Cruising at the Gay Beach, I Became an Insatiable D*ck Destroyer

Another one of my favorite slutty, beach reads from the archives, written by Manuel Betancourt. Summer ain’t over JUST yet!

I’ve always associated the beach or any outing that requires me to be in the sun for over thirty minutes with a profound dread. That’s what countless childhood memories of reddened noses and sunburnt shoulders will do to you. It’s hard to imagine yourself gallivanting and enjoying the beach when you’re more focused on whether that SPF 70 will protect you. Yet, one day last summer, I decided to push those needling thoughts away, instead relishing everything the beach had to offer. (After all, The Gays notoriously love a beach day.)

Blacks Beach is famously known for being clothing optional (throughout) and a gay cruising mecca (at its very end). Both propositions—the idea of doing away with my Speedo and the idea that such a Speedo-less environment would lead to any and everything—made me quiver with anticipation. Armed with one of my boyfriends (and plenty of sunscreen on my shoulders, cock, and butt cheeks), I decided to sink into the day’s offerings.

We didn’t do away with our swimsuits immediately. But once we’d set up camp away from the hetero portion of the SoCal beach, we explored the thicket known for daytime cruising. All we needed were our hip packs (equipped with the essentials: lube, poppers, gum, and a water bottle) and a hat (I wanted to be kissed—well, fucked, really—but not by the sun).

You only have to go a few steps toward the more covered part of the beach, away from the water and toward the trails bordered by thick bushes and flanked by tall, towering cliffs, to find exactly what you’d hoped to see at a naked gay beach spot. Namely: a whole lot of dicks, many of them oiled up by spit and sweat and lube waiting to be rammed into any and all orifices.

In contrast to the darkness of backrooms at sex clubs, the bright daylight there gave the entire sun-dappled scene a sense of reckless abandon. It conjured up a listless kind of lust that demands you leave your coyness behind. (You can’t hide in the dark shadows of the bar. You can’t weasel your way into a sexual scene the way so many gays do in dark rooms. You need to have your dick out underneath the sun that God created, your sins on display for all to see.)  

Whether beautifully sculpted by daily workouts, trimmed and toned with the help of age and genetics, or embracing the motto that every body is a beach body—there was no shortage of every kind of man around, all gathered to let their unruly desires run amok. It was a free-for-all, with all those limbs and asses and backs and necks melding into an ever-inviting sea of bodies.

I started by blowing the tall guy with the thick thighs and even thicker leg band tattoo. He’d first caught my eye precisely because I couldn’t meet his. (I like ’em tall; what can I say?) But it was his ink which drew me in, so carefully did it guide your eyes toward his engorged dick, which he was coyly playing with as he looked on at the makeshift crowd.

With a bashful wink, I made my way toward him. All I needed was a nod to get on my knees. Caressing his thighs and grabbing his ass to take him better in, I soon became blissfully unaware of anyone or anything else around. All I felt was his meat hitting the back of my throat.

Once I could feel his heartbeat quickening on my lips—and the beads of sweat pooling on his lower back—I knew he was ready for more. Grabbing lube from my hip bag and turning around to make sure he knew what I wanted, I needed only to bend over a bit to encourage him to force his oiled-up dick right in. As he made sure I felt every thrust, I gave myself the license to look around.

The trail, narrow as it was, made the entire scene feel like a parade. There was a constant flow of naked boys walking and admiring those of us who were on the sides, fucking or sucking or simply gawking and waiting our turn—queues of guys eager to get a turn at a mouth or a hole or a dick (or two).

When Thick Band Tat had me dismount, I saw, behind me, a line of reddened, hardened cocks waiting patiently for their turn. A man with a big, head-heavy dick beckoned me over, guiding me to stay bent over as he shoved his piece into my now saltier-tasting mouth. His friend took the hint and made sure my lubed-up hole wouldn’t remain unattended. A hit of poppers (Double Scorpio Rose Gold) helped, blurring the glistening bodies around me, making them almost indistinguishable.

Soon, I started losing track of whose dicks I’d sucked and primed to plunge inside me as I held on to a nearby branch lest their rhythmic thrusts make me lose my balance. 

