plan.  All he knew is that he was supposed to whine and beg to know who’d fucked him, say it was the best fuck he’d ever had – going into detail (to embarrass Pat too, I said) – and when Pat stepped forward as the mystery man to swear up and down it couldn’t possibly have been him and give reasons why.  I promised to think up the reasons for him and to make them very funny.

Gabe didn’t think it would make a very good skit, and told me so after Phil had gone.  He changed his mind when he heard what I was really going to do.

“You’re awful!” he exclaimed, then murmured dreamily, “This place is like a world apart, isn’t it?  It’s a like a separate reality.  None of the outside rules apply.”

“You’re wrong.  Today just about all the traditional rules apply.”

It was games day – a variety of gay-themed relay races, tetherball, two softball games, a volleyball and frisbee tournament, a gymnastics contest, human pyramids, yoga and martial arts demonstrations, Mazola wrestling, a greased pole climbing competition (literal, not figurative), sausage eating (also not figurative), body painting, etc., all in the nude.  There would be kids’ games too, like statues, Red Rover, a scavenger hunt (though scavenger hunts for kids usually don’t ask you to find a used condom), and what they called “blindmen in the buff”.

Art conscripted us for his softball team when we went down the rise to partake of the big breakfast they’d fixed for themselves.  We thought they owed us that much at least.

“No hard feelings?” Nat asked.

“Some very hard feelings, all in my ass,” Gabe told him.  “But they’ll pass.”

Except for Nat’s one crack, no one mentioned having watched us fuck.  The joke was over; we were no longer an item.

Pat said he had a bone to pick with us.  “Let’s see it,” I said.

“Ha ha.  You guys slept with Phil last night.”

“We did not.”

“He didn’t come back with us.”

“He didn’t hang around our campsite either.”

“I wonder where he went.”

“Beats me.”

Curt and Les came over to talk us into joining their show.  We’d already made up our minds to accept, but we played hard to get.

“Ty’s been named official photographer,” they said.  (As if that would convince us!)

“People will be taking pictures?  Then count us out.”

“Only Ty will be taking them, otherwise no cameras allowed.  Only the people get copies and only of the photos they’re in, unless they say the others can have one too.  Besides, we have plenty of pictures of you already.  Didn’t you notice all the flashbulbs going off last night?”

We hadn’t.  “Oh, Jesus,” Gabe moaned.  “That too?”

“Are you sure you want us to participate?” I asked.  “After all, we’ve performed already.”

“Not that.  We’ve given up that idea.”

“So we weren’t good enough?”

“You were great, but we want you for a running stand-up comedy routine, to act as emcees.  It’s going to be a variety show.  We’ve lined up half a dozen acts so far.”

“OK, we’ll do it... on one condition: that we use it to play a trick on Nat.”

Les’s face lit up.  “Everybody’ll cooperate with that.  We all owe him one.”

“Are the stunts he pulls always sexual?”

“Most of ’em.”

“OK then, give us a list of the acts and we’ll get to work on a script.  It’ll keep us busy most of tomorrow.  We don’t want to miss out on today’s games.”

“Our four-way with Bud and Neil will be the grand finale.  I also want to do a naked strip tease.”

“Starting off naked and gradually putting your clothes back on?”

“No, starting off naked and taking off imaginary clothes.”

“A kind of pantomime without the pants, huh?  I don’t see how it would work.  Let’s have a little by way of demonstration.”

Les did a few disco steps while pretending to take off a tee-shirt.  Everyone agreed it looked pretty lame.

Art suggested having a pile of clothes next to him, picking them up one at a time, dancing suggestively, then flinging it into the audience.  Les gave it a try.  That worked better, but it still looked more silly than erotic.

“What if you started out with the clothes painted on you and gradually washed them off?” I said, and sang, “I’m gonna wash those clothes right offa my bod...”

Les tried that too.  Holding the sponge coyly in front of his dick when he wasn’t using it to wipe off pretend painted-on clothes was pretty effective.  Then I remembered the thought that had occurred to me in the hot tub: “And in this corner, in the invisible trunks and measuring in at an impressive nine-and-a-half inches, we have...”

“How about doing a body paint strip tease with Curt?  He can dance too, can’t he?  You can put on a fake boxing match.  You know, sparring, feinting and all that with your cocks bobbing up and down, then the referee – that’d be me – rings the bell, and you each go back to your corner and sponge a little more off...  You get the picture.”

“I like both ideas, the sponge dance and the boxing.  Do you think I could do both?”

“I don’t see how.  You’d be too wet to get you painted up again.  Unless you did a nude sponge dance and then had someone come out and paint clothes on you for the boxing.”

“I’ll do that.”

“That puts you in half the skits – sponge dance, body painting, boxing and the four-way.  You’re co-opting the whole show.”

“It’ll be one long skit in four parts, solo, then two, then four.”

“We’ll have to keep the boxing part reasonably short.  Maybe limit it to three rounds.”

“And we’ll need to rehearse it,” Curt said.

“Personally, I think everything should be rehearsed,” Art said.

“We rehearsed the four-way last night,” Bud quipped.

Les added: “And will again tonight.”

“We have about an hour before the games start,” I told Les and Curt.  “Come on up to my tent so we can do a little planning.”  I wanted to lay out my plans for Nat.

