“Surely you can’t spend all spring down there.” Becky was wheedling me through the cellphone. “We worry about you, Jordan. I worry about you. Just going off on your own like this—withdrawing from life.”

I remember the last time I withdrew from Becky. She was all purrs and “that was heavenly, you black stud.” I’d put her into an exhausted sleep the first time and had had time to pad over to the other bedroom in Hilton Head’s Sun City and do her son, Clifford, too. Who said I didn’t still have it at fifty-eight? None of the women in Sun City certainly, or Alex, the pool boy, or Jose, the grounds keeper. I was an equal opportunity black bull. And Becky’s son, Clifford, was something else again. Sex on a stick.

“Surely, I do intend on spending all spring down here in Crescent Beach, Becky,” I said. “There’s no beach in Sun City. I’m doing just fine down here, thanks.” Her use of “we” had grated on me. Did the hens in Sun City compare notes on me?

Of course they did.

There was a knock on my condo door, and, without me answering it, the door opened and Garry came in, lifting two six-packs of beer to show me what he was about, and taking them to the refrigerator. I smiled and nodded to him, glad he’d left the front door open as evidence that there would be more six packs coming in than those two. I took my long-distance discussion out onto my balcony overlooking Florida’s Crescent Beach across a tropical foliage-laced ravine and sand dune. There was no reason for Garry to know that I swung both ways.

My place here was snug. Just one bedroom, with a loft, but big enough. Garry, a restauranteur of a beach club, had a bigger place in the complex, but he wasn’t facing the beach. So, the parties usually were held here. The loft was tricked out with wall-to-wall mattress padding. The wall photos I had up there instructed inventive positions. The ceiling was a mirror. The place was a needy young gay guy magnet. The beer helped. I kept the bedroom downstairs more neutral in case I brought a woman back to the condo.

Garry and I were sort of a Mutt and Jeff team. Where and how we met was that we were both unattached now, wealthy enough to do what we wanted, with similar preferences, and bold enough to do it. We met on the beach below his restaurant where we were both hustling the same young guy. In the end we shared him, and we decided that was a good hunting method. It also gave us an appreciation for each other as sex partners. I’m happy to say the young guy was exhausted but humming when he left.

Garry was on the effeminate side. I, a former Marine who’d owned a trucking company, most definitely was not. Garry was white, trim, movie-star handsome, in his forties. I was black, built, muscular, thuggish looking, and fifty-eight. I was hung; Garry wasn’t, but he had a flexibility I didn’t and that young guys liked. Garry made them feel safe after I’d scared them with size. Garry was decidedly a catcher for men—young guys mostly, although I laid him now and again. I pitched for both leagues—male and female. Garry, who was younger, was a “use and release” sort of guy, already feeling his age. I, the elder by far, was of the “use and stay hard and use again” variety who relished virility and was fighting hard to keep it. Garry refused to go to the gym, although he was naturally athletic and bicycled everywhere; I lived there, at the gym.

“I hate to think of you all alone. You need a woman taking care of you.” Becky was still yapping on the cellphone.

I almost snorted at that. Becky wanted me to take care of her. I did that. It was my cock she wanted, and I took care of her with it.

As she rambled on the line, my mind went to her and all of the hunting women of a certain age in Sun City who pursued dick and had done so with me even before Carol had died within a year of us moving into Sun City at the first crack of eligibility, fifty-five. I was fifty-five then; Carol was barely forty at the time. While Carol was sick and after she’d died, I’d had to beat the women off with a stick—or not. And it wasn’t just because I was an available man now. It was because of the stick I had. Women of all color in Sun City wanted to ride a monster black cock. The white women wanted it and thought about getting it from me because Carol had been white. The other white women saw her with me and how happy she was, always with her hands on me, and it gave them ideas about having black cock in them too.

It was a matter of pride that they could sheath it and could tell their friends both how lacking in prejudice they were and that it was true what people said about the size of black cock. The problem was that a lot of them wanted a wedding ring to go with it.

The interracial business didn’t mean anything to them until they started thinking of the possibilities. Carol had been white—Scandinavian looking, moving and dressing like a model, younger than I was. She hadn’t expected to be the first to go. She was a down-to-earth woman. She’d said she wanted to ride black cock for a while and then see the world. She told me from the beginning that it was just a change of pace for her, that it would only be a year or two. We were married for sixteen years when she died. The deal was that I could have some on the side—although I don’t think she ever realized that some of the ones on the side were young men—as long as I kept her in clothes and gourmet food and plowed her regularly. Turns out she liked big, black cock better than so-so white. Neither one of us dreamed that the deal was that she’d go first.

“How’s Cliff,” I asked, wanting to gauge whether Becky had figured that out and thinking it would get her off the phone and out of my hair if she had. “Is he coming to you for the summer?” The question, of course, was when he would be coming for me again. He was really cute little trick, an art student at the Savannah College of Art and Design. Wanted to do sets on Broadway; wanted hunky actors to do him. When he’d seen me doing pushups on his mother, he wanted me to do him too. So, I did.

He was small and slim, and he had great sucking technique and creamy thighs that opened right up. A passage that opened right up too, he could seem fresh but was well used. He’d been a gymnast before going whole hog on the art. He could do cartwheels on my cock without losing the connection. A real honey. I didn’t realize how much he’d gotten to me until I came down here to Florida and had to do without him.

