The marked quarter-mile walking path around the swimming pool complex on deck nine turned at the stern before the section where Trent was camped out, but it wasn't long before Trent realized that one man, who evidently was walking the laps, wasn't turning there but was making his turn at the very back of the ship, around the rock-climb tower.
On the man's third pass, Trent was giving him attention, watching him come up the side of the deck and then following him with his eyes around the curve of the ship's stern. What had caught Trent's attention first was the nipple ring. It took a certain level of confidence for a man to leave one of those in while promenading the swimming pool deck of a crowded cruise liner—especially an older man.
The man was on the older end of middle aged, but he was still very well put together. He appeared to be European or South American and either was olive-skinned or had been tanned to perfection, and he walked with notable confidence. With each aspect of him being pleasing to Trent, the young dancer honed in on the details.
The hair on his head was salt and pepper at the crown, with gray at the temples. His chest, forearms, and legs, were hairy, also salt-and-pepper in color and curly in context. He was barrel-chested, more of a Zeus than an Apollo, but very-well cared for and carrying himself with grace and the assurance of great wealth. He was wearing a luminescent blue Speedo, showing a pronounced bulge at the crotch, and—setting Trent into slight trembles—more than a hint of a thick Prince Albert cock ring. He wore a heavy gold chain around his neck, but not dangling like some mafia mobster, shorter. The thought ran through Trent's mind that it was a length that he could happily suck on during sex but wouldn't slap painfully against his body while the man was pumping him.
Trent, in his need, was already fantasizing writhing under the man's body. This wasn't necessarily a rare occurrence for Trent. He pretty much assessed all men he met or looked at a second time in terms of being fucked by them.
The man wore dark designer sunglasses that hid what, exactly, he was looking at, but he turned his head toward where Trent was stretched out during each pass. He didn't seem to want to hide that he was ogling Trent. On the third pass, the man slowed down as he reached Trent's chair, and he lifted his glasses and made quite clear that he was drinking Trent in with his eyes.
On the fourth pass, Trent made sure he was on his back; legs parted; knees bent; an arm stretched out behind his neck, pulling his perfectly muscled chest taut, and a hand laying gently on his basket as the man approached. The signaling from the man had been clear. Trent was being equally clear in his response. He'd been through this hundreds of time before, and it almost always ended up with money in his wallet.
The man slowly passed him by again, but then, after disappearing around the stern of the ship, he reversed direction and came back and stood at the foot of Trent's lounge, lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head, and smiled down at Trent. He placed his hands on his waist and projected his hips slightly, making sure that Trent could make out the circle of the PA cock ring straining at the material of the Speedo.
Both of them looked to either side of them. The only other lounges within sight supported a snoring fat man in one direction and a matron turned away from them and reading a Romance novel in the other direction.
"This is lounge taken?" The man asked, gesturing to the lounge next to Trent's. He spoke in a rich baritone and had a slight, interesting accent. Trent estimated that he was probably either Brazilian or an Argentine.
"No, be my guest," Trent answered.
"Or perhaps I'm being too forward," the man politely said. "Perhaps you don't want to have company."
"No, that's fine," Trent responded. "Please, yes, do sit. You speak English very well, but it doesn't seem to be your native language. Are you—?"
"Brazilian. I'm a very rich and bored Brazilian, I am on this cruise alone, and I am, what do you call it, a dominant homosexual. Am I still welcome to sit with you?"
"Yes, of course. But you say you are bored—"
"Is it true that you are one of the dancers I saw on stage last night? You do look like one of them. A very sexy and sensual dancer. I couldn't keep my eyes off you."
"Yes I am a dancer. Thank you for the compliment."
"And you do not shrink away when I pronounce that I am a seeking dominant homosexual?"
"No, not at all."
The man sat down on the lounge, but he did so at the side of it, turned toward Trent, who was still stretched out on his back.
"You danced like you were making love. And I fancied that you were making love to me."