*   *   *

The games kicked off at eight-thirty with body painting.  You had to be painted in order to participate in any of the competitions.  That alone would have taken all day with a couple of hundred bodies to paint if we hadn’t had fifteen designated painters who worked quickly, and even then it took nearly two hours, but you were allowed to start as soon as you’d been painted, so we didn’t have to wait for them to finish with everyone.  Men on the softball and volleyball teams got painted first, and the others watched the softball while they stood in line waiting their turn.  Once painted, they could either continue to watching softball, go down to the beach to follow the volleyball tournament, play frisbee, badminton, horseshoes, tetherball or croquet, or join in the children’s games.  We’d break for lunch after the softball games, then come back for the martial arts and yoga demonstrations, followed by the track and field activities, and finally all go to the beach for a swim (until then you had to keep the body paint on) and to watch the volleyball finals.  Exactly how we would all fit on the beach was anyone’s guess.

Aside from the usual sexual innuendos and some very dilated pupils, the promiscuity that had taken place on the previous days and would take place later was put aside and forgotten.  Instead we all reveled in male naturism at its most wholesome – hundreds of naked bodies of every age, race, shape and size imaginable and all sexual orientations except straight, though for all I know there may have been a few of those as well, all of us being ourselves and enjoying the sports and the summer sun.  It brought to mind the Olympic Games of Ancient Greece, except that this was no religious festival, and both players and spectators were naked, and few of us had the perfect bodies of athletes.  No one had sex on his mind (or if he did it was well in the back of it), with the possible exception of the body painters, who paid particular attention to decorating private parts and other erogenous zones.  I say possible exception because they did their artwork to meet the specifications of the men they painted.

Gabe and I were among the few who did not ask to have their genitals painted.  I called attention to mine in another way, by surrounding them with naked figures reaching out to grab them – four devils, one on the front each thigh and the other two by my hips, and three winged cherubs looking down on them from my belly.  Gabe’s was hardly noticeable at all, which led a few men to object that he was participating in the games unpainted.  We simply colored in his tattoo of a naked leatherman (identifiable as such by his hat and boots), his face contorted in pain and pleasure, stretched out on his stomach with a lion straddled on top of him, licking his neck with its long tongue.  I was glad we’d decided on a line drawing when we had it done; in color it looked much less becoming.

We lost the softball game with a shamefully low score, largely because of me.  Art had me play right field, though I warned him I couldn’t catch worth a damn.  I wear bifocals, and the ball tends to disappear from my field of vision unless it stays more of less at the same height.  Ping-pong, frisbee, tennis and soccer I can handle.  Volleyball I gave up on long ago.

I did especially poorly in the final innings, distracted by one of the children’s games taking place not far from my spot in the outfield.  They were playing statues, and one of the players was so meltingly beautiful I couldn’t take my eyes off him – a Latino from the looks of him, about five-foot-six or five-seven, twenty years old at the most.  His smooth, perfectly proportioned swimmer’s body, the short ringlets of his dark hair, his uncut cock, and the firm curve of his buttocks would not have looked out of place on the fields of Olympia.  I could easily imagine Zeus in the form of an eagle swooping down to carry off this Ganymede.  The man who painted his body must have had the same idea, for he’d adorned his back large eagle, wings raised and talons extended, realistically drawn, detailed care lavished on every feather.  He must have spent a good half-hour on it.  On his feet he’d painted brown sandals with laces crisscrossing up his calves, and daubed a single black curve below each eye, more like the kohl of Persian catamite than the marks baseball players apply to protect their eyes from glare.

I hadn’t seen him before, neither at the bar nor by the river nor walking along the paths in the woods around our tent.  He must have arrived late and had to set up camp far from the center of activity, perhaps among the trees in the low-lying grassy area at the north end of the grounds.

Do you remember how to play statues?  One player grasps the others by the arm one at a time and, using himself as a pivot, swings them dizzyingly around him, then suddenly lets go.  They fly off, carried by centrifugal force, and freeze in whatever position they land.  The spinner chooses his favorite “statue”, who becomes the next spinner.

My young Ganymede seldom won.  The spinners favored those who froze in clumsy, comic contortions, whereas he always managed to keep his balance and land gracefully, like a Greek sculpture.  Sometimes he froze in a precarious pose, perhaps on one foot, leaning forward with his arms reaching in front of him as if running after something or pursued by others, but he never toppled.  He had to be a natural athlete or a dancer.  Absolutely immobile, his body never settled into itself, but seemed to remain in motion while the spinner slowly inspected and judged in turn each of the statues he’d created.  I was fascinated.

Their game broke up while we were up at bat in the top half of the ninth, and I lost sight of him.  By then it was too late; we’d been creamed.

I took a lot of ribbing for the poor showing I’d made.

“What the hell were you looking at?” Gabe wanted to know.  He’d played third base, about as far from the statues as you could get.

“A group of guys playing statues.”

He’d never heard of the game, so I described it to him.

“You’re kidding!”

“Well, it wasn’t the game so much as one of the players.  He looked like a Greek god.”

“Point him out to me.”

“I would, but he’s disappeared.  I’ll keep my eye peeled, though.  You gotta see this guy.  He’s just stunning.”

“Eye candy, right?”

“More than that.  A gourmet feast prepared by a master chef, a gastronomic adventure.  But I’m just a pathetic pauper looking in the restaurant window.”

“And drooling.”

*   *   *

After the softball fiasco I stuck to sports where I wouldn’t make an utter fool of myself.  Gabe and I pitched a few horseshoes and joined a game of frisbee.  I took care not to tire myself out, so we quit early and went to sit in the shade at Art’s campsite and talk through some ideas for emceeing Les and Curt’s sex show.  I was definitely not one of the younger set and wanted to reserve some energy for the track and field events that afternoon.

“We ought to have a beauty a beauty pageant,” I said, my mind still on the statue-playing god, “with contestants volunteering from the audience.”

