Solo at Haulover, South Florida’s Nude Beach: Part II

13 Nov

Posting for Saturday, November 13, 2010

I have to admit, being a man’s man all my life, I haven’t seen many naked women up close and personal. And even though I can appreciate the female form as a work of art, the ladies I saw that day on my lonesome own at Haulover looked more like fat hairless bears whose tits were bigger than their ass cheeks, and who had gone through some penile amputation.

In the midst of all this naked blubber, she/he emerged, accompanied, arm in arm, by two-thin-as- rails, smooth-as-silk, spike- haired gay boys. She/he was awe inspiring, if I could use that description. Statuesque, she had flowing blonde hair that cascaded over her soft shoulders, firm round Sophia Loren hips, breasts, and ass. Plus one of the biggest dicks on the beach. (From a distance, I thought it was a thick bush of pubic hair.) All I could think of was how that wonderful piece of meat might one day soon end up on the cutting room floor. What a waste! Hope she/he was playing top in the meantime!

Meandering between the blankets to add to the afternoon’s bizarre character was the popsicle man (how appropriate) pushing his white cooler on big white tires and hustling his stiff dicks-on-a-stick totally naked.

Then there was Tat-Man, a tan, nice bodied guy tattooed from shaved head to toe, yes, including his tool, who looked like a walking version of the Sunday comics.

As I was flipping through Hotspots, one of the local gay rags, that I had picked up the night before, I overheard two tall, razor thin guys, one fifty something, the other his senior by decades, bantering away like two simpletons.  Either it was Alzheimer’s or it’s true what they say about the Florida sun baking the brain.

So who should approach my blanket a minute later but the older of the dynamic duo, Mr. Leatherflesh. I looked up. He smiled demurely. “Don’t you know who I am?” he asked.

I tried to be nice. “No, should I?”

What I wanted to say was, “If you were behind one of the glory holes at Slammers sucking my dick the other night, I’m sorry but I only recognize mouths with my dick in them.”

“I’m a friend of Todd and Archie’s. We met at their last party.”

Ah yes, Todd and Archie, who I love dearly, two high priests of Lauderdale’s dinner party circuit.

“Sorry, I’m lousy at names and faces,” I lied.

He introduced himself. I did the same.

“Well, I just wanted to say hello,” he said, shaking my hand. Then he returned to his blanket and I to my Hotspots.

“See,” I overheard him say quaintly to his companion, “all you have to do is go over and say hello.”

Sure.

I knew it was time to leave when another crinkled bald man with a black mustache who had been lying on a blanket in front of me walked back from some unspecified spot behind me, coated from head to toe in sand like those Nubian princes you see in an issue of “National Geographic.”

After all, I had a hottie scheduled back at my place at 5 and I didn’t want all this aversion therapy to kill my urges. Though I’m sure the Religious Right would be nodding its royal head in affirmation and Fellini would be drooling lasciviously over all this mayhem.

Tomorrow: The Huge Cock: Is Bigger Really Better?

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