Robin

You know how it is.

Sometimes you see a hot picture - or you read a story - and, for some reason you can't explain, it just sticks with you.

You just can't forget about it.

It's not the boy's dick.

That's just the average side of average in size.

Nor his ass.

You probably need a strong magnifying glass to make out that tight little hole at all. The kid's clenching it shut for dear life, as though he half expects the photographer to shove that Nikon zoom right up there any minute.

And, when it's a particular story that turns you on, it's usually not the quality. After all, isn't it always just some variation on the usual "I picked him up… thought he was straight… got him home… he couldn't wait to get out of his clothes… real slut in bed… love forever" scenario?

Shakespeare it isn't.

No, often I think it's something else entirely that can grab your interest.

With me, it's often the small details in the pictures. I'm the sort of guy who spends a lot of time - with that same magnifying glass - looking at things like the titles of the books on the shelves in the background.

(Have you noticed, by the way, how often they're guides to opera or the stately homes of Europe? So that's how pornographers spend their money…)

I like to be a bit of a detective - to try to work out where the pics were, or were not, taken.

Sometimes that's easy.

After all, it's hard to believe in a story about a hot escort in New York when it's illustrated by photos of some half-starved kid standing in front of the Kremlin.

And then there's one supposedly set in Venice but which, for all the water you can see, could just as well have been shot in the Arizona desert.

But a few months ago I thought I'd found the real thing. Right here on this site.

Maybe you remember it too?

There were three or four sets of pictures. Sure, the boys in them were damn hot - sexy Latino kids - but what really grabbed me was the location, a really beautiful building, set in lush, tropical gardens.

According to the text, the photos were taken at a gay "hotel" just outside Bogata, Columbia, though I suspected that, if it was a hotel at all, the place was the sort where most guests check in with their young companion for just a couple of hours.

But, as I was due to fly to Bogata on a business trip just a few weeks later, I set myself the challenge of finding it.

That turned out to be far easier than I'd expected.

Thanks to the internet I tracked down a real estate office specialising in gay lettings and sales.

And, as soon as I'd described the place to them, they were virtually thrusting a set of keys into my hand.

No one was available to accompany me but, they said, it would be fine if I just dropped the keys back into the mailbox later.

When I reached the place I recognised it at once.

No question.

OK, maybe it was a bit more rundown than it had looked in the internet pictures - but it had been deserted for almost six months, I'd been told, and, because my visit was unexpected, no-one had gone ahead of me to clean up.

Someone was there ahead of me, though.

As I stepped onto the roof terrace, already familiar to me through pictures, I stopped dead.

There was a boy, sleeping in a chair.

Actually, he wasn't asleep. As he heard me step out onto the tiled floor, he lazily opened his eyes and smiled slightly.

And then, still keeping his eyes fully fixed on mine and without saying a word, he lifted his shirt a little with one hand and moved the other to the waist of his pants...

I just stood there, not knowing what was going on or what to do next.

But the kid knew.

And he was ready to show me.

As I didn't seem to be making any objection to him being there - or to what he was doing - he just carried on.

And I just stood there watching.

For the first time the boy gave a real smile.

And he sure had something in his pants worth smiling about, too.

For the next 15 minutes or so, I got the full floorshow.

Unexpurgated.

Triple XXX rated.

I got ass…

…I got dick…

…oh yeah, I got dick big time…

…I got cum…

…gallons of the stuff…

…and, after the show, I got the boy.

After the boy, of course, I got the house. I went straight back to the real estate office and took the place on a year's let.

You see, I'd discovered that very little had changed.

The local boys still came round.

When there was no-one at home they just climbed up to the roof to sit in the sun, drink a few beers and smoke some dope (we're in Columbia, after all)

And now they knew there was going to be a new tenant in the house - a rich American with lots of money to spend on his new friends - things weren't going to change a great deal.

Indeed, for both the boys and certainly for me, they were about to get even better.