“That would leave out all the older guys,” Gabe objected.

“Not at all.  We’d have contests for different age groups, say one under thirty, another thirty to fifty, and a third for the over fifty set.  And we could have contests for different features – anyone could enter that.  You know, firmest abs, sculptedest pecs...”

“Sculptedest?”

“Whatever... hairiest chest, best legs...”

“Hardest nipples, nicest ass.”

“You’d win that one hands down.  Most alluring come-on smile, bluest eyes...  We should have gag prizes too.  There are no prizes for the games.”

“You’re forgetting a schlong competition.”

“Oh, lots and lots of those, in two categories.”

“Cut and uncut?”

“I was thinking hard and soft.  Prettiest, longest, thickest...”

“Who gets to measure?”

“We do.  Who else?  And grope.  In the erection category we could also have straightest, most impressive grower, best mushroom head, purplest knob, pointiest...”

“Tastiest?”

“I think not.  We could throw in a couple of foreskin competitions, though: longest, tightest, and so forth.”

“Don’t forget the peripherals, like biggest balls and most original trim.”

“That goes without saying.  And I bet there are a few guys who can play dick tricks – I mean without touching themselves.  There could be a prize for the neatest trick.”

“It would take all evening.”

“We’d break it up.  A couple of contests between each act.”

“We should limit it to the audience.  No one in the official show.”

“Don’t want your ass judged, huh?”

“If I won everybody would say you were prejudiced.”

“I am, but we can have judging by acclamation.”

A batch of musicians had arranged themselves in a circle at one end of the playing field – drums, recorders, guitars, with a sprinkling exotic East Asian and Native American instruments mixed in.  Other men were dancing in the center of the circle.  I convinced Gabe to go watch them, hoping to see Ganymede among them.

We didn’t find him there, and the dancing was nothing to write home about, except for our friend Les, his face done up Indian war paint style, kicking up a storm and mostly concentrating on making his dick bounce around and twirl, oblivious of the others.  Art was dancing too, not a bit self-conscious about his weight.  An erect, red penis above two splayed balls, enclosed in a circle like a peace sign, covered the whole front of his torso.  Also Pat.  Curt was off by himself somewhere, or maybe not by himself.

On the other hand, there were some very impressive musicians, especially among the many playing percussion.  I thought one of them, a big, very dark-skinned Black man on steel drums, pretty much stole the show.  He had thick dreadlocks, incredibly long fingers, and white polka dots painted on his back, chest and upper arms.  Beads of sweat literally poured off his forehead.  He just had to be Jamaican.  I asked.  He was from the Bahamas and introduced himself – very appropriately – as Jaz.

“Are there many of you here from outside the U.S.?”

“Got us a nice contingent from the Caribbean, and there’s another handful of dudes from South America – Brazil, Argentina, Chile.  Lots of countries represented, man.  One or two from just about from all over the fuckin’ globe, I bet.  Even met an honest-to-god Eskimo.”

“Must be quite a change for him, prancing around with all his clothes off.”

“An’ lovin’ every minute of it.  Ain’t that a fact?”

“You know them all?”

“The non-Americans?  Not by a long shot, man, just the musicians.  The best of us come from abroad.  You see that older, heavy-set drummer dude there?  His name’s Tomás, from Brazil.  He’s fantastic.”

I asked about the statue-playing beauty I’d watched.  There was no mistaking him, what with that eagle on his back.

“You mean Ricky.  He’s Dominican.”

Jaz, Ricky.  Did everyone here have a one-syllable name that was also a word?  “You know him?” I asked.

“Haven’t met him, not yet.  Just asked around to find out who he was.  Drop dead gorgeous, ain’t he, man?  Shit!  I’d love to shove my cock into that tight piece of ass!”

For Ricky’s sake I hoped he wouldn’t.  From the size of him he’d have split the kid in two.

“So you’re enjoying yourself here?”  Gabe asked.

“I’ll say!  Ain’t no fun being a faggot in Jamaica.  You two gonna dance?”

I answered for him.  “Nah, we’re all worn out.  Gotta save our strength for the races.”

Pat left the dancers to stand near us, his body paint too smudged from sliding into base to make out what it was.  He looked wrung out.  “Either of you see Phil around?” he asked.

Nobody had seen him.

“Maybe you should check his tent,” I suggested.  “If he stayed out moping all night he could have gone to sleep.”

He pointed to Phil’s tent, some fifty yards away at the edge of the playing field.  About a dozen rowdy men were running in circles around it, engrossed in a noisy game of tag.

“How could anyone sleep through that, not to mention the drumming?”

“It’s worth a look, ain’t it?”

Pat walked slowly over to the tent, peeked in, then turned around and waved his arms to signal he was there.  We trotted over to join him.  Phil lay sprawled on his air mattress, stark naked like the rest of us, but with not a speck of body paint on him.  His snoring came close to drowning out the drums.

Phil had been up early the morning before and Lord only knows what time he fell asleep after the sandwich.  We was still nattering excitedly about when Gabe and I dozed off.  For all I knew, he might have been sleeping just a few minutes when I shook him awake in the morning.  Of course, I didn’t say a word about that to Pat.

“Out like a light,” Pat sighed.  “Now what?”

“Leave a note for him,” I said, “unsigned.  Something about wanting to have sex with him again.”

“Got pencil and paper?”

“There’s a notebook in my pack.  Let’s go.”

“Not yet,” Pat said, an impish twinkle in his eye.  “Let’s paint him first.  With no color on him he stands out like a...”  He searched around for a comparison.

“Fourteen-inch boner?  Better not.  If he wakes up while we’re at it, he’ll figure out it’s you.”

