What Happened at the Nude Beach as the Sun Went Down

I had gone out on my bicycle like so many other afternoons, with the excuse of getting some exercise before the light disappeared. The beach was about seven kilometers from home, and I pedaled along slowly on the path that skirts the pine grove, feeling the warm air on my face. The sun was about to touch the water and I was going to watch it set, take a couple of photos with my phone to post later on my social media, once I’d edited them in peace on the sofa.

When I arrived, there were hardly any people. Three or four fishermen with their rods stuck in the sand, waiting for some fish to bite the bait. No one else. Summer had ended weeks ago and the beach was once again for those of us who know how to come when no one is left.

At the far end of the sand, beyond a row of rocks, there is a naturist area. In July and August it’s usually quite crowded. I had sunbathed naked there more than once, pretending to read, glancing sideways at other men, imagining what I didn’t dare do. Afterward I would go home with that fever in me and look for anything long to put inside myself and calm it. A cucumber. A thick carrot. Whatever was in the fridge.

I had never gone up to any of those guys. Fear weighed more than desire: fear that someone might recognize me, that the news might reach my wife’s ears, that my orderly life would come crashing down because of an afternoon of lust. So I looked, I dreamed, and I left.

That afternoon I wasn’t expecting to find anyone naked. It was cool, not the kind of temperature for taking off your clothes, at most for walking dressed along the shore. And even so something pushed me to keep pedaling to the very end of the beach, where the pine grove comes close to the sea and the sand turns softer.

As I’d supposed, I was alone. I left the bike leaning against some bins that served as trash cans and took off my shoes. I walked for a few minutes, feeling the coolness of the damp sand beneath the soles of my feet, snapped a few photos of the lit-up sky and sat down to catch my breath.

I had brought a banana and an isotonic drink in my backpack. When I took out the fruit, I stayed there for a moment looking at it, turning it over in my fingers. The idea grew on its own, without me inviting it. I was completely alone. If I started playing with it, no one would see me. The fishermen were far away, mere silhouettes against the water, and those huge bins served as a screen against any unwelcome gaze.

I began to undress from the waist down. The air raised goosebumps on my thighs. With no lubricant, I spat on the banana and spread the saliva along it, slowly. With a little more saliva on my right hand I began to moisten my entrance. I slipped in one finger, then added a bit more and the second went in almost without effort. I was ready.

I opened myself little by little to the rhythm of that improvised substitute going in and out of me. Inside I grew wetter and wetter, and the wet sound of each thrust made me even hornier. My cock responded at once, swelling against my belly. I grabbed it with my free hand and started to jerk off calmly, looking at the orange horizon, letting myself go.

I was just about to come when I heard the hum of a wheel over the sand.

I sat up sharply and looked around the side of the bin. A young guy was pedaling straight toward me. I froze, calculating. I wasn’t going to have time to get dressed before he reached me, and when he saw me half-naked, with a banana sticking out where it shouldn’t, I wouldn’t need to explain anything to him.

For a second I felt embarrassed. The next, the idea that the afternoon might end with him lit me up inside. So I didn’t hide.

He braked a couple of meters away, lowered his eyes, raised them again, and muttered an apology for having interrupted me.

—Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to bother you —he said—. Carry on, carry on. I’ll move away and that’s that.

—Don’t worry —I answered, trying to keep my voice steady—. You can sit down if you want.

He left his bike next to mine. He was slim, with narrow shoulders, his hair still damp with sweat plastered to his forehead. He couldn’t have been half my age. He sat down on the sand a respectable distance away, looking at the sea as if searching for somewhere to rest his eyes.

—We could do it at the same time —I suggested, nodding toward him—. If you feel like it.

He laughed nervously and shook his head.

—I don’t think I’ll get it up. It’s the first time I’ve… —he trailed off—. The first time I’ve run into someone so much older in something like this.

—It’s the first time for me too —I admitted—. I’ve never stayed before.

