Jack Ladd reveals some of his juiciest travel sex-ploits!
No matter where or how long – a one-night city break or month-long reality bolt – raising two fingers to normality scorches away inhibitions, allowing me to bask in the heat of finite fun without caring if I get burned.
It always starts the same, with a stirring in my groin as the journey begins. Not so much during the Uber ride to the airport or bus to the station, and certainly not trawling for cheap flights, but when all that admin-bollocks is over, I’m checked in, and I’m free.
Free to be and do whoever I want, however I please.
Free to eye-fuck hot strangers on the platform or cruise the departure lounge shops, even if only to waste an hour in playful banter. Or hunt for fellow lone travellers. Find wi-fi and load Grindr, Scruff or Squirt or whichever grid proves most fruitful.
Who’s up for a chat? Some fun?
Maybe a quick blow and go, my knees chilled by bathroom tiles as a stranger pumps my throat to his choking rhythm. Or perhaps my palms will push against cubicle walls as my legs shake, balls pulse, jaw stifles the moan desperate to roll from my tongue as I unload.
If I’m feeling sophisticated, there are alternatives, of course. Plenty of rich, successful guys looking for company. Businessmen or cashed-up couples in lounges willing to make a guest of me. Sit me down, stare into my eyes and run a strong hand up my thigh as I sip free champagne and sprinkle variety over their departure from monotony.
But, that’s just the beginning. Just the tip. After touching down, an unknown city strikes unused scent receptors, wonderfully alien life resonating, my mind races with the fresh opportunities. Ideas and possibilities expand and explode like supernovas. Some huge and booming, swelling my cock as hard as the steel skyscrapers of New York or Singapore. Some are slow burners, fizzing and sparking, building as local talent struts the winding roads of Florence or bustling harbours of Cape Town or Helsinki.
Thoughts that don’t come as quickly as at home. Urges hindered by routine and reputation now released.
What is it about the plush white of a hotel bed that makes me so dirty?
It’s hard to say. Could be because I can be as much of a slut as I want: the anonymity of my situation igniting impulses reminiscent of a young, care-free teenager who didn’t care about names. Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe, now I’m older and wiser, my perception of time has matured and I strive to make the most of it. Cram as much as I can into my precious holiday.
Either way, there’s no single reason why my sex-drive shifts into sixth gear the moment I’m responsibility-free. I remember when I first understood the notion of holiday romance.
2007. I’d just turned 18 and was on a break in the Algarve, Portugal, with my family, a friend and his family. One deliciously balmy night, I fell head over heels in lust with a taxi driver.
No more than 21, he’d picked us up one night. And then the next. My friend and I drunkenly fawned over how handsome he was and how lucky we were to get him two nights in a row.
He liked the attention. He smiled, laughed and joked in almost perfect English, even though we were pissed teenage boys.
But I wasn’t used to flirting. Didn’t know how to do it properly. I was no innocent. I’d had my fair share of fun but I was from a small town with the slimmest of pickings, pre-smartphone. Back then, finding anyone remotely my type required hours of trawling through Gaydar. Message after message behind the safety of a keyboard. Not to mention making up excuses to my parents. “Staying with a friend” when I was really jumping on a train to meet DomTopDaddy and finally learning how to deep throat.
This Portuguese guy, though. I didn’t have internet or data. Couldn’t search for him and send a message. Didn’t know his name. If I wanted to satiate my growing desires, other than furiously jerking off alone in my single bed, there was only one option.
Sitting by the pool the next afternoon, I decided. Later that night, I would find him. Tell him. Put my cards on the table and see what happened. The fear of rejection, that usually haunts these decisions, was imperceptible. With a grin from ear to ear, I realised that if he was straight or had a boyfriend or wasn’t into
me, it wouldn’t matter. After this holiday, we’d never see each other again.
The next night I pretended to be sick. Left my friends to get a taxi home, alone. When I reached the rank my dream man wasn’t there. I felt stupid and embarrassed. Should have told my mate the truth instead of coming up with a bullshit story. But then a car rolled up to the back of the queue.
I never learned his name, but he drove a silver Mercedes and was taller than me by two inches. He had perfect, flawlessly tanned skin, dark hair, golden brown eyes and a smile that made me want to kiss him and never stop.
I was nervous. And, this time, sober. After asking him to take me home, I barely said another word. It wasn’t until I’d paid and shuffled awkwardly in my seat that he asked if I was okay.
Taking a deep breath, I said. “Can I kiss you?” For a full two seconds he said nothing. One, two, staring in my eyes. Then he smiled.
Hard and deep and with tongues, we kissed. My hands exploring his wide chest and strong arms as his pulled me closer. The next thing I knew, I was leading him out of the car and pushing him against the wall of my family’s villa, blowing his cock under the night sky like I was starving: my lips pulling themselves into the widest grin when they weren’t wrapped around his shaft.
