Beach Fire

There’s nothing quite like a lakeside party on a sun-drenched day to make you feel alive.  After splashing around, waterskiing, drinking cold cans of beer, and generally frolicking in the sun with friends and coworkers I felt nicely browned by the rays and refreshed by the waves.  We had a great time.  There were striped bikinis and girls with lake water softened hair.  There were beach studs with cargo shorts and tanned pecs, and classic rock, oldies, hip hop and indie rock pouring out of cheap portable radios.  We started early and played hard.  People began to trickle away by twos and threes as the shadows got longer, so that by sundown only myself and Adrian were left.  Our dirty feet faced the small fire I had made on the beach, and our arms were draped casually on the cooler – which still harbored an unacceptable quantity of beer cans floating about in icy melt water.  We were doing our best to address that situation.  Adrian was one of the newer guys on my project at work, maybe a couple years younger than me.  We had hung out once or twice, worked out at the gym a couple times and caught a beer after work now and then.  Nice guy, easy smile.  Good ideas.  Sharp sense of humor.

So it was that we were talking and laughing in the orange crackle of the flames as the big red ball of the sun inched toward the inky horizon, sipping beers and shooting the shit about nothing much in particular.  In our trunks and wind-dried t-shirts.  Adrian fished around in the pocket of his blue jeans, which were discarded over a dry driftwood branch near the fire.  “You get high?” he asked, producing a joint.  Every once in a while, I assured him, and soon enough we were wreathed in aromatic smoke and feeling gently euphoric in the last drowning beams of light, as dusk settled in.

It felt good to be hanging out with Adrian.  I always liked the guy, he seemed down to earth and sensible but he also had a lot of compassion for the people around him.  He treated everybody in our building great, from the janitors to the managers.  It was the mark of a future leader, I thought.  I admired that strength in him.  He was also just a naturally good looking guy, in great shape.  I’m generally what one calls a lady’s man, but I do occasionally feel a pull towards specimens of my own gender, and if I’m being honest with myself I found Adrian to be attractive, both physically and in his personality.  That night by the lake I couldn’t help but note that his trunks were kind of tight-fitting, too, outlining his smoothly muscled thighs and roundly cupping what was no doubt a nice package.

I chalked some of it up to being stoned, but I thought I caught a glint in Adrian’s eye. There was some quality in his smile and the way he inclined his head toward me while we talked.  His good eye contact.  After a while he asked me about my recent time in Japan.

Ah, Japan.  Greatest work adventure of my life.  The project had sent me there for two months to study best practices at our partner firm, but what I remembered the most was the food and the night life.  The culture there was so different and intriguing to me.  I spent all my free afternoons and evenings walking around, drinking in the architecture and the mannerisms of the people, not to mention sampling the cuisine and imbibing my fair share of sake.  It was winter, and a matsuri – a festival – was coming.  The Hadaka Matsuri.  I recounted this to Adrian that night as the stars started peaking out of the deepening sky.  The Naked Festival.  Not exactly naked, per se, I assured him.  Nearly every able bodied man participated, from youths to elders, stripped to the skin in the chill and snow, with only tabi socks and a minimal loincloth – called a fundoshi – for protection.  Adrian was listening attentively, his head tilted and his sea green eyes practically shimmering in the sparks from the fire pit.  My hosts in Japan had cajoled me into joining them for this festival, so there I stood, actually naked, in the freezing dressing tent, while a Japanese man wrapped a long strip of white cloth around my waist and through my legs.  The fundoshi, for the scant pouched thong it was, began as a long roll of wide white cloth.  He gave it a mighty pull, cinching it all tight and catching me a little off-guard in the process, but when I recovered from my surprise I discovered that my feared “wedgie” really didn’t feel half bad, I found myself surrounded by similarly attired men all drinking sake, chanting, and all seemingly in fabulous physical shape.  A sea of broad shoulders and taut stomachs.