And it was true. Out of fear of being recognized, of something getting back home, I had always avoided encounters on beaches, on empty lots, anywhere open. I watched from the sidelines and left. That boy, without knowing it, was about to become the exception to a whole life of cowardice.

We talked for a while about nonsense. About where he’d learned to cycle those distances, about how empty the beach was, about the cold that was starting to rise from the water. I wanted him to forget sex for a moment, to stop being afraid. When I felt him relaxing, I said it without beating around the bush.

—If you want, I’ll suck you off. That’s all. I’m not some dirty old man, I just want to have a good time with you. For you to leave happy too.

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded.

***

I sat on the cold sand and asked him to stand in front of me. His crotch was at face level. I unfastened his pants and pulled them down together with his underwear to his ankles. He was soft, shriveled by nerves and by the afternoon air. I took him in one hand and started massaging him slowly, unhurriedly, and it didn’t take long before he reacted.

I felt his body beginning to loosen. His shoulders dropped, his breathing deepened. With my other hand I took his balls and massaged them while I worked the skin up and down, watching him grow between my fingers.

I reached down lower with a finger, feeling around, but met resistance and left it at that. It wasn’t the moment to force anything. I took him into my mouth and let my tongue work the tip with slow movements that made him shudder from top to bottom.

He clenched his teeth so as not to make a sound. I supposed he had the same fear as I did, of being heard, of someone appearing among the rocks. His cock grew inside my mouth until it brushed my throat, and I sped up, helping myself with my hand at the base.

At some point he stopped holding back. He gripped my head with both hands and took over, thrusting slowly at first and then harder. I let him do it for a while, until I felt him getting too close too soon.

—Wait —I told him, pulling away with a thread of saliva between our lips—. Hold on. I want you to finish inside me.

I moistened myself well again with saliva, preparing for what was coming. I got on all fours on the towel, facing the sea, and offered him my ass, throbbing, wanting him not to delay any longer.

He had trouble getting in. He pushed carefully, stopping every time he felt me tense, and while I clenched my teeth I promised myself I would never leave the house without lubricant again. If luck put an afternoon like this in front of me, I wanted to be ready, not half-prepared.

The first pain soon turned into something else. As he went in and out, each thrust filled me with a thick pleasure that climbed up my back. I jerked off in the same rhythm, syncing my hand with his hips. The sand dug into my knees and I didn’t care at all.

I held on as long as I could. After a few minutes I came with an intensity that left me shaking, spilling onto the towel. Three or four more thrusts later I felt him tense, bury himself all the way in, and empty inside me with a groan that at last he didn’t bother to stifle.

I let myself fall facedown, wrecked, and he collapsed on top of my back, both of us panting, with the murmur of the waves covering everything.

***

When he pulled out, he was still half-hard. I offered to clean the rest off him with my mouth and he accepted without saying a word. I would gladly have given him another blowjob, but the sun had already sunk into the sea and the sky was beginning to go dark. I had to get home before night fell completely.

We got dressed in silence, brushing the sand off ourselves. He told me it had been great, that he’d like to do it again.

—If you promise to come alone —I answered—, I’ll look for you.

I didn’t want him turning up with a bunch of friends thinking they were entitled to something, or filming me with a phone to laugh about it later. I made that clear. He nodded, serious, and gave me his word.

We said goodbye like that, nothing more. We didn’t exchange names or phone numbers. There was no need. He rode off, anonymous as he had arrived, until his silhouette disappeared behind the rocks.

I couldn’t set a day, because of my situation, but I told him the truth: that I would come back to the beach often, hoping to find him again as evening fell.

And we did find each other again. Several times. To avoid tempting fate and having some distracted fisherman end up seeing us, we looked for another corner, more hidden, where the pine grove closes in over the sand. There, each time the sun threatens to set, I wait for the hum of a wheel coming closer. Sometimes he comes. Sometimes he doesn’t. But the waiting, I assure you, has its own pleasure too.