“He’s dead to the world.”

“I still don’t think we should chance it.”

“I bet we can find an official body painter to do him up real fancy,” Gabe said.  “Isn’t one of those guys playing tag the painter who did us?”

He was right.  The prospect of decorating Sleeping Beauty sufficed to interrupt the game.  All wanted to watch.  Who would have believed how quiet they could be in a pinch?

Pat, Gabe and I left them to their work and went to write the note.  We’d see the results when we came back to plant it.

It took some digging to extricate the notebook from the bottom of my pack.  Pat ripped out a page and scribbled off a note, which he addressed to “Sweet Cock” and signed “Hugs”.

We decided to keep the notebook out to sketch in our comedy routine.  I told Pat my idea for a beauty pageant, and he was all for it.  “We can all chip in a couple of bucks and send Art to buy the prizes.  He has a real flair for that,” he said.

The body painter was finishing up when we got back to Phil’s tent.  He’d done a beautiful job – “My masterpiece,” he called it – turning Phil into a Picasso, one side of him in blue and the other in pink, the two halves separated by a jagged black line, and his genitals a vivid lime green, enclosed a large triangle of the same color that came to a point at his navel.  The pink and blue were reversed on his face, which now had four extra eyes, bright yellow with black pupils.  He’d even managed to lift his legs and paint the back of them, and Phil had slept through it all.  Fairly certain that the man was unwakable, Pat rolled the note into a cylinder, slipped it around his dick, and we tiptoed away.

*   *   *

A large crowd gathered for the martial arts demonstrations.  First an older Chinese man led us all through a series of t’ai chi exercises, then broke into pairs to Indian wrestle before settling in a circle to watch the rest.  Les and Curt were sitting next to us.

The program consisted of karate, judo, tae kwan do, two guys performing a kendo routine with bamboo poles, and ended with some informal American-style wrestling (not collegiate or professional).  Each martial art was prefaced by a short explanation of its history and practice.

For the karate, the six pairs who would be performing began with a unison set of standard kata, wearing only their belts, then went on to their kumite, always with a partner of the same level and closely matched in size, for aesthetic reasons, I presumed.  Each pair performed a set of three, even if the same man won the first two, and in keeping with the occasion they added a kiss to the traditional bow at the beginning and the end.  It was a novel experience, seeing it done naked, and it gave me another idea.

“Do you about capoeira, that Brazilian sport that’s like a combination of dance and martial arts?” I asked Les and Curt.

“I’ve heard of it, but I’m not sure I’ve ever seen it.”

“I was thinking how it would make a much better show than pretend boxing.”

“Don’t they do all these amazing leaps and somersaults?” Curt asked.  “I could never pull those off.”

“But there are a lot of low-slung movements too, and they’re the most graceful, with sweeps of the legs and reaching out an arm as if you were about to grab the guy’s nuts.  Wouldn’t that look great?”

“But how could we if we don’t know what it looks like?”

“Maybe there’s someone here who knows how.  See that Black dude sitting across from us?  The one who was drumming when you danced this morning?”

“With the dreads and the white dots?”

“No, a little over to the right of him, with the shaved head and the green and yellow stripes.  He’s from Brazil.  He just might know if there’s someone here whose done capoeira.  It can’t hurt to ask.  His name’s Tomás.”

Tomás poke excellent English, but with a heavy accent.  He’d heard about the show, and he’d done capoeira, quite a lot, in fact.  In his opinion, though, it was too difficult to learn in a couple of days.

I’d seen capoeira a couple of times and knew what he meant.  He wasn’t exaggerating.

“Couldn’t you teach them a few of the easier movements and throw together a short piece of choreography?” I suggested.  “Les here is a go-go dancer.  He ought to pick up the less athletic moves fairly quickly.”

Les mentioned that he sometimes incorporated martial arts moves into his routines and could do headstands, high kicks and back flips.

“And we’ve both done some karate,” Curt added.

I argued that capoeira in the buff would be a blast, and pointed out how beautiful the men looked doing naked karate and what an eye opener it was.

Tomás couldn’t argue with that.  The men covered a wide age range, but were all in terrific shape.  They way their penises flew around, especially when they pivoted, kicked or lunged, was definitely an eye opener.  More eyes were fixed on their crotches than on the entire man, which is a shame, though understandable.

“All right then,” he said.  “We’ll go to the beach after the demos and give it a try, but I’m doubtful.  It takes years to learn.”

“The beach?  Won’t it be too crowded with people watching the volleyball tournament?”

“If it is we’ll go to the sex playground at the bar.”

“On a cement floor?”

“There’re mats.”

I asked Tomás if he could drum for them in the show.

“First let’s see what they look like.  I won’t if I don’t think they’re presentable.”

“It’s all in fun.  It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“It won’t be.”

“You’d give a little description of it first, and teach a song to the audience so they can sing along.  It’ll be great publicity.  Most people don’t know about it, and they should.  It’s fantastic to watch.”

“If they’re presentable.”

Phil had finally woken up and emerged from his tent, looking very colorful indeed.  He spotted us on our way back to our places after we’d talked to Tomás, and waylaid me to ask a few questions.

“Did you leave the note around my cock?”

“No, that was Pat.”

“Did you paint me?”

“As if we could do such a beautiful job!  One of the body painters did it.”

“But it was your idea.”

“Need you ask?”

“So which guy painted me?  I want to chat him up.  Officially I don’t find out it was Pat who fucked me until the show tomorrow, and I don’t mean to spend the night alone.”

