Welcome to Australia, Jack. Now get these speedos on so some lucky prick can peel them off!
Welcome to Australia, Jack. Now get these speedos on your butt so that some lucky prick can peel them off!
I’ll never forget my first pair of speedos. Midnight blue with an anchor emblem across the front in white. Tight but not constricting. Shiny in the right light and smooth to touch. Perfect fit. My cock bulging like a dream. My arse more than fuckable.
It helped that I was 23 and not long out of a difficult break-up, and opting for a trip to Dr Dumbbell in the evening rather than staring at dirty marks on the wall where framed memories once hung.
Their cheek-cupping, crotch-hugging aesthetic, however, is not the sole reason I remember my first budgie smugglers so vividly. It was how they made me feel.
One hell of a claim; that something so small could have such a big impact on my life. Donning that tiny piece of fabric, synonymous with sun, sand and sea, was a moment in my memory that won’t ever shift.
Just like having the balls to finally put a gay mag on the shop counter or hold a boy’s hand in public or buy a butt plug or march in a pride parade, pulling up my first pair of speedos was a step forward in my evolution.
As part of the break-up, I’d had to move from Potts Point to Darlinghurst and, one November Friday, unpacking boxes after work, a Facebook message chirped from my phone. It was my good mate, Jase, who’d convinced me to travel to Lismore with him for the infamous LGBT New Year party, Tropical Fruits.
To “blow off some steam.” Translation: I needed to get fucked.
And by fucked I mean my ex had been almost exclusively a bottom and, while we’d had plenty of fun, my entire body craved to be bent over, foot-on-the-back-of-my-head-hole-destroyeduntil-I-couldn’t-walk kind of fucked. So I’d jumped at the suggestion of camping out under the stars at Tropical Fruits with thousands of fun-loving dudes at arm’s reach.
Opening his message, a link took me to row after row of glorious thumbnails on an online clothing store alongside the message: “You’ll need at least two pairs. One will get ruined, trust me.”
The next morning, we met for coffee. “I can’t,” I said, excuses already primed to roll from my tongue.
“Why the hell not?” asked Jase, his handsome face incredulous.
“Where I’m from, the only people wearing banana hammocks are over 60 and don’t give a fuck… or French.”
He giggled and said, “You’re in Sydney now, mate. Don’t be such an uptight Brit.”
“I guess,” I said, and my mind was already wandering.
Wandering to beach days spent ogling stunning physiques sauntering along North Bondi while I sat in my, albeit short, boardshorts. I was a million miles from my landlocked, conservative upbringing but still not close enough.
Truth was, I was scared.
Don’t get me wrong, I’d done plenty of wild stuff in my time, but usually pissed or buzzed or behind closed doors with a select few in darkened areas. And despite my often-fearless outward persona, I’d never soberly worn anything so skimpy in public for the world, his wife and kids to see. And, coming out of a twoyear relationship, my confidence was shot to shit.
Even with my new exercise regime, I couldn’t shake the notion I’d stick out like a pale, podgy sore thumb who should have picked something more suitable to his sad existence. Even though plenty of people told me the opposite, I didn’t feel sexy and didn’t want to advertise the fact.
But a part of me did. Badly.
The part of me that had made me jump on a one-way flight to Australia two-and-a-half years previously. That part of me wanted to strut about, showing off every socially acceptable inch of flesh and then some, and yearned to feel the hot, hungry stares of men. To be in the same league as the guys at the beach. To not give a crap. To feel wanted again.
To be me.
“Listen,” said Jase, picking up his phone and rapidly thumbing the screen. “I’ve just bought us a pair each.”
“What? Why?” I said, the grin pulling at my lips belying the anxiety in my chest.
“We have less than two months until Tropical Fruits, right?”
I nodded. Said nothing.
“Next Sunday, we’ll test drive these bad boys at Andrew Boy Charlton Pool. If you’re not into it, we’re the same size, I’ll keep it and you can go back to pussying around in your basic boardies.”
Eight days later, I was pulling up my brand-
new pair of midnight blues and checking myself out in the changing room mirrors. Jase was already poolside, stretched out and sunning himself.
It was still early, before the afternoon crowds, and I was alone and able to scrutinise the reflection staring back at me, expecting to hate what I saw.
But before I had a chance to feel anything, a man of about 45 walked in: the gentle thud of his trainers echoing around the tiled space. Handsome, tall, well-built with thick salt-andpepper hair, wide, powerful shoulders and dressed in gym gear, he was coated with sweat, like he’d just run from the city.
Placing his small rucksack on the same bench as mine and only a few rungs away, he looked around the empty change room, his wide chest pulling in deep, long breaths. Then his gaze landed on me, unapologetically checking me out.
His powerful brown eyes slowly tracking down and then back up. His smile growing with each second. I went to grab my towel to cover myself up but in a ball-fizzingly deep voice, he said: “Nice speedo.”
I laughed uncomfortably. “You think so?” “Fucking oath,” he said, beaming wide and pulling his wet T-shirt up and off to reveal a glistening, tanned and sculpted hairy torso; his eyes hungrier than before. “Not everyone suits them, but you? Definitely.”