Clueless Becky spent a third of the day trying to set him up in dates with girls.

“He’s fine. He’ll be up in New York on an internship for the summer.”

And she’d just closed down on me coming back to Sun City anytime soon. “A guy’s here to work on the plumbing, Becky. Gotta go. I’m doing fine down here. Don’t you and your friends fret about me getting lonely down here.”

That did it. That upset her enough, her knowing that my not being lonely down here meant I was getting sex and that there was no need for me to drive the two-hundred-and-thirty miles north to get it from her and her friends. She and I had had it on enough for her to know I had to have sex all the time. She was polite enough, though, not wanting to close out on possibilities, that the exit conversation was friendly.

“Thanks for the beer,” I said to Garry, as I clicked off the phone and reentered the condo.

“It’s for the weekend. I’ll bring more and provide the meal from the restaurant this weekend. But it won’t come free.”

“Of course not,” I said.

I fucked him on my king-sized bed; I saved the loft for short-time guests, and Garry was neither. He was an older Clifford, minus the fresh. He was athletic in spite of walking like a swisher and never going to the gym. He cycled everywhere, including to his restaurant. He had buns and thighs of steel. The thighs opened right up for me as quick as anyone’s but they closed like a vice. Once a guy got between his thighs to do him in a missionary, that guy wasn’t getting away until Garry had sucked him dry of cum or got tired of him.

Garry never got tired of me.

He dug his heels into the mattress to raise his pelvis so I could slip my face right into his crack as my hands went up to cover his pecs and play with his nipples. Then I rose, turned him on his back, hovered over him, and penetrated him in a long, thick slide, as he panted and moaned, crying out that he couldn’t take it while clutching me tightly, me not being able to pull away from him if I had wanted, and then spreading open, sucking me in, taking it and taking it and taking it. Milking my cock with the muscles of his passage, holding me captive with his legs of steel, pulling the cum out of me.

He did much of the fucking, halfway through releasing his hold on my legs and setting his feet on the bed, using the leverage of his heels dug into the mattress, raising his pelvis to me, to rock on the cock and to thrust his hips forward and pull them back, fucking himself on the shaft. When I started to come, and one of my features was that I came continuously and prodigiously in a long series of bursts, Garry locked his legs around my thighs again, holding me captive and close to him to get every drop of me as we bucked against each other and groaned.

We had this all set up to catch boys for the weekend, but Garry himself was one of the best lays I ever had. There’s a lot to be said for experience and for the shared, desperate knowledge that, sooner or later, this was going to be lost to us.

It was nearly noon on the Saturday when we were pulling the beach chairs, umbrella, towels, and so forth and the beach net apparatus and volley ball out of Garry’s storage room and carrying them down onto the complex’s isolated beach section, where we were lucky enough to be alone.

We operated on the “put a volleyball net up and they will come” basis. It worked every warm and sunny weekend.

We were finishing up the net erection and talking each other into personal erections when, just as expected, they were coming. There were four of them. There usually were four. One at least would have been here on at least one earlier weekend. This time two of them were repeats. They came knowing what was what, who was who, what they were expected to do, what they’d be getting out of it, and, usually, what the pairings would be. I was a big-dicked black muscle top; Garry was a lithe, younger-than-me submissive, with a passage that massaged a guy’s cock.

They came in Speedos but each was carrying a backpack or duffel bag with the intent of spending the weekend—a weekend at the beach on someone else’s dime with great meals and a little added cash for themselves. All they had to do was lay down multiple times for that someone else, something they all were accustomed to do to get by in Flagler College in nearby St. Augustine, where invariably they were enrolled in the theatre arts and film programs and they took dance and gymnastics or tennis. Tennis was a favorite of mine and that’s how I hooked up with the first four who became our weekend captives. They all wanted to keep in shape. The volleyball and beach attracted them. So did the sex, and, oh yes, the free weekend with privileges, free booze, and bit of extra cash.

They played volleyball on the beach for us, while Garry and I sat there and watched and let them have beer with us when there didn’t seem to be a beach patrol around. When they got hot, they went in the ocean and then came out and played some more volleyball for Garry and me to watch. They all, in fact, were hot. They wouldn’t come for a weekend more than once if they weren’t—and neither would the guy who let a dud in on the deal. There was a guy at Flagler we paid to set up the talent and he did real well for us.

This weekend it was a big, blond Scandinavian international student, Horst, who was a top and a regular with Garry, and a dark-haired, hirsute French exchange student, Claude, who was versatile and looked randy as hell. He’d mainly be for Garry too, but I didn’t think I’d be able to resist, and the kid kept giving me the eye. I liked the versatile guys. They provided more excitement.

A mouthy New Yorker Italian type clearly impressed with himself, and with every reason to be so, named Mario, was for me. It wasn’t his first time either. He came on weekends all full of himself and I fucked him into whimpering and purring by Sunday evening. He seemed to like it that way, and I didn’t mind it a bit. The fourth guy, a shy redhead, Pete, was from the Midwest and seemed the most innocent and unused of the four. He also, I thought, was the best looking. Small and trim and with a shy smile. He was the best of the volleyball players. He’d leave the weekend totally ravished.