“I don’t see him here.  Maybe he’ll be at the races.  Are you going to run in the relays?”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“You should.  I’m sure they’ll have a sexual theme, and you could use them to do a little more pretend research.  They don’t know you know it was Pat, remember.  Art’s throwing a team together.  Tell him you want to be on it.”

“Where is he?”

I pointed him out and went back to sit by Gabe and watch the rest of the martial arts.  The kung fu struck me as very Hollywood and rather silly – as far as I could tell it little more than a free-for-all – but the other styles were very entertaining.

With the opponents unclad in the full glory of their birthday suits, one couldn’t help but notice that judo involved the most physical contact.  The audience clapped its appreciation and shouted encouragement (egging them on to do more than just fight) whenever they landed on top of each other, and one pair even kissed before resuming their scramble.  When one of them was thrown, which must have happened a dozen times in every bout, his penis did a little flip-flop of its own, and bounced when he landed with a thud.

Tae kwan do featured the buffest and most muscular contestants, as well as the highest kicks and widest spread between their legs, which gave a superlative view of another thing they had between them.

I liked the karate best, with the kendo coming in a close second.  In contrast with the other sports it seemed the most revealing, since kendo fighters are traditionally shrouded entirely in black, with hood and long, loose-fitting pants that resemble culottes, which makes them look like monks.  Only their hands and feet show; we saw a lot more skin.  It is also more aggressive than the other martial arts, even more so than kung fu.  The others are clearly designed for defense.  The opponents in kendo rush at each other, quickly and repeatedly, and their swords (bamboo poles here) move with lightning speed; you hear them crack together before you’ve seen they touched.  With no protection at all they might have inflicted some very real injuries, but these men were no amateurs.  Their swords came to a dead stop the very nanosecond they lighted on the other’s skin.  I was so impressed with their skill that I barely noticed the other weapon that dangled between their legs.

After the East Asian displays the Western-style wrestling looked drab and didn’t much interest me.  Curt, Les and Tomás must have thought so too, because they disappear for their first capoeira lesson soon after it started, after letting Art know they wouldn’t be on his relay team.  Gabe and I agreed to take their place, though we had intended just to run in the two-man races.

The martial arts demonstration lasted well over an hour.  When they ended, and before we set up the field for the racing, a man stood up and said he had an announcement to make.  He and some friends had thrown together a team of twenty-five and was challenging us to form another team for a game he called “capture the fag”, which would be the closing event of the day.  He was putting up a real prize, a new ten-man tent and a two-tiered gas grill, and the opposing team had to do the same.

The object of the game was to break through the other team’s defenses and carry off the man they’d designated as their fag.  He then introduced whom his team had selected to be the quarry.  It was Ricky.

“That’s the kid who was playing statues I couldn’t take my eyes off,” I whispered to Gabe.

“I’ll stake my RV for the prize,” Nat immediately yelled out.  “We can whip up a team of twenty-five, can’t we, Art?”

“The RV?  Are you out of your mind?” Ty gasped.

“We can’t possibly lose,” Nat promised.

“Have you forgotten now we did in the softball game?”

“I’ll take that chance.  I simply must get my hands on that fag of theirs!”

He wasn’t the only one.  In no time more men had volunteered than we had space for on the team.

Phil asked who would be our fag.

“As captain I get to choose,” Nat said.  “I pick Gabe.”

“No way, man!”

“OK then, Phil.”

“Not me either.”

“Then I suppose it’ll have to be Les.  He’s not here to refuse.  I doubt he would anyway.”

Then Nat went to get things set up with Vinnie, the opposing captain.  All the guys on his team seemed to have names like Frankie, Herbie, Donny, Mikey, Louie, etc., which would have been words without the extra syllable.  I thought of them as the Wordy Team and us as the Word Team.

*   *   *

The relay races were held at the same time as the other track and field events.  Art had scheduled some were very sexually explicit relays for us.  That’s putting it mildly – they were more than explicit, they were downright sexual, so much so that the members of some teams backed out and replacements had to be found.  (I suspect that Nat invented most, if not all of them.)  The shenanigans and intimate bodily contact brought to mind things I done with perfect strangers in my younger, more reckless years.  Gabe very nearly dropped out, and only agreed to play on condition that I would partner him every time.  He’d have refused flat out if Nat’s prank of the night before hadn’t broken the ice.  “Fuck it!” he said, “ and modesty be damned!  How many chances will I get to be totally shameless?”

Nat winked at him.  “That, sweetheart, is up to you.”

On the other hand, the races were eminently suited for Phil to carry on his fake research, far better than a few minutes’ groping in the river.  Most of the guys on his list of possibilities were on the team, and he made a point of positioning himself between two different men for each race to give him a turn with everyone.

All of them involved placing half of each team at the end of a hundred-yard track.  In most of them the men ran in pairs, a man from the end of the track would replace one of the two and run back with the other, exchange the second of the first pair for another, and so on, until the last man picked up the first and ran with him back to his original place.

In the first race, for example, the pairs ran face to face holding on to each other’s cocks, then the man who ran backwards would return with another partner, this time running forwards.  If you let go, which happened almost every time the backwards runner tripped and fell, you had to go back and start over.

Another four-legged race had the two men one behind the other, their butts and thighs tied tight together one man’s dick nestled in the other man’s crack.  Then the back runner became the front runner with someone else for the return trip.  Phil ran that race in front of Pat.  When he’d done his two laps he whispered to me, “Now I know you weren’t lying.”

Only Gabe and myself knew what he meant by that.

The doggie race was identical, but crawled on hands and knees.  The rules of the leap-frog race speak for themselves.

