Heartbreak

I feel like a fool. Many would say I should have seen it coming. But I didn't, and it wasn't something that crept up on me and that I might have adjusted to—although I have no idea what comes after being a stud top. Do you? Still, when it came, it fell on me like a load of bricks, because I didn't see it coming. It's a heartbreak.

The hiatus may have had a lot to do with it. I'd held down the end-of-bar available stud fucker position at a popular gay beachside bar near a major university in Miami throughout my thirties. A former Marine, however, I jumped at the opportunity to go to Iraq with a private security firm to work as a protection unit scheduler. I worked at that for six years before returning to Miami.

It wasn't only because the money was phenomenal but also because I wanted to do something for the effort and I was years past being able to go in on the ground as a grunt. That probably should have clued me in on what was happening. But it didn't.

And maybe it didn't because there was no change in position on the sexual chain throughout my Iraq duty. There's a whole lot of tension and need there to be served in a warfront situation. And although the need hasn't lessened in the Iraq action world, it's gotten increasingly difficult for the soldiers to relieve each other in their own environment. My situation was ideal. I had a storefront office in the Green Zone and my living quarters were right behind the office, complete with vibrating queen-sized bed.

The young soldiers would stop in when they could to shoot the bull and drop the hints about how keyed up they were and what they wanted to do to relieve that, and I'd usher them through the door into my bedroom. They would strip and open their legs to me, and I'd fuck all of the tension out of them. And they kept coming back. No one complained that I was getting too old to make them moan and groan and to fuck the stuffing out of them.

I knew my body was changing. I still had the bulging biceps and pecs, but I knew the midsection was thickening. Not to any significant degree, though. My stomach was still flat in spite of the military grub and beer—thanks to spending a good fifth of my life in the weight room—where my dicking was quite popular in the shower room. I may not be an Apollo—in fact, I never was—but I was a perfect Zeus now. And there is no end of young men, I don't think, who melt at being manhandled by a beefcake Zeus. And my sideburns may have gone gray in my years in Iraq—but, then, whose haven't? Iraq does that to a man—or at least to a man who manages to keep his hair.

And significantly, a man's dick—as long as nothing happens to keep him from getting it up—doesn't change in size and his balls are as heavy as ever. And most important, a man gains in knowing just what to do with that dick as he gets older. I won't mention that a man looses endurance and recharge powers over time. And I won't mention it because I still haven't fucked a man who I couldn't power drill to exhaustion.

So, it was without a single twinge of fear or self-doubt that, within days of returning to Miami from Iraq, I stood in front of my full-length mirror and studied my body in a Speedo—not one of the Speedos I'd worn when I worked this bar before, because I'd lost my narrow waist—but one that showed off my beefcake muscling up from the Baghdad Green Zone weight training to good effect. I'd been very careful to tan up all over on the flat roof of an American State Department official's residence, while enjoying myself in working his asshole while his wife sat and watched us—and then doing her. I am happy to say I'm an equal opportunity fucker.

Satisfied—falsely it seems—with what I saw, I tucked my car keys, a credit card, and a couple of condoms under my waistband and drove my Sebring convertible down to the beach.

As in days before, I went straight into the surf to slick myself down and swam over to the beach right off the bar. Looking into the bar from out beyond the surf line, I saw that it was as crowded as it had been six years earlier and that most were young, snotty chicken types from the nearby university. I enjoyed fucking twinks. I liked to hear them squeak when they realized they were getting a bigger and more vigorous dick then they dreamed of and when I was only beginning when they thought they were already at their limit. And I had learned a trick or two with the toughened soldiers in Iraq that probably would make these little tight asses faint.

Even more, I liked fucking the snot out of the snotty ones. I liked leaving them sobbing and unable to close their legs. And they liked it too, because they had always come back for more—just as soon as they recovered from the first dicking. I was giving them more of an education than their university did, I think.

Then, like before, I slowly walked out of the surf, posing all of the time, and padded into the open-walled bar, drawing the attention of all, as I knew I would. I got the same little thrill I always had as I heard the raucous conversation die out under the thatched roof as I approached. I entered under the roof and walked down to the end of the bar—to find my spot occupied by a late twentysomething dangerous-looking Hispanic hunk.

I stared at him, but he didn't move—at least not until I'd given up and taken another stool, where I perched, facing the table area and spreading my legs and letting the edge of the stool seat push up my package.

I could have moved into my old place within a couple of minutes, but by then I was in shock. While I watched, one of the university twinks, a dirty blond, thin guy, with an almost too-pretty face, had come up to the hunk and backed his butt into the hunk's package, and the two had done a dry-fuck lap dance to the rhythm of the rock music coming out of the speakers up in the rafters.

I went into a slow burn when they moved over to a thick palm and fern fringe at one of the side the wings off the bar, which, however, wasn't so thick that I couldn't, in short order, discern the soles of pale-white feet set wide apart and waving in the air and the hint of a moving brown bare ass between them, the toes of the feet scrunching up in rhythm with the movement of the butt cheeks. This was a location I'd used hundreds of times myself to draw attention and advertise my wares. How dare he, I thought. He'd not only ruined my entrance but stolen my turf and my moves at the same time. All eyes would now be on the greenery until they saw the final curling of the toes on the feet and the jerk on the brown buns and heard the cries of release.

But that wasn't really true. The twinks huddled around several of the tables were actually watching me. But they were whispering among themselves and smirking and laughing and pointing while trying not to make too obvious that they were pointing at me.

