Hair's the Thing

I let him buy me a drink at the beach bar—and then another and another—because he had those big tuffs of hair in his pits. I found that intriguing—and arousing. He was a good-looking guy, probably a stevedore or something on vacation, because he was built solid like a tank. But he was also virtually hairless everywhere else I could see, including billiard cue baldness on his head. But there were those bushes of hair in his pits, with dark hair peeking out even when he held his heavily muscled arms down.

I couldn't take my eyes off them. And he was watching me watching him and quickly got the impression I found him attractive. Which was at least partially right. I found the bushes in his pits attractive.

He was wearing a Speedo with an athletic T—with the arm holes cut real low down his sides, which had drawn my attention to his pits.

It was an open beach bar, but it was known to cater to a specialty, so all the guys there were comfortable about hanging out and dancing freely and being loud and boisterous and getting plastered—and sometimes getting nailed without anyone around raising an eyebrow.

A party boat was in at the pier adjacent to the beach bar, and the guys from the boat, a fancy catamaran with a large, squarish cabin area straddling the shells and good decks for partying at the front, back, and up top, were augmenting the Saturday night party.

I'd come alone with the hopes of not leaving alone. It had been a rough week at the office, and I'd come down to the beach to let loose.

I was wearing just baggy cargo shorts, no briefs, and sneakers—knowingly ready for action. Even if I hadn't been, though, the drinks I had would have dissolved my resolve tonight. There were a lot of hunks out tonight—including those who had come in on the catamaran—and did I mention I'd had a rough week at the office and wanted to let loose?

The third drink and the fascination of those hairy pits set off against the otherwise hairlessness of the stevedore—Steve Adore; I'll call him that, because we never did get to the name stage, or he did give me his name and I reciprocated, but that was on the first drink, long ago forgotten and lost in the noise of the music and the crowd—had me ready to give him anything he wanted, and I had let him lap me while he sat on a stool at the bar.

He lifted his arms and let me nose up into his pits and tongue him down there, a fascination of mine, while, in turn, I let him pull his Speedo half way down his thighs to below his balls and snake his dick up a wide leg of my cargo shorts and skewer me. I'd known he liked the arm-pit tonguing because I could feel him hardening up for me.

I rose and fell on his cock there on the stool, right there at the bar. We weren't fooling anyone. They all knew what was going on. I had the heels of my feet leverage on the rungs of the barstool and was slowly rising and falling on his cock. And we were both making sounds of appreciation. So, anyone really interested in what we were doing, knew what we were doing. But some of them were fucking in even more obvious ways.

It was a busy night at a free-loving beach bar.

Someone yelled out that they were taking the catamaran out into the bay for an even freer party and anyone who wanted to come aboard was welcome to.

Steve Adore seemed to want to, and I went with him, lost in the fascination of his hairy pits.

The catamaran was making good time to wherever out in the bay, maybe toward the three-mile limit, considering the sort of stuff being passed around now beyond the booze. Didn't know and didn't care, not the least because someone had broken open a capsule under my nose as we boarded and I was feeling really, really great and so welcomed by all of the faces wafting through my vision.

Guys were swirling around us on the foredeck, having a good time. The music was blaring from loudspeakers at the corners of the cabin area. There was a bucket full of condom packets set outside the door into the cabin from the foredeck, and guys were already liberally dipping into that in passing. I was sitting on some sort of bench seat with a vinyl cushion on top of it and Steve Adore was hunched between my knees and fucking me, his arms held at the side of my head, gripping the top of the back frame of the bench seat for leverage on his pumping action. I had my face up in first one of his pits and then the other, enjoying the bush of hair there. He'd lost his Speedo, but I'd lost my cargo shorts too. Having too good a time to wonder where they were, though.

I came up for air, to spy a man standing on the deck on the cabin's roof and staring down at Steve Adore fucking me. He seemed to be focused on me and smiling slightly. He was beautiful. Hairy all over. Black curly hair on his head, dipping down his forehead almost to his eyebrows. A matting of black hair, also in short curls, swirling around his chest and falling in a thick trail down his sternum, across his belly, and into the rim of the low-slung bathing trunks he was wearing. His arms and legs were hairy. Even the knuckles of his hands and their backs were hairy. And my cock lurched when he raised his sandaled foot to the rung of the railing around the top deck to where I could see that the tops of his foot and toes were hairy too. The same fine, curly black hair.