We ran to the temple, thousands of us, in a single stream of flesh and steam, pushing and jostling and chanting while gathered onlookers in parkas doused us repeatedly with buckets of icy water.  Steam rose off the tangling river of men.  At the temple all hell broke loose when the sacred shingi – sticks blessed with good luck by the priests – were tossed into the crowd.  What had seemed somewhat organized and gregarious – if not courteous -- became a writhing mob of slippery bodies.  People clambered right over top of one another in the melee.  A few punches got thrown.  I grew thankful of how snug my fundoshi had been tied, as it was keeping my tackle out of harm’s way, mostly, though the men around me weren’t shy about grabbing me by the thong of twisted fabric between my cheeks.  The whole thing was very full contact, and over in a blur of arms and chests and buttocks and legs.  Somehow, one of the crowd had fought his way up the temple steps with the shingi and had been granted good fortune for the year.  The crowd slowly dispersed, though the loinclothed men seemed in no hurry to put clothes back on.  Hugs and high fives were exchanged, men wandered off to the bars arm in arm.  It was one of the most physically draining, exhilarating, bruising events I’d ever been part of, and I for one couldn’t wait to unwind the fundoshi and get back into my simple briefs and familiar khakis.  I spent the rest of the night trying to warm the core of my body back up.

“Did you keep the… fun…?” Adrian asked.  The fundoshi?  No, I answered, but I bought a few before I left the country as souvenirs.  I still wore them every once in a while.  I hesitated for a second.  Did I tell Adrian the rest of my adventures?  The parts I had left out of all my accounts to friends and family alike, but which fired my secret desires and frequently populated my daydreams?  Maybe it was the pot, or the beer, or both – or maybe it was Adrian – but I felt a rush of honesty consume me.  What the hell, he seemed to get really interested in my talk of loincloths and perspiring crowds, even asking me a few more questions.  Were they difficult to tie?  How comfortable are they?  I assured him that after a little getting used to they’re quite comfy; supportive and soft and barely there so long as you didn’t yank them as tight as the guy in the dressing tent did.  My heart sped up a little as I reconsidered telling him about the rest of my trip, but before I could dwell on it too much longer I plunged ahead.

It was a couple weeks after the festival that I found a flier out on one of my nightly rambles that piqued my curiosity.  Pictured were the bare torsos and legs of three or four men, swathed in fundoshis.  They didn’t look quite like the festival variations, though, these fundoshis were different colors and were even more exposing than the buttock-baring loincloth I had worn while chasing the shingi around.  Other than some kanji I couldn’t read, all the flier said was an address and a date.  I arrived at the address, a bar called Saburo, on that day to find that it was in fact a fundoshi themed bar – all the patrons wore fundoshis and fundoshis only.  I bought a white fundoshi patterned with small navy blue dots and the doorman helped me put it on, rather more friendly than the man at the festival.  Adrian was entirely rapt, following my every word, so I went into some detail.  The doorman cupped my balls while he drew the fabric around my waist. It had felt supremely sensual. Not sexual, but sensual – with the potential to become sexual.  I could have sworn the bulge in Adrian’s trunks shifted and grew a little.

“What was the bar like?” he asked, and I told him that it was full of men of all ages wearing fundoshi.  Slender young twinks in bright red or navy blue fundoshis, heavier and hairier men in patterned fundoshis, tattooed men in black and older men in white.  The drinks were expertly poured and a little strong, and every once in a while groups of two or three would slip away to curtained booths and rooms toward the back of the bar.

“What was going on back there?” my young guest asked, and I fished him another cold can from the cooler, noting that he for sure had sprouted an erection – it was outlined nicely through the fitted fabric of his trunks and even threatened to poke out above the waistband if it grew much bigger.  But Adrian seemed unaware of it, as he was hanging on my every word.  Well, I said, sex of various kinds.  The tang of sweat and semen permeated the air.  It was all very discreet, but obviously men were hooking up in the back rooms.  As the night carried on, I became aware that many of my fellow bar goers were in various states of arousal, I said, glancing knowingly over at Adrian’s bulging crotch.  Kind of like you are.