I loved how sexy and naughty I felt. My parents could have caught us at any moment, but I didn’t give a toss. The risk and danger made every slurping second worth it tenfold.
Once my handsome driver had blown his load across my face and left it was as if the flood gates had opened. Sat soaked in European swimmers, I had my revelation. And boy did I make the most of it that year.
Two months later, a straight mate convinced me to go with her to Faliraki in Greece, known for cheap booze cruises of the hetero variety. The first few nights were surprisingly fun, drinking games galore but, after befriending a lesbian couple at our hotel, and needing a night away from the pissed-up chavs, I convinced my friend that we hit a gay bar.
With only one on the island, our choice was limited. On arrival, the small, hot, humid pub was practically dead – with one potential. At the bar. A man at least two decades older than me but fit, tall, broad and handsome. Late forties, maybe fifties.
Back then, I’d never have gone for a guy that age. From my naïve teenage perspective, 50 was pushing it. But, in his short-sleeve shirt showing off juicy biceps and pecs bigger than my head, he became the hottest guy I’d yet to meet.
We clocked each other the moment I walked in and, minutes later, came a tap on my shoulder. In his hand was a business card.
“I’m about to leave,” he said in English but with a thick Greek accent that made my hole twitch like he’d reached down my shorts and ran his fingertip over it. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
The next morning I left my friend with a group of Liverpudlian lads and spent the entire day with the handsome gentleman. His name was Ezio and he picked me up in a black BMW five minutes before noon. Took me straight to his hotel. Fucked me senseless.
Bent my smooth, supple body over his king bed and drove himself deep. Over and over until sweat poured off us both and he filled the condom inside me: his deep, heavy breath in my ear; my own load streaked below before gluing me to the bedsheets as he pulled out and lay wordless next to me.
Then we showered and Ezio took me out. Showed me the sights of nearby Rhodes. Smiled and flirted and walked me through a blissful afternoon wandering ruins before feasting on grilled, honied haloumi and lemon and garlic lamb. Told me about his job. That he was on holiday, too.
He worked for the Greek government. I asked him if it was hard being gay. He smirked and said, “It’s fine, if you don’t talk about it.” “Don’t ask, don’t tell?”
“In a way.”
Then he explained that, as far as he was aware, all politicians, no matter which country they served, lived a double life. Told me about some of the English politicians he’d met. The ones I knew from the news.
Then he explained how some of them were married and had kids but still ended up sliding down his cock when the cameras and reporters and families were far, far away.
He even told me names I promised to never repeat. Names I’m certain he wouldn’t have dropped if it weren’t for the same reason I was there: breaking the rules of my conventional life, with a man I didn’t know and would never see again.
Five months later, just before I turned 19, I pushed myself to the limit.
Paris, with my best mate. On the first night in a gay pub in the Marais we befriended an ex-pat Brit. Maybe early forties, he looked like a muscular Gary Oldman and, after a couple of drinks, took us back to his apartment.
Sitting us either side of him on a plush sofa in an apartment straight out of Vogue Living, he asked if we wanted to watch porn. As a high-def vid of a twink being spanked over the knee of a muscle bear played, he ran his hands over our legs and arms and shoulders, kissing us in turn, telling us the things he wanted to do.
Told us about places called Le Depot and Le Deep, the latter just a short stroll down the street. Still with plenty to learn, my friend and I hadn’t even heard of them.
Sex on premises?
Forty minutes later, side by side, we were blowing our new friend on a bench in the upstairs room of Le Deep, a room full of men in varying states of undress, watching us go to town.
Later, with my friend off exploring by himself, I was led downstairs to the darker corridors. Down past the bar and dancefloor, past the glory holes and cubicles, until I was pulling down my jeans and underwear and lifting myself into the cool leather of a sling.
A group of shadowy figures closed in. My new friend between my legs.
I loved every second. Every filthy, mindblowing moment as men took turns on me. Every sense bombarded from every angle. The rattle of the chains and the grunts of the gang echoing around the pitch black, as skin slapped against skin.
I stayed vigilant. Check that everyone wore a condom, reaching down and feeling in the dark. Happy no one was trying to stealth me, I laid back and enjoyed the ride.
An hour later, my shirt and skin crusted, I found my mate. We giggled all the way back to our hotel, endeavouring to do a tour of every sex club in Paris. And, for the next three nights, we tried our best.
And that’s the beauty of holidays. Not being gangbanged in a sex dungeon or blowing a taxi driver in the dark per se, but absconding from the confines of routine, letting go and being wild, if only for a night.
There’s something innately liberating about experiencing that which would normally never come to fruition. Ideas and fantasies stored and buried in our minds as impossible, suddenly, in the freedom of escape, a reality.
And besides, what’s a holiday without memories that last forever?
I loved how sexy and naughty I felt. My parents could have caught us at any moment… the danger made every slurping second worth it.