“They’re new,” I said, giving him a half twirl. Then he growled like a wolf… Seven minutes later I was on my knees, the rush of shower water muffling our grunts as his load, streaming and salty shot across my tongue. My speedos unable to contain my raging boner. My confidence growing with each pump.
A few minutes later and alone in the change rooms again, I returned to my spot in front of the mirror, red-faced and dripping wet. Running a hand down my stomach, over my newly redefined abs, I reached the waistband.
I watched my fingers as they kept going. Over the mound of flesh slowly decreasing in size, hidden by a few millimetres of Lycra. Then both hands round the back over each cheek, tingles running down my neck and through my empty balls.
I felt great. Better than great.
For the first time in a long time I was happy to walk out with my shoulders back, tits out and only a slither of material between my cock and balls and anyone who cared to look. I could finally remember the brave, sexy, confident me I’d forgotten.
Obviously, I kept them. Called them my lucky speedos and thoroughly showed them off all afternoon. Bought another pair the same day, as per Jase’s advice. This time, white and patterned in green and orange and red tropical motifs like palm trees and parrots and flowers. Perfect for Fruits.
And they were. And, yes, they did get ruined. But, for my all-time favourite speedo memory, follow me 14 months forward to February 2015, and a sight and sensation forever blissfully seared into my wank bank.
One Sunday afternoon, a friend created a Facebook event to see who’d be keen to go in on an afternoon boat cruise. Less than 24 hours later, he realised he would need two boats.
When the day came, 43 of us congregated excited, colourful and on mass at Woolloomooloo wharf before splitting into two groups and setting off, music blaring and booze flowing for Obelisk Beach.
The day was warm but grey, then, as the boats dropped anchor, almost on cue the sun broke through the thin cloud cover and shone bright and hot from a patch of stunning blue. Friends and friends of friends and new friends I’d yet to make, squeezed into two boats, started undressing.
All peeling up shirts or pulling down shorts. Every single one of them in a speedo.
Body after body of glorious flesh in all tones and types. Daddies, bears, muscle boys, boys-next-door, otters, wolves and twinks. All relishing the glamour of our convoy and the high energy of the day. Basking and bathing, laughing and joking. Dancing and touching. Smiling and winking.
It was like a Roman frieze of sculpted muscle had come to life and I was part of it. Part of the loud, proud, colourful throng comfortable in its skin. And boy did I make the most of it.
Swimming from boat to boat, splashing handsome lads or jumping on the backs of strong men; wrapping my naked legs around their waists and pushing my Lycra-covered groin into their muscular backs until I got hard.
Reaching out and feeling smooth colourful spandex. Its glossy touch under my palm and fingertips. Gently playing with waistbands or slipping a few fingers underneath. Letting others do the same to me. Their heat against mine. Their bodies. Tight material against the back of my hand as my fingers explored, locking us together.
And, of course, there was Michael. He was gorgeous and, I mean used to be a model and still could be, gorgeous. But he was in a monogamous relationship. Or so I’d thought.
“They broke up,” Jase said, sat between my legs with his toned back against my chest; the pair of us chugging cold bottled beer and bobbing idly on the water.
“You’re fucking with me, right?” I said, my stare over Jase’s head suddenly locked on Michael, chatting in a group of six guys on the other boat.
Fifteen metres of the deep blue harbour separated us. Him a powerful beast at 190 centimetres and 37 years. Me 190 centimetres, toned and slim and 25.
Both of us leaving very little to the imagination.
“Nope,” Jase said. “Free as a bird. He was talking about you earlier, too.”
So, Jase now chatting up his own new friend, I made a move. I waited for Michael to look over so I could catch his eye, held it and stood, taking hold of the railing and nonchalantly stretched out in my midnight blues, throwing him a smile.
It didn’t take him long to dive into the water, swim over and climb the ladder onto my boat like Daniel Craig. It took even less time for him to follow me downstairs.
Click went the cabin door as we locked it behind us. Whoosh, my arms were lifted above my head until I felt hard wood and could push against the low ceiling, locking my body in place. Then two strong thumbs hooked under my speedo before slowly peeling them down: just enough to let the air warm my ocean chilled cheeks and my thighs to be bound together.
Followed by his hot, powerful tongue against my salty hole. Each probing push firing electricity through my body, held between his dinner plate hands, until neither of us could take any more.
Down went his speedos, unleashing his thick, uncut cock. Then he pulled me back, spit-lubed, until pain followed instantly by throbbing pleasure forced me to let go of the ceiling and wrap my arms backwards, around his neck.
Over and over he pulled me up and down his beautiful cock like I weighed nothing, my legs still held together. Until he pulled out, took hold of himself and with a long low moan shot his load over my arse as I stained the sheets below with mine.
Then, before I could do anything, he pulled my speedos up, smearing his load between my crack and over my reddened hole. Then, pushing the soaked fabric against me with two thick fingers, he said:
“I want you to think about this for the rest of the day.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, turning to look at his devilishly handsome face, my hole hot and gooey and beaten. “I’ll never forget this.”
Two strong thumbs pulled my speedos down: enough to let the air warm my cheeks but keep my thighs bound together.
Jack Ladd is the author of the semiautobiographical erotic novels Oscar and Oscar Down Under. Go to jackladd.org or search for Jack Ladd on Facebook.