In a similar, but much easier four-legged relay, the pair was required to run with man behind clutching the balls of the man in front.  It meant that one had to run bent over and the other with his legs splayed, but the pairs covered the distance with no mishaps.

We also ran a wiener relay, with our legs clamped around a real sausage (bratwurst) flapping beneath our just as floppy figurative one, which you had to pass on to the next guy (I mean the real sausage) without using your hands, and, silliest of all and the only one that didn’t require pairs, a wienerless race, which we ran with our God-given wiener tucked between our thighs.

The races became increasingly more daring and intimate.  One had you run with a golf ball hanging from a ribbon tied around your at least three-quarter erect dick.  When you reached to far end you had to work the next guy’s cock up (with your mouth, of course) and tie the weight around his.  That part was easy, since most of those waiting were hard already, although it was against the rules to touch yourself or anyone except the man to whose dick you were transferring the gold ball.  The hard part was staying hard while you can with the golf ball pulling down on you.  If you went limp you had to go back to where you started and have the person who’d got you hard work it up again.  Most of the sucking took place then.

Even the dildo race involved pairs.  Art had purchased a batch of identical dildos, one inch in diameter and seven long with narrow tips, and marked off the top two inches.  The runner would bend over for another man to insert the dildo in his ass up to the mark, then get to the other side as quickly as he could and hand the dildo to the next runner, who plunged it into a bucket of chlorine bleach and cleaned it to his satisfaction before handing it back to the first runner to lube and shove up his ass.  The narrow tip and five inches hanging out and swinging freely behind you made moving quickly a definite challenge.  The damn thing tended to work itself free no matter how tightly you clenched your rosebud, and when it did you had to go back, rewash it and start over.  Art, hardly the fastest runner – not by a long shot – showed himself surprisingly adaptable to the restrictions of the various relays (though leap frog caused him some problems) and was among the few who managed to keep it in place.  (Extremely loose bottoms and men who only topped and were unused to feeling something up their ass were at a definite disadvantage.)

For the dildo race my unpromiscuous partner moved to the other end of the track and found a place in line where Phil would stick the dildo in his ass and he would get to stick it in mine.  IT was the first time Gabe had penetrated me, albeit just with a toy, but I had high hopes it would lead to something more substantial in the long run.

The so-called “five-legged relay” proved impossible to execute.  I won’t even try to describe how that one was set up.  The rimming race was nixed by an overwhelming majority.  But I’ve described enough of the races to give an idea of what they were like.

Nat sent Gabe and me, one to the bar, the other to the beach, to get Les so we could start capture the fag.  We’d done well in the relays, and he felt confident we’d win.

Gabe found them, tuckered out but still practicing in the Quonset hut.  Tomás’s verdict was that they could do it, but not until Saturday.  They needed a lot more instruction and practice, and then they’d have to choreograph and rehearse the number.

Curt wondered it that would mean putting off the pre-curtain dinner.

“Can’t,” Art answered.  “The food’s already ordered and the invitations out.  We just won’t call it a pre-curtain dinner anymore.  It’s probably better that way.  It’ll give me time to look for prizes for the beauty pageant.”

“But we’ll invite Tomás and whoever else he gets to play with him, won’t we?”

“Absolutely, and anyone else who volunteers for the show.”

Les was flattered and thrilled at the prospect of being our fag.  For him, not having to run after the capoeira lesson was an added advantage.  The even more exhausted Curt begged off, leaving us one man short.  Tomás took his place.

It took almost three-quarters of an hour, but we won.  It would be as impossible to give a run-down of that chaotic game as to explain the rules for the abortive five-legged relay.  We had a strategy that we soon abandoned in the general confusion, and total anarchy ensued.  Gabe, Pat and I were running in circles around a group of men from the other team to keep them out of play and didn’t see how Nat, Ty and a couple of others managed to reach our rivals’ home base and hoist a kicking and screaming Ricky on their shoulders and carry off him.  Tomás and Art barged on ahead of them, clearing a path through the Wordies’ line of defense trying to block their way.

Vinnie, who’d thought up the game, invited our winning team to his campsite to collect our prize.

“Skip it,” Nat told him, “you can keep your tent and grill.  You fag is our prize, and we mean to keep him until the week is over.”

Ricky didn’t object to moving in with us.  If anything, he seemed rather pleased.  He only asked to be allowed to collect his things.

“There’s no room for another tent,” Art objected.

“He won’t need one.  He can sleep in my trailer,” Nat said.

How much sleep he would get was anybody’s guess.

*   *   *

I spotted Miles, Phil’s body painter, at the beach watching the final volleyball match, and pointed him out.  Phil walked straight up to him and said, “I hear you’re the one who did the paint job on me.  The games are over now, and I expect you to take care of washing it off!”

They marched into the river together, and Phil came back out with a bed mate for the night.  Pat was none too happy about it.

“Be patient,” I told him.  “He’s all yours the last night once the mystery has been revealed.  And who knows?  Maybe it’ll be the start of a long-term relationship, something you can tell your grandchildren about.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” he grumbled.  “Now I’m going to have to spend another night alone.”

“That,” I replied, “is entirely up to you.  Tomás’ll be joining us tonight when we grill the steaks.”  I’d inquired about the menu when Art invited Gabe and me to barbecue with them, just to make sure we wouldn’t be eating the brats from the wiener relay.

“Tomás?”

“The dude from Brazil who’s teaching Les and Curt capoeira.  As far as I know, he’s single.  How long has it been since you got to play with an uncut dick as big as his?”