He must have seen me melt to him. Because as Steve Adore finished inside me and rolled off of me to the side, still possessively holding me in his arms—the hair of his pits rubbing against my shoulder in a way that made me feel tingly—the guy with the terrific black curly body hair was down on the foredeck and standing in front of me and talking to me. He and Steve Adore had some words too, none of which I caught because my ears were buzzing from the effect of the capsule shot I'd been given. All of the voices sounded far away and under water. But if I concentrated, I could get the gist of what a single person talking straight at me was saying. Picking out words in the crowd noise, given my buzz on and the volume of the music was impossible.

Steve Adore was gone, and the black curly guy was getting across to me that he was the host of the party—and the owner of the catamaran—and would I like to see his cabin.

I didn't know if I wanted to or not, but, given his beautiful hairy body, I would have followed him anywhere. He was sort of ugly in the face, but he had a good body. And that hair.

His cabin was really nice and plush. It had a window out to the side and out to the rear deck, and the curtains were open in both windows. I could see the party going on in the rear just as anyone there could see into the cabin. I didn't care. I wanted to see how hairy Black Curly, who I guess really should be named "host," looked under that bathing suit and on his back.

It didn't take me long to be satisfied—in several dimensions. Other than those two windows, the walls of the cabin were almost completely mirrored. And a double, platform bed was bolted to the floor in the very middle of the cabin, with floor access all around it.

When we embraced to kiss and for him to feel me up, I ran my hands up his back and then back down to cup his buttocks and thrilled at the feel of curly black hair there as well.

When he laid me on his bed and I opened my legs to him, he assented to my request to take me on my back so I could run my hands through his chest hair and down into his black curly pubes and watch him fuck me—all titillating hairiness—in the mirrors on the wall from all angles.

He kept telling me how nice I was, and how he wanted to keep me. He had a mammoth, extra-thick cock, which was nice—but not as nice as his hairiness—and was considerably more filling than Steve Adore had been. He had trouble cocking me at first, and I whimpered and struggled a bit, but he reached into a drawer next to the bed and came out with another one of those capsules, which he broke under my nose, and then a didn't feel much of anything and opened right up to him.

While he pumped me hard, he asked me how many days I could be out to sea before needing to get back to land, and I told him I needed to be back by Monday morning.

It was all a dreamy swirl, but I noticed a guy standing at the window out on deck and watching us. He was an older guy, maybe in his forties. Built like a bodybuilder, though. And what caught my attention was that the nicely groomed hair on his head was white gray, but that he had chest hair that was salt and pepper.

As Host pumped away and leaned down into me to play with my nipples with his tongue, my attention focused on that guy at the window, and I found myself wondering what color his pubic hair was if his head hair was white gray and his chest more salt and pepper.

Host was pumping me with short, vigorous strokes, when he tensed and gave a little cry and I felt the stretch of the condom head deep inside me.

"Stay right here," he whispered. "I want you again. I'll get hard again soon, you're such a good lay. Got to go to the head first, though. Stay right here until I can get the party closed down and the guys back on the beach and then we'll cruise and fuck through Sunday."

"OK," I answered in a thick-tongued voice. I was still clutching his chest hair in my fist when he pulled away from me, rolled the spent condom off his already-reengorging dick and padded over to the adjoining head.

When he shut the door to the bathroom, I turned my eyes to the window to the front deck, and the older guy was still there. He gestured for me to come out of the cabin.

I really wanted to know if his pubes were gray or salt and pepper.

They were even darker than the hair above—a soft brown, which continued onto his legs.

Whatever was in the capsule was setting in pretty good now. I almost slipped on used condoms already littering the floor of the deck when I emerged from the cabin. I still had the strength to grasp the edge of the overhang of the deck above, though, with the help of two guys on either side of me, pulling my legs back and out with one hand and supporting me with their other hands grasping my pits, while the mature, multicolor guy fucked up into my channel from behind. A group of guys were gathered around us and counting the strokes. The older guy had good stamina. I had to be let down and bent over and held up by him with his arms wrapped around my belly before he had come.

As he was finishing me, I noticed that one of the guys watching us was a redhead and had a magnificent carrot-red bush of pubic hair.

I ran my fingers through the fine, almost golden pubic hair as I gave him a blow job.

Host was back on deck by then. He only gave me a cursory, half angry, half disappointed look as he corralled another young guy to give a tour of his cabin.

I woke up the next morning on the beach on my back between the now-deserted beach bar and the pier. There was no catamaran in sight. A guy with a heavy bush of chest hair was walking along the beach at the water's edge, carrying a pail for a toddler who was collecting sea shells. My eyes remained riveted to him until they had passed me. Disappointingly his back was hairless.

One of the guys I often go with, Jamal, a thin black guy with wonderful dreadlocks that sway back and forth in the rhythm of the fuck when he does me, laughs and says I have a fetish. I don't think so. I just like hairy men.