My boyfriend gawked in wide-eyed wonder, his smirk widening with every new forceful shove I weathered. His own dick, still glinting with his P.A., was being serviced by gaping mouths that seemed to multiply and line up by him by the minute, all eager for him. 

Signaling to the toned, skater boy with shaggy hair who’d mainly kept to the side—boasting as he did a dick that awed and alarmed in equal measure—my boyfriend accomplished a kind of effortless seduction. Lathering his hole and his cock in one fell swoop, he braced for impact, soon whimpering as the boy was aloof no more. Holding me close, hands on my jaw as he spat in my mouth, the two of us savored being wrecked in unison.

Soon, in between whiffs of poppers and plentiful grins, we found ourselves at the center of a growing circle jerk where our versatility was on full display: we can both take as hard and as rough as we can give. In moments like these, such stamina comes in handy, especially when the heat from the sun isn’t the only thing that may cause you to pass out.

There are worse places that could happen, I remember thinking a split second before a small, overeager bottom who’d desperately been trying to find someone to fuck him (his desperation a bit of a turn-off) stumbled onto a branch, lost his balance, and ended up knocking me over. I fell forward and smelled the blood before I saw it: a gash on my knee.

I was furious, especially since the culprit of my fall barely mustered an apology. (“Poppers!” he offered, unclear if as an excuse or as a plea.) My instinct was to flee in a huff to the water, away from it all. My boyfriend, thankfully, is a remarkably patient man who knew the only way to turn my frown upside down was to get me to go down—on a boy, on all fours—and so rekindle the thirst- and cum-filled afternoon we’d been having together. 

Holding my hand, after patching me up with a bandaid and a kiss to make up for the hat I’d lost in the commotion, he led us back to the increasingly sweltering shaded area, which was still awash with naked, writhing, viscous bodies. As if to reassure me further, he nudged me to go out and explore on my own; a fork in the trail had us going our separate ways, a reminder that we were here to indulge in singular and shared fantasies. Whatever pangs of jealousy I might have once felt in such a moment dissipated by the lascivious license he’d given me to be the slut he’s always known and loved me to be.

Soon, I could get out of my head and back into my body. Just as the cool waves had helped quiet my anger, this sea of men (and jizz and musk) was now letting me forget about everything. It’s hard to stay focused on a knee scrape when you’re hard and eager to be on your knees taking in a veiny dick bulging out of that seafoam Speedo, which is why you slide those down and slide him in, letting your hands find nearby boners and holes to play with. 

You don’t so much remember bodies as you do sensations: those slow thrusts that felt all the sweeter while you were upright and arching your back; those rhythmic pumps that caused the athletic bottom to moan in ecstasy; that prehensile tongue that had you quaking as it teased your foreskin; that puckering hole which greeted you with a mind of its own…

The afternoon was a chance to satiate our every need, with the heat, sun, sweat, and lustful stares of bonered-up boys making us feel like we could do this until we died.

You can’t, of course. Once I could sense I was nearing the edge, I sought out my boyfriend. He’d been eyeing me from afar as a nicely toned, lanky boy took his dick in with gleeful abandon. My boyfriend grinned with his hands behind his head, clearly enjoying my scene. It was then I knew I had to have my boyfriend; I knew I couldn’t miss my chance to indulge in what had become one of my favorite pastimes: fucking him senseless. 

It’s usually my hole he cannot do without. Me who’s bracing myself against the mattress as he pummels. Me who has to scream into the pillow as he reaches so deep inside me. (I worry he’s gonna break me in half.) Me who fucks our boyfriend as he fucks me from behind. Me who rejoices in receiving his load after successfully getting him to lose control. 

But at times, I want to flip the script, to dominate him—to drive my wet fingers into his hole when he least expects it. And even as he was initially wary of such advances, we’d then arrived at a point where, especially in such sexually-charged environments, my dick was allowed entry—not without the requisite complaint that it was oh-so-thick, a line he always lobbed my way with a matching smile. It was clear he relished feeling me bricked up inside of him.