Adrian’s cheeks flushed a little and he even stammered when he asked me if I had visited any of the rooms at the back of the bar.  I said a young, lithe man in a light blue fundoshi had approached me at the bar, touching my arm and speaking Japanese to me, words far beyond my rudimentary understanding of the language.  We shared a cocktail and then I allowed him to lead me back beyond one of the curtains.  As we passed other rooms I could hear ecstatic gasps and pleasurable noises coming from them.  I caught a glimpse of two men kissing while one rolled the other mans nipples between his fingertips.  Adrian’s hand was on his thigh now, resting lightly but you could almost feel how badly he wanted to touch his quivering erection.

“What did you two do?” he asked breathlessly.  The young man slid the pouch of my fundoshi over like a curtain on a rod, while he caressed the insides of my legs, and gave me a fantastic blowjob.  Right before I came he popped my cock out of his mouth and I shot five or six times all over his face and shoulders.  I returned the favor, it was only polite.  I nibbled on the length of his rod through the cloth of his fundoshi, up and down the whole shaft, until I was able to work his little blue loincloth loose.  His boner fairly jumped right into my waiting mouth and I serviced his length until he was groaning for release.  Then I took him out of my mouth and pumped him with my hands, and he unloaded on my chest over and over.

I let that sink in in the silence.  Adrian’s mouth was open a little and his eyes were wide and shining.  “Wow,” he said.  “That sounds amazing.”  I told him I spent nearly every night of my remaining weeks at Saburo or one of the other fundoshi bars that my new friends introduced me too.  “I would too,” he said softly.  He was quiet for a minute.  “Do you still know how to put on a, a fundoshi?”  He asked.  It was tricky in the firelight, but now I thought I did see the pink tip of his erection showing just above the elastic of his trunks.  I definitely saw a small dark spot on the fabric right below the gathered waistband.  And his other hand had strayed under his t-shirt and was lightly, unconsciously caressing his taut ab muscles.

Yes I do, I answered.  Want me to show you?  Adrian nodded eagerly so I trotted up to the house and selected a couple fundoshis from my dresser.  One was the blue-spotted one I had first worn back in Japan.  The other was a dark red, almost burgundy.

A fundoshi is just a long strip of cloth, lightweight, maybe 10 inches wide but over 8 feet long.  I handed the spotted one to Adrian and he handled it curiously, almost reverently, turning it over in his hands like he had no idea how that long ribbon of cloth became an elegant wrapping around your waist and genitals.  His handling it had the desired effect.  “Can you show me how to wear it?” he asked, a little huskily.  Definitely, I said.  Let’s get you out of that shirt and shorts!

Adrian pulled the faded Joy Division t-shirt up over his broad, muscular shoulders, giving me a nice view of his strong back.  He turned to hang it on the dead branch with his jeans.  A perfect six pack.  Deep v-grooves plunging down his abdomen disappeared into his swimming shorts.  He hooked his thumbs in the elastic of his trunks and worked them down over his erection, which sprang free and stood out from his body in a long smooth arc.  Nice, I said.  It was a truly beautiful cock, big, flaring at the head and with a tight-yet-overstuffed scrotum hugging its underside.  I noticed he wasn’t shaved clean, but he was nicely trimmed.  A small clear sphere of prostatic fluid shone on the tip of his cockslit.  I reached over and dabbed it with my finger, making his rod bob a bit, then raised my fingers to my lips and tasted his salty manliness.  He seemed surprised, but not at all unpleasantly.  Okay, now turn your back to me, I said, and he obeyed, displaying one of the rounder and more perfect asses I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing by firelight.

I draped the blue spotted fundoshi over his left shoulder, expertly adjusting it so that the free cloth hung to his ankles.  I indulged my imagination a bit, picturing the gauzy cloth draped lightly over his hard on and how good that must feel, and I let my daydream manifest by dragging the fabric lightly side to side.  Adrian’s breath quickened a bit, his shoulders rose and fell.  I was close enough behind him that I could smell his sweet clean scent, all lake water clean and fresh dry sweat, with a slight tint of natural masculine musk.  Intoxicating!  I relished his delicate male aromas before reaching between his legs and pulling the cloth back.  I made sure my hand lightly dragged across his undercarriage, those deliciously egg-shape balls and the muscular round mound of his taint.  I twisted it as I pulled, drawing the cloth up between his perfect ass cheeks, and wrapped the roped results around his waist to the right, encountering his rampant erection as I drew the belted cloth across his tummy.  Don’t know how we’re going to get that thing all tucked in here, I said.

