Jack Ladd re­veals some of his juici­est travel sex-ploits!

DNA Magazine - - CONTENT #225 - WITH JACK LADD

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.

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