At me!

My world collapsed in that instant. And I could feel my heart breaking into a hundred pieces.

I looked around the bar area. Realization set in that everyone there was at least twenty years younger than I was. Even the bartenders. All except one, though. There was a guy, probably in his late thirties, trim and ivy league-looking even in his baggy orange swimming trunks, sitting at a table by himself at the outer edge of the bar area. One of the twinks had approached him as he caught my eye. He waved the student away, though. He had his eyes trained on me.

If my tan wasn't so good, everyone there could have seen that I had turned red as a beet. I'd always been a little older than the clientele. That had been part of my package. The twinks liked getting laid by someone obviously a little more experienced than they were. Most of these kids wanted a dominating daddy fucker. Many the time it had been my buns undulating between those spread twink legs in the palm and fern fringe until toes curled and some young university snot felt the filling out of the bulb of my condom deep inside his ass.

But a twenty year difference between me and all but one other? And I had about ten years on him even. Why hadn't I seen it coming.

My hope now was that the rustling of the palms and the moans increasing in volume from that direction would galvanize all of the attention under the thatched roof there and I could pick the pieces of my heart off the floor and quietly melt away.

But the thirtysomething guy was rising from the table and walking in my direction. When he reached me, he smiled and leaned over and whispered to me, "You got a car and a location and want to ride me?"

Grateful for any sense of an honorable exit, I croaked, "Out on the curb; the silver Sebring convertible."

I drove to a secluded spot just short of rocks and surf at the back of a burned out mansion down the coast toward the keys, while the hole—that's how I thought of all the guys committed to getting fucked, because by this point I was only focused on getting my dick sheathed someplace warm and tight and shuddering and backed up by moaning and begs for mercy—rolled the waistband of my Speedo down under my nuts and expertly sucked me off, time after time bringing me to the brink and then backing me off and, when the ejaculation finally came, swallowing me and holding me inside him until I'd softened.

I'd checked the location out beforehand and it was still available and private. So many of my favorite places had changed and lost their usefulness in the six years I'd been gone.

Once in place, I turned to the hole and took his mouth with mine and swabbed his inner cheeks, tasting the essence of what I'd deposited there while we were moving down the ocean highway. I didn't usually do much kissy face; my technique was based on taking the hole's breath away and making him immediately lose control and either go frenetically wild in surrender or beg for his life in the face of fast-developing power drilling. But I'll have to admit that I needed some time to recharge from the hole's surprisingly expert blow job.

I made the hole strip his trunks off. Then I spread an extra-large terrycloth beach towel on the rear decking of the convertible and pushed the hole down on his back on the towel, with his legs hanging down into the backseat compartment.

Than I overpowered him with my body, still stinging from the revelation at the twink bar, angry and, for the first time, thinking I had something to prove to the world. Panicked, because, as I've already asked, where does an aged-out fuck stud go from there that isn't humiliating?

I knew I could dick him into melting submission, but I wanted to prove there was more to me than that—especially since he had sucked me better than I knew I could do. And he was a little smirky at how well he'd held me in check during the blow job and had made me want it.

Having him on his back on the trunk of the Sebring, I covered his body with mine, one arm laced around his back and holding his chest tight to mine. I outweighed him by quite a bit and out muscled him by even more. Pushing my thighs between his, I reached down with the other hand and grabbed his balls and squeezed.

His eyes bugged out and he yelped. This had been completely unexpected, as I meant for it to be.

"You came out here to be fucked, good buddy. But you are going to be fucked with a big F. You understand that? You want to back out?"

His eyes were watering, and I knew he was having difficulty forming the words because all of his attention was centered on his aching balls.

"Uhhh."

"No need to answer, because you aren't getting out of this. You are going to feel fucked before I even dick you—and then you are going to feel fucked with a capital F."

Holding him close just like that and staring down into his face to savor every tortured and impassioned expression there as he writhed under me and shuddered and trembled and shot off twice before I even got my dick in him. I'd brought a month's supply of lube and used it liberally with my free hand to slowly open and spread his ass. His hole was slack, which fit my plan perfectly. I worked it with my fingers until I could get my fist in, him screaming and groaning and moaning as I stretched his ass channel as he'd never been stretched before. And then the surprise on his face when he realized that my fist was in him and he'd taken it.

I fist-fucked him—something the real macho types in Iraq had loved and that I had sorta looked forward to surprising some snotty college twink with—while he went from yowling and writhing and panting and struggling against me to softly moaning and whimpering and just laying there, his eyes glazing over, all of the fight out of him. Then I withdrew my fist but left my fingers in and spread them and inserted my hard dick between them and slowly withdrew them as my dick plowed deeper inside him.

The cocking, when it came, came in a flood of relief to him, even as big and thick as I was, and he was pushed over the edge of lust and passion—paradise so much closer now after having gone through hell. He wrapped his legs around my hips and started going with the plowing. We were moving as one, ultimate fucking unit. We came simultaneously and then I turned him on his belly and we fucked on and on and came almost simultaneously once again.

My spirits soared. I hadn't lost it. He was putty around my pistoning dick.

He begged me for more, and I turned him on his side and side-split him back into paradise.

Spent, we both lay there, arms entwined, staring up into the sun, our chests heaving from the effort.

And then he calmly told me the fuck would cost me $100 and he could take credit cards.

My heart broke into a million and one pieces.