DNA Magazine - - CONTENT -

For me, one par­tic­u­larly sump­tu­ous pop, was Trop­i­cal Fruits, the New Year’s fes­ti­val in Lis­more on the north coast of New South Wales. It’s way out of the city, but filled with sights and sounds more mes­meris­ing than any I’d see on a reg­u­lar day down Ox­ford Street. I’d con­tem­plated go­ing for years, but didn’t have a tent or the means to drive up. That fate­ful year, how­ever, a friend had a spare seat in his car so I bit the bul­let.

Over four nights I savoured many firsts, like the joy of a job well done: set­ting up camp un­der the blazing NSW sun, sweaty and ex­hausted from a ten-hour drive from Syd­ney. Drink­ing by fire­light, min­gling un­der a daz­zling star show, not to men­tion a head-swim­ming spin on an ope­nair dance­floor as fire­works ig­nited the sky into a kalei­do­scopic ex­plo­sion of colour and sound and scent, fab­u­lously ush­er­ing in an­other year.

But it’s not those mo­ments that linger in my heart. They’re fan­tas­tic mem­o­ries, sure, but it was what hap­pened on the first night. A night I’ve fan­ta­sised over ever since, long­ing to be back at Fruits. It be­gan with a smile.

A smile across the camp­site from a short but hand­some man. Great body, tanned and mus­cu­lar with a ca­sual but ef­fort­less style. Short shorts show­ing off hairy legs and a tight sin­glet cling­ing to a flaw­less build like a layer of cot­ton skin.

Wide, curv­ing pecs and thick, sun-kissed bi­ceps. Strong hands. Glis­ten­ing eyes no­tice­ably blue in the early evening light. A fixed stare filled with a hunger I’d recog­nise any­where. A heavy slab of meat softly bulging be­hind his zip­per.

My kind of guy.

Short enough to fuck stupid. Take back to my tent, peel down his shorts and go to town.

The night is young.

Which was the prob­lem: the night hadn’t started. I’d come to Fruits to make friends and run naked through fields. Take shrooms and ex­plore my mind, not just my body. I wanted to dip my toes be­fore drop­ping my pants. Stretch my legs be­fore stretch­ing holes. Though this guy was hot, and the urge to drop to my knees to suck out his load was pulling at my cock like a mus­cle boy af­ter a hit of pop­pers, I had plenty of time. Time to turn my at­ten­tion to the drink in hand, the bag of Nim­bin weed in my pocket and the other friendly faces. So, I rolled a fat one, and, by the time I looked up, he was gone.

Smok­ing and pass­ing the doo­bie, I in­tro­duced my­self to the other campers in my im­me­di­ate vicin­ity: 15 or 20 tents, in­clud­ing mine, erected in a cir­cle to form a small gath­er­ing area among the over­all camp­site of sim­i­lar, makeshift com­mu­ni­ties stretch­ing off in all di­rec­tions.

A throng of wel­com­ing faces and bub­bling,

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