I won’t say Pat’s face lit up, but he was somewhat mollified.  “Let’s see...  I was born in the spring of 1972, so I guess that must make just under thirty-six and a half years.”  He paused for a second and asked, “Is he a top?”

“One can always hope.”

“Well, I think I’ll hit the showers before they get too crowded,” he said, and headed down the beach in the opposite direction.

“Hey!  The showers are that way.”

He turned and pointed to a small group of Black men laughing boisterously and talking in a foreign language.  “I’m going to ask Tomás if he’d like to shower with me.”

Pat and Tomás did well to leave early.  The line waiting to use the showers was endless.  We were dirtier and sweatier after the games than could be cleaned in a river with over a hundred men kicking up mud from the bottom.  Art, Doug and Rex had begun grilling and served the first batch of steaks by the time Gabe and I had washed up and made it back to their campsite.

The steaks were a treat, and so was Ricky, or Rick, as he preferred to be called, which fit right in with our one-syllable names, and it was also a word, although not everyone in the group realized it.  Shy, but very friendly once he opened up, he exuded a kind of childlike innocence that explained his attraction to games like statues.  Rick seemed quite unaware of his remarkable beauty, and compliments embarrassed him.  When I told him how he’d caught my eye earlier that afternoon, he blushed.  Best of all, he wasn’t hung up on looks or age or endowment or any of those things that don’t really matter.  He only wanted to be included.

I asked him about himself; Nat, whose interest in the kid clearly didn’t go much beyond his body, didn’t.  Rick wasn’t out to his family.  He’d come to the States while still a little boy, and had become a citizen six years earlier, when he turned eighteen.  I couldn’t believe he was that old.  He said didn’t know anyone at the gathering before he arrived and didn’t belong to Miles’s group of friends; it was pure chance he’d pitched his tent near them.  It was Vinnie who’d started calling him Ricky.  He lived out of state where he worked as a nurse in the pediatric oncology ward of a major teaching hospital.  I told him I couldn’t imagine any job more emotionally devastating, and he agreed.  I’m sure his patients worshipped him.

You couldn’t ask for a more affable, unassuming fellow than Rick.  We all took to him immediately.  Even Ty liked him, although he didn’t want to.  He was so much jealous of Rick as pissed at Nat, who was licking his lips in anticipation of enjoying his prize, though by rights Rick belonged to the team, not just its captain.  But Nat had staked his claim.  Ignoring Ty, he hadn’t let Rick out of his sight since we’d won him from Vinnie and his friends.  He’d led him to the showers by the hand and personally washed the mud, dust, sweat and body paint off every inch of him.  (I regretted seeing that those painted-on sandals had disappeared.)  Rick didn’t appear particularly attracted to Nat, more because of his pushy personality than for his looks, and had he known about his relationship with Ty he’d have felt terrible about coming between them, but he graciously submitted to being Nat’s bed mate for the night as a fait accompli.

“Don’t pout,” I told Ty, “you’ll get your piece of the action.  After all, the trailer belongs to both of you.  You’ve done three-ways before, haven’t you?”

Phil spent a good part of the evening exchanging email addresses, yet another tactic of his pretend research.  He compared every name and address jotted down with the handwriting on Pat’s note, which he showed to everyone there – “Did you write this?”  He’s put Miles’s name on his list of possibilities, saying that his having painted him justified the addition.  He’d have wanted Miles’s email anyway.   The two of them hit it off splendidly, much to Pat’s disgust.  I didn’t worry about Pat, though.  He’d have his consolation.  Tomás had responded as soon as he’d hit on him and was eyeing his ass greedily, rather to greedily I thought.  I hoped he could handle that much consolation.

In keeping with their preference for monosyllables (Nat had called Vinnie “Vin” when we played capture the fag), some of the guys called Tomás “Tom”, but he corrected them every time, and they gave up.  He tried getting them to pronounce it with a retroflex s, with only one or two of us could get our tongue around, and they seemed not to hear that it was stressed on the final syllable, so in their mouths it sounded to me like “Toe-mash”.

Miles showed every sign of wanting to stay with Phil for the rest of the week if it turned out they were sexually compatible, something he’d find out well before morning.  Gabe, by nature ever practical-minded and relationship-conscious, asked Phil what he’d do when it came time to fulfill his commitments and spend his last night with Pat.

“I’ve explained the whole thing,” he answered.  “Miles is cool with that.”

“OK, so he’s cool about it, but what does he think?”

“He thinks we’re all nuts.”

“Didn’t he figure that out when we asked him to paint you?” I snorted.

Nat gobbled down his dessert and, tugging on Rick’s arm, drew the kid away from his half-full plate and steered him towards the trailer.  Ty sighed and followed meekly.  The door closed behind them.

“There’s one kid who’ll be walking bow-legged tomorrow,” Les quipped.

“I’m willing to bet he’s a hundred percent versatile,” I said.

“I think so too,” said Art, “but he won’t be, not tonight.  Nat’s convinced himself that he’s a total bottom.”

Tomás wanted to know what we meant by versatile.

“Active and passive both.”

“You versatile?” he asked Pat.

“More of a top, but yes.”

“That’s cool.  If you can take me, maybe I’ll let you have a turn.”

Miles didn’t have to ask.  Evidently he and Phil had already reached an understanding.

Night had fallen.  Gabe and I wandered across the road and stretched out on the grass at the edge of the playing field to make out and look at the stars.

“Happy?” I asked.  “Having fun?”

“Rather too much fun.  I’ll be more than ready to get away from the gay scene when this is over.  It’ll be nice settling back into gentler sex in a more private setting, just the two of us.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime I don’t mind putting up with more fun than I’m used to.”

