Johnie

You know, I nearly didn’t take my summer holiday this year.

I’d been due to fly out to Jamaica. But, when I read in the papers about the riots and civil unrest there, I almost called the travel agent to call the whole thing off.

In the end I didn’t do that. And, as it turned out, I couldn’t have made a better decision.

On the day after I arrived on the island, I headed for one of the bigger tourist beaches. Safety in numbers, I thought.

It was a straight beach, of course. Not the sort I’d usually choose, but in any case I’d heard that Jamaica wasn’t such a gay-friendly place.

Lying back on the bank of sand that lay all along this section of the shore and offered good cover from the inquisitive eyes of guests in the beachside hotels, Johnie pushed his shorts down over his thighs to reveal a perfectly proportioned dick.

OK, maybe not a huge one like black guys in porno films always seem to have, but still it was a thick, juicy, succulent one.

The type my old friend Donald always calls a “beer can dick”.

And right above that was a patch of dark fur - not too much - in which I was already longing to bury myself.

Any pretence of subtlety - or even modesty - went right out of the window in the next few minutes as Johnie quickly got rid of what little clothing he still had on.

Maybe I’d had too many beers already, but that afternoon it seemed to me that, with his smooth skin burnished to a deep golden glow and all the muscles of his torso and thighs rippling like the smooth contours of the sandy beach, he was truly a sun god come down to earth.

Meanwhile, of course, I still kept clicking away with my camera. I knew that this was a once in a lifetime experience and was determined to make sure that I’d be able to recall every detail of this afternoon - and, with luck, the evening and the night to come - over and over again.

As I mentioned earlier, before I’d left the USA I’d been warned that, in visiting Jamaica, I could expect to find a state of civil unrest.

But it was fair to say that the biggest state of unrest I had experienced so far was undoubtedly the one in my pants.

The first thing that struck me was the number of overweight, pasty-white Caucasian women taking a vacation on their own and clearly hoping to score with one of the local lads.

It obviously made no difference to them whether that was a waiter, a taxi driver or one of the dozens of beach bums who swarmed onto the beach every day, flexing their muscles - and I mean all of their muscles - and hoping to catch the eye of some rich American woman out for a bit of a thrill.

That’s where I first saw Johnie.

Johnie was clearly a beach gigolo just like all the rest of them.

And yet he clearly wasn’t like all the rest of them.

While all the others made their intentions quite as obvious as most of the women did, Johnie was more subtle.

Or maybe he was just lazier.

He sat on the beach, listening to his tiny radio, staring dreamily out to sea from behind impenetrable dark glasses, and waiting for someone to approach him.

So while other guys got snapped up in the blink of an eye and whisked back to beachside hotels for a hot time in the sack, Johnie just sat there, reminding me of nothing so much as an Easter Island statue looking out at the waves.

It was only when, after a couple of hours immobility, he stood up to stretch his perfect body that I noticed he’d loosened his swimming shorts to reveal a dense patch of curly pubes along with the base of what looked like a pretty juicy black dick. Funnily enough, there was no hair on his chest or running down from his belly button to his crotch, so I guessed that he was no more than 18 years old or so.

I just had time to grab my camera as he held the pose. I’d been with the occasional black or blatino boy back in New York, but I had the sense to know that this one was pretty special.

Johnie must have heard the camera shutter’s click.

He looked around slowly.

Gee, did this kid do everything slowly? I hoped it wouldn’t be too long before I’d have the chance to find out.