By: Michael Ampersant I’m standing here next to this artificial pond, holding my bike with one hand, and an umbrella with the other. It’s ra...
By: Michael Ampersant
I’m standing here next to this artificial pond, holding my bike with one hand, and an umbrella with the other. It’s raining. It’s barely 11 PM and there’s still a suggestion of light in the doomy clouds above us since this is June in Amsterdam, the sun setting past 10 PM, dust stretching past midnight. The pond belongs to the Easter Park, the nearest cruising ground. I must be horny, really, there’s no other excuse for this, cycling through the pouring rain in pursuit of casual sex. It’s fairly cold, by the way, I'm almost shivering.The glands started to fire an hour ago when I finally got hold of this forgotten flick, Boys on the Beach, on the internet, which had been shown years ago at the LGBT festival in this funny Art Deco cinema around the corner in the late session—they would show coming-out flicks in the afternoon, HIV-dread in the evening, porn at midnight—the audience packed into chairs from the ‘30s, creaky timber frames and velvet upholstering made to watch noir Maigret flicks—and there have been a few suggestive exchanges already, eyes meeting in the waiting crowd (we had been backed up in the lobby by an interminable Derek Jarman film), and this guy, half-balding but gym-enhanced, a slap-my-face expression on his face as if stepping right out of an Active Duty porn clip (moonlighting military with insuppressible grins and flawless genitals) so this guy had somehow sidled around me twice already in the lobby and then ended up on the seat next to mine... ...the lights had dimmed, Sylvester Correlatione, the elusive porn star, had appeared on the silver screen above us, first in a three-some on a film set—the porn star playing himself, as it were —until the industry had decided to call it a day and send him home and to Fire Island where he had taken to the dance floor of a gay bar before meeting new friends on the beach (whence the title “Boys on the Beach”), new friends, who, in anticipation of his lust, had already gotten into some action, performing anal and oral intercourse expertly and precisely while their hottest new friend, a blond guy (his short hair standing out nicely against the dark sky),
was still waiting in the dunes, watching the proceedings a bit stand-offishly but feeling himself up already, then noticing Sylvester’s arrival, rolling his eyes, dropping his pants, dick springing to attention as if somebody had shouted “now,” bluish cock lips kissing the moonlight (quite some engineering there, cinematographically), Sylvester (Sly) taking the cue, grabbing the blond guy’s excited member with both hands, pursing his lips—so this was happening on the screen while I was feeling a touch on my knees, briefly but suggestively, Active Duty knows what he is doing, consenting adults unite, I’m hesitant, this isn't a contact cinema but an art house, but I hadn’t got off all day, so my leg swings out, Active Duty pats my knee again, as if to say “ROGER,” or “COPY,” his hand now on the inside of my leg, patting my thigh, he likes my thighs apparently, he’s actually caressing them as if they were the real thing—his hand finally travels up past my crotch and reaches for the magic Levis button, I turn my head but he’s unerringly facing the screen where Sly has impaled himself orally on the blond’s dick, giving head, deep-throating the brother for all he’s worth—there are some professional secrets to this, you’re not a porn star for nothing—so Sly’s having impaled himself on the blond cock which, when briefly re-emerging from the porn star’s mouth, is still gleaming, there’s a lot of pre-cum already, the cock-head kissing the moonlight while the camera’s kissing the cock-head, Sly’s head going down again the whole nine yards, or inches, down until he reaches the base of the shaft, Sly’s nose buried in blond pubes (this is a vintage flick, boys still wearing pubes), his chin kissing the blond scrotum, there's even a hint of sensuality, strong enough at least for my dick to react, my neighbor still staring at the screen while fumbling with my button, I retract the abdomen, there’s a mild pop, the button gives in, tension moves from the waist to the tape of the zipper, my neighbor fumbling with the zipper, the slider resisting, it’s pathetic, I need to shed all pretensions and help him, I unzip the zipper myself, Roger, or Copy, or whatever his name grabs my package side-ways (always a bit awkward), I raise my butt and push the Calvin Klein elastic down to make it easy for him, he leans over the antique armrest with his long—too long—arm, his hand around my dick, his elbow in my thorax—and now a second hand arrives on my thigh, from the left, the other neighbor apparently—how’s this going to work, I have only one dick—but I misunderstood him apparently (the other neighbor), because he puts my hand on his own crotch which is already unzipped and