“Glad you came?”

“Yeah, I’m glad.  We won’t be making a regular thing of it, will we?”

“No, baby.”

Maybe an hour later I noticed a lone man walk out of Art’s campsite.  He came to a halt in the middle of the road, as if unsure where to go.

“That you, Ty?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”  He came over to us.  “Nat’s all over that kid.  It’s like I wasn’t there.”

“Don’t blame Rick.”

“I don’t.  I could strangle Nat.”

“You’ll get him back tomorrow.”

“Think so?”

“Take my word for it.”

“What about tonight?  Where am I supposed to sleep?  Two’s company in that trailer.  Three ain’t a threesome; it’s a crowd.”

“There’s room in our tent.  Gabe doesn’t mind, do you, Gabe?”

“To be the third wheel for another couple?  No thanks.”

“Give Nat something to be jealous about.  Besides, with us you’d be a guest, not a cast off.  Just understand we’re not inviting you for sex.”

“You guys don’t plan on having sex tonight?”

“Not with you.  We don’t do three-ways.”  That we’d had one with Phil was none of his business.  “You can watch.”

I felt Gabe tense up.  “He’s seen us before, Gabe,” I said.  “What does it matter?”

“I remember.”

Ty nodded.  “So do I.  It was quite the show.  Is it OK if I beat off?”

“If you don’t mind being watched while you’re watching.”

He smiled.  “Will there be a light so I can have a good view?”

“We have a Coleman lantern hanging from the roof.”

“Everyone will think we had a three-way.”

“I don’t much care what anyone thinks anymore,” Gabe said.

“Go on back to the campsite and wait for us,” I told Ty.  “We’ll pick you up there.  We want people to see you go up the slope with us so word’ll get back to Nat.”

“How long will you be?  I don’t want people to see me sit there stewing.”

“Not long.  Five or ten minutes.”

“We’re going to have sex with him too, aren’t we?” Gabe asked when he’d gone.

“You don’t like the idea, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t, even if he tries to horn in.  If we had a three-way he’d consider himself revenged on Nat.  That’s the last thing I want.”

I had my reasons for inviting Ty to our tent: I wanted to enlist him in the joke I planned to play on Nat.  He’d cooperate, thanks to Rick.

In the early days of our relationship Gabe used to tend my waking hard-on in the morning light.  That was then.  It had been a long time since we’d made love except in the semi-darkness of the street lamp shining through the blinds.  Now, under the glare of the Coleman and with Ty’s eyes on us and his hand on his cock, we felt a little self-conscious, and it took a while before we really got into it.  I entered Gabe from behind lying on our sides so Ty could see my meat going in and out from up close.  He’d have missed the details when Gabe stood braced in the shadow of the tree the night before.  It also let him see Gabe’s face, which was a sight to behold when the orgasm inside took possession of him.

I kept a tight grip on my lover’s dick while I fucked him and licked his neck, which I knew drove him crazy and elicited his most intense vocalizations.  I did it less to turn Ty on than to let the guys at the  bottom of the slope know we were having sex so Nat would hear about it in the morning.

A loud yelp rang out, slicing through Gabe’s moans like a saber.

“What was that?”

Then came the words: “Oh, Mother of God!”  Pat’s voice.

The steady thud of his “oh oh oh” echoed through the night air, the sound of pleasure and pain gradually turned to just pleasure, and then ecstasy.  I pulled out of Gabe and we sat up to listen.

“You see, Gabe, you’re not the only man who gives voice to his enjoyment.  It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“How big do you think Tomás is?” he asked, wide-eyed.

“A foot at least.”

“Thank God you’re aren’t!  Eight is about all I can handle.”

“And here I thought you wished I was bigger!”

“Poor Pat!  Lucky Pat!” Ty clucked.

“You sure you don’t want to go back and watch?  Gabe and I aren’t nearly that special.”

“They probably closed the tent flaps.  Even if they were open I wouldn’t see as much as I do here.  And if the others are getting an eyeful I’m sure Nat has come out to watch.  I don’t want him thinking that all I got to do tonight was observe.”

So I was right; he had his mind set on vengeance too.  It occurred to me that Phil, too, might consider himself revenged, exquisitely revenged on Pat, as only a stud with Tomás’s massive endowment could do for him.  And Pat would only bottom.  No way would he have the strength to reciprocate after Tomás had finished with him.

The sturdy Brazilian took his time, fucking without a pause for close to half an hour.  Pat’s screams grew louder as his pleasure mounted beyond endurance: “Oh Christ, yes!  Yes!  No!  Oh God, I can’t take any more.  No, don’t stop!  Fuck me!  Fuck me!  Give it to me!”  We sat in a circle a couple of feet apart listening to the concert.  The man was going to cry himself hoarse.

Then:  “I’m coming!  Oh yes!  Shit!  Yes!  Yes!  Arrghh!”  A strangled howl, then silence.

The guys had applauded when I fucked Gabe.  Tonight they were too awed to make a sound.

Any climax after that would have been an anticlimax.  Gabe and I finished each other off sixty-nine, and Ty settled for manual release.

We climbed and under the quilt and said good night, Gabe and I squeezed together on one half of the air mattress and Ty alone at the other edge.  Soon the low murmur of a couple making love rose from one of the tents at the foot of the slope, then another, then another.  Nothing as spectacular as Pat’s noises, just soft sighing on a summer night, a gentle reminder that a lot of men were enjoying themselves as we had.

Ty had begun beating off again.  I draped an arm over Gabe’s groin to make sure he kept his hands to himself.  I needn’t have worried.

To be continued...

 

Posted: 07/11/08