“Sorry,” said Adrian.

Don’t be.  You have a beautiful cock, I replied.  And it was true.  I reached around him with my left hand and gripped his smooth tool.  My thumb and forefinger barely met around its thickness, and it was almost long enough, engorged, to look disproportionate.  Almost.  It curved neither to the right or the left, but pointed straight up to his lightly furred navel, curving inward just a bit.  I gave it an appreciative squeeze and caress.  Adrian leaned back into me, just a bit.  He was so clearly turned on!  My own hardened member pressed against his butt through my swim trunks.  Unlike him, I curve slightly to the left – what can I say, I’m a right hander.  Years of jerking off, maybe it was compensating for that?  Pressing against the soft give of his buttocks felt wild and, quite honestly, the word yummy comes to mind.  I let my fingertips lightly trail up and down the front of Adrian’s penis, the “corpus spongiosum,” if I remembered my anatomy lessons right.  He sighed and nestled against me.

To allow for his straining love monster, I ran the fundoshi’s belt a little higher around his hips than I normally would have, passing the twisted belt over the portion he was holding flat, to create the fundoshi’s pouch.  Sadly, I had to withdraw my left hand from the natural-feeling grip I had had on his shaft, but I busied it lightly caressing his amazingly muscled stomach and abs.  Dipping my hand lower to brush over his now fabric-enfolded penis, I happily discovered that one of the spots on the front of his half-tied fundoshi was more silky pre-cum.  I used my thumb tip to rub the slippery fluid all around the velvety bulb that tipped his thick manly stalk. Then I finished circling his waist with the twisted cloth, passing it underneath itself at the small of his back before cinching it tight and tucking it under the newly-formed waistband for safekeeping.

Then, letting the draped portion of the fundoshi fall from where it had been draped over his shoulder, I caught that up and pulled it firmly between his legs after the first part, forming a double layer to the pouch that cradled his ecstatic manhood.  I looped it around the thonged portion between the smooth orbs of his ass, twisting it as I went.  Finally, I crossed the two ends of cloth over each other, pulling the whole thing snug, and looped each around its on side of the belted portion.  Then I gave his beautiful ass a nice solid slap.  I think he sighed.  There was a pink print of my hand on his right cheek.  Turn around, I said.

Adrian turned around and I appreciated him from head to toe.  His hair had fallen in a dark wing across one of his eyes, and he smiled in obvious enjoyment of our beach fun.  Wide shoulders, slab like pecs with nipples sticking straight out, abdominal muscles that looked like an ad for Bowflex.  My fundoshi looked great on him, outlining the straight pipe it contained in the shadowy flickers of fire.  Great legs.  Adrian struck a pose with his hand on one hip, the other rubbing his chest.  Then he stretched his arms up to the sky, bringing them together behind his head and thrusting his pelvis out slightly.  Ha, slightly!  That cock looked like a train about to come out of a tunnel.  “How does it look?” he asked.

Perfect. Natural. Hot. I said.  “Put yours on,” he replied.  I stripped enthusiastically.  I’m not quite as tall as Adrian, not quite as broad, and not quite as toned – though if he weren’t there to compare myself to, I’d say I’m in rather top shape.  I’m a little hairier, too, though not by a lot.  I demonstrated just how quickly a person could tie a fundoshi on themselves, quickly lacing the brick red cloth around my hips and loins.

“Mmmm, nice,” said Adrian, admiring me with wandering eyes.  “I really like these!” he exclaimed, running fingers over his own fundoshi.  “I think I’ve seen pictures before, but I never realized it’s just a clever knot of cloth. And it feels really good!  Really… really sexy.”  His eyes ran up and down my body.