features an aroused penis, he’s even taking pains to fold my hand around his dick—there’s not much I can do, it would be awkward to refuse, and unfair, so I’m repositioning myself, replicating Roger’s poise, while Sly, the porn star on the screen above us strips and arranges himself on the sand in an unusual position—he’s normally the top—legs apart, his hirsute ass open for business while the camera zooms in, then out, then pans onto the blond’s cock—let’s give the blond guy a name, let’s call him Charlie—so Charlie’s cock hovers above us, taking up the entire screen, 9 inches, or 20 feet, whichever way you look at it, the red skin of the shaft set against the deep purple of the cockhead, precum oozing through the cocklips, it’s a feast, camera zooming out, Charlie grabbing his dick, shaking it up, down, and sideways, rubbing the oozing cockhead over Sly’s lips, Sly’s loving it, left, right, left, Sly now reclining on the sand, ready for penetration—all this while Roger from Active Duty has started to stroke my dick, surprisingly gently for a guy with a slap-my-face face—it would be great if his elbow weren’t hurting my thorax—I’m suddenly realizing my failure to replicate, reach out to restore some symmetry, but have to discover that somebody else is already fondling Roger’s cock, a chain of lust building across our row of seats—this while Sly on the screen has raised his legs, pushing them out skyward, Charlie primed now, grabbing his own dinger again and shoving it into the lusty depth of Sly’s poop shoot, nine inches, the cock, the first inch first, the cock head recalcitrant, sticking to the tender embrace of Sly’s butt cheeks, more guiding and fumbling, the first inch is in now, the second is in, the third—you can feel it in your loins—Sly's affecting a moan, a second moan, (“yeah, yeah”), Charlie working on the fourth inch (“uurgh,”), fifth inch (“oooh”), sixth inch (“uurgh”), seventh inch now, Sly not commenting on the seventh inch in particular but contorting his face—it could be real, Charlie’s girth is suggestive—Sly’s mouth's wide open, twisted into a square, lips retracted, white teeth showing, eyes squinted shut—Charlie pushing, Sly resisting, Charlie retracting, readying himself for a second assault, shaking his dick for emphasis, and for the camera—so while this is going on above us Roger is jerking my dick, I’m jerking my neighbor, my neighbor is jerking his neighbor, a domino effect spreads along the row and across the aisle, jerks, motions, collective rhythm in the making, joint energy infecting the antique chairs, the chairs reverberating, squeaking, more neighbors joining—Charlie, in the meantime, has resumed the exploration of Sly’s center of lust, pushing in once more, Sly reacting (“yeah, yeah”), seven inches are in, two more to go, the best two inches—tell me, when do you get to feel nine inches up your ass—Sly’s face frozen in sublime disgust, (“uurgh”), the eight inch is in (“uuurghh”), the ninth (“ooohhhh”), Charlie pushing for whatever he’s worth, thrusting forward, retracting, thrusting, retracting, accelerating, Sly’s really doing his part on the receiving end, moaning, gurgling, crying, yelling, Charlie’s fucking, fucking the porn star into ecstasy, it could be real—on our side of the screen the entire audience getting into the act, jerking, yelling (“ja, ja”– Dutch for “yeah, yeah”—“aahh, aahh”—Dutch for “uurgh, uurgh,” and so on) having the time of their life while anticipating the big one, a joint orgasm of biblical proportions, Charlie still fucking, us still jerking—us holding back now a bit in expectation of a clue from the screen, and, yes, Charlie unpops, his enormous member swings across the screen and the beach and Sly’s body, a last jerk as his cum explodes into Sly’s face, spurts, squints, gushes out like the Niagara fall (we’re exaggerating a bit), thick ropes of goo flying, dripping, splashing in all directions, and while Sly is already licking his lips we are starting to cum, somebody in the front row first, a loud scream, unmistakably, somebody behind me, now, the same scream (COPY), it’s understood, this is it, this is the scream of tonight ("AAAHHHRRGG") , everybody does it, sings it, dominos falling again, me cumming, Roger cumming, my neighbor cumming, the sounds and sights of ultimate lust packing the room, cum spouting everywhere—we’ve created a fountain of fizzy delight, folks, think of some Roman monument with its hundreds of jets—jizz dripping, soaking, running off cocks, and seats, and faces, people sharing cum-soaked kisses—until one guy, the last one to cum, gets up onto the stage and shoots his cream with a winning gesture onto the screen, right where Sly’s projection is reclining, recovering from the best fuck of its life.
Where was I? Well, where am I? I’m standing in the rain, holding my bike with one hand, the umbrella with the other, a horny loner in the middle of a summer rain storm. Stay tuned.
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