Planning a Vacation in Lauderdale? Here’s Where to Find HIM: 2

Recently, I had a hankering to take my clothes off and lay butt naked against the sea breeze at Haulover Park, South Florida’s nude beach, but my two gym buddies who usually accommodate me said they had ass aches (more likely, last minute webdates). Being the independent prick that I am, I decided to go solo and enjoy the day anyway. What I encountered, though, besides the sun and the surf – it was one stereotypically beautiful Florida beach day – was something out of a Federico Fellini movie.

For those of you non-film buffs out there, Fellini was a rather famous and somewhat notorious Italian film director, hot in the 50’s and 60’s for his gritty, quirky and often erotic films about modern Italian life. He was especially known for oddball sequences and visuals that came out of nowhere, except maybe a Salvatore Dali painting. Well, he would have certainly had his black and white Panavision cameras running my afternoon at Haulover. No script required.

Besides being an exhibitionist, I truly like the naturalist’s life. After all, you’ve just discarded the last vestiges of civilization when you strip off your bikini or shorts. What’s more elemental than that?
But today at Haulover, there weren’t many bodies I would whip out my Visa card to explore. In fact, most of them were proud-as-peacock baby whales north of age 55 with dicks the size of my thumb. One guy’s ass cheeks, plump as two watermelons, could have been used as a screen for “This is Cinerama.”

And here I was, hairy, in-shape, three quarters of the way to a six pack body, with only five pieces of clothing on me: my two socks, my “porn star” black demi –boots, and my metal cock ring for special effects. I did turn a few heads, but certainly not the ones I wanted. A couple of pedophile types, if what qualifies is a 10 year split in age between them and me, even intentionally passed my lounge chair later to leer at my package. How impolite.

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 if she/he ever decided to go for the ultimate surgery. What a waste! Hope she/he was playing the 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 tanned, 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.”


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 on his Panavision camera over all this mayhem.

Saturday: The Lauderdale Bar Scene for Guys

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