You definitely look really sexy, I said.  “So do you,” he replied.  “You’re like the perfect man.”  I was pretty flattered that a guy like Adrian would say that to me, I swear my heart skipped a beat in my chest.  I felt like I was at the top of the rollercoaster, about to take the exhilarating plunge!  He took a couple steps closer to me, and I met him halfway.  We could feel each other’s breath; deep, ragged, hungry breaths.  Adrian put his hands on my ribs and caressed up and down.  I laid my palms against his muscular pecs, after a moment letting them slide down to his small nipples.  We each thrust our hips outward toward each other, almost unthinking, letting our cocks lightly touch and brush through the tented fabric.  There wasn’t much talking after that.  Adrian moved slightly side to side.  We pressed our cocks together more forcefully, grinding on eachother’s stiff rods.  The feeling was electrifying.  We were both sooo hard.  Our hands continued to play over each others torsos, but we were largely unaware of them. All focus was on our crotches. We were essentially sword fighting through the thin fabric of the fundoshis.  We rubbed on each other for several moments, letting the thrill build and getting comfortable with our newfound sexual contact.  Adrian seemed quite comfortable with it, actually.  So was I, but there was still a nervous electricity in the air enveloping us.  Who would make that first move?

It was his hand that first strayed down to my loinclothed package and felt my balls and shaft through the cloth.  He let his fingers wander behind my balls, pressing and kneading the muscly mound of my perineum.  I let my hand drop down to the front of his fundoshi, too, gliding over that magnificent cock and massaging his balls.   I moved fluidly around behind him, pressing my raging boner against the knotted cloth that cleaved his lovely bubble butt.  My hands circled his chest and I let my fingers splay out over his musculature, then down and over his belly, then up and down the long cock swathed in his fundoshi. Leaning down quickly, I fished a mostly-melted chip of ice out of the cooler, straightened up, and rubbed it over his left nipple while my other hand continued to work his packaged tool.  Within moments, the ice had completely melted and run down his sexy ribs.  I was rolling his balls around in my fingers when his hands circled backward around my waist and began working at the windings of my fundoshi.

No, I said, let’s leave them on.  He seemed a little surprised, but lest he be disappointed, I moved back in front of him, slid the pouch of mine to one side and let my dick jump free.  He saw how I did it and moved the fabric covering his own love-prong to one side too.  We stood there with our cocks quivering for about a second before he brushed his tip against my tip.  The raw smooth skin felt even more electric than through the fabric.  Using my hand, I traced my cock tip down the front ridge of Adrian’s impressive member.  We swung our hips back and forth in wider and wider sways, our curved penises brushing and crossing one another.  Adrian’s dick was still leaking copious pre-cum, how did he do that?  Mine was merely tipped with a small glistening droplet.  Oh well.  I took both our cocks in my hand, rubbing his slippery prostatic ooze all over both of us.  The “sweet spots” – our “frenulums” – were touching, and I moved my thick stick up and down against his.  He sighed long and deeply.  He circled our two dicks with one of his hands, too, and together we began caressing our stalks.  It wasn’t long before we were both groaning with pleasure, any residual coyness melted away.

I broke my hand away just long enough to spit in my palm, and Adrian followed suit.  Our saliva mixed together as our hands massaged our sticky-slick paired cock shafts, working from the velvety bulbs down to where the two tall erections rooted in our bodies.  Light-fingered caresses of our balls mixed in with long strokes of the two aching dicks.  We replenished our spittle as needed, both sighing and gasping with mounting pleasure-chills, our cocks glistening in the fire-light.

We worked and worked our hands up and down our slickened shafts, marveling at the sensuous thrills and quivers traveling all over our bodies.  I was dribbling pre-cum at a much higher volume now, and our twinned dicks were wet and frothy with it as we eagerly jacked one another off.  Our foreheads were touching, but besides his lips lightly brushing mine once, we didn’t kiss at all.  Other than our dicks, of course.  Our dicks were engaged in a shameless makeout session, rubbing smoothly against one another in an impassioned cock-to-cock embrace, slippery in the grips of our buzzing fingertips from clear pre-cum, saliva and sweat.  Though the night air had cooled, the sand was still warm and beads of perspiration had broken out all over our flushed skins.

