Wel­come to Aus­tralia, Jack. Now get these speedos on so some lucky prick can peel them off!

DNA Magazine - - CONTENT #227 - WITH JACK LADD

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.

Like new.

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.

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from Australia

© PressReader. All rights reserved.