I grabbed Adrian’s fundoshi by the three-way knot at the back, and he responded with an appreciative growl.  While our hands still worked our engorged rods, I tugged upward on his loincloth rhythmically.  As the blue-spotted fabric still had his balls trapped in it, it made his cock jump and spring every time I compressed his ball sack.  Adrian’s teeth were bared but his eyes shone with pleasure.  He grunted at my tugs, which I interpreted as encouragement.  His own free had gripped the belt of my own fundoshi, performing a similar tugging on the sturdy cloth.

Our other hands were each encircled around wildy stiff shafts, our cockslits widened like tiny open mouths as our hands slid up and down, rolling our cocks back and forth against eachother as well as stroking them up and down their lengths.  Our sensitive frenulums danced against one another, sticky and tingly, and the whirring pleasure took hold of us as pulsations that were most definitely of the pre-orgasmic kind.  I think each of us tried to hold back as long as we could, drunk on the tingles that were amplifying to a fever pitch.  Adrian caught his breath, his cock seemed to contract slightly in my hand as if it were hunkering down – fattening and flaring before stretching back suddenly to its full majestic length and releasing a torrent of pearly goo.

Adrian’s ejaculation caught me across my left cheek and pec, a hot stream of sticky fluid that was followed by several more pumps, splashing his own stomach and running slickly all over our fingers and shafts.  I could feel my own orgasm building, and I used his warm milky cum as extra lube, swiftly working my cock against his still trembling and oozing stick.  My first squirt cleared his shoulder, disappearing into the sandy beach somewhere behind him.  The second and third painted his belly with even more creamy spunk.  We collapsed into an embrace that mingled the semen on our stomachs, chests, cocks, and fingers.  Adrian kissed me wetly now, dabbing his lips with his own semen from my cheek and pressing his slickened mouth to mine.  I tasted his warm saliva and the clean musk of his fresh cum.  We rubbed our ejaculate all over our chests, shining in the firelight, our dicks quivering and oozing goo and slowly relaxing back to non-erect states.

Later, we reclined arm-in-arm against the cooler, the fire re-stoked with fresh wood.  I had tucked myself back into my still-tied fundoshi, Adrian hadn’t bothered.  His impressive-even-when-soft cock lay against his inner thigh with the pouch of his loincloth remaining slid over to one side.  Our mixed cum had dried on our bodies.  Quite honestly, we smelled great!  Sweat, semen, some beer, the barely noticeable skunky tang of marijuana. It was the greatest night that summer.  Not the last, but a memorable first encounter that was perfect in every way.  Adrian slipped into my bed that night and we slept, blissfully spent. In the morning we had a soapy repeat performance in my shower, sans fundoshis, with similarly explosive results.

Afterward we dressed, shared coffee and agreed to keep our encounter entirely to ourselves.  Discretion, especially at the small, gossipy office we worked at, was the wisest path, even though I felt like skipping through the hillsides singing his name.

He left that morning wrapped in the fundoshi I had given him, stained with our mixed semen from the night before, tucked inside his jeans, his t-shirt stretched over those perfect pecs.  I could see his erected nipples through the thin jersey cotton.  His ass looks amazing in jeans!

It was a few days later that I received a short text from Adrian:  “I got a promotion xoxoxo!”

The following afternoon, a manila envelope arrived by inter-office courier. I unsealed it curiously and emptied the contents on my desk.  There was an airline folder with a plane ticket, a travel itinerary, and a short typed note:

“Hi, this is your new project supervisor Adrian Larkson.  I believe that the practices you investigated in Japan require additional scrutiny, and I’m hoping you’ll accompany me on a one-month fact-finding trip to more fully explore some of the options you uncovered during your previous visit.”

I smiled and folded the letter back up.  Japan, with Adrian?  This could only be good.