Chapter 1 Steve, a summer bartender, meets a a new friend
This is an original work, Copyright, 2023, and entirely fictional. Any resemblance to living persons or places is coincidental. All characters portrayed in any remotely sexual activity are over 18. If male on male explicit sexual descriptions are not your thing, please feel free to move on. This is the first of a three chapter story, all of which have been written (and will post on approximately consecutive days). Thanks. BD
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I hesitated before deciding to tell this story as I suspect it is fairly typical--the casual summer sexual romance of two twenty-somethings. But, here goes. My name is Steve Holmgren and currently I am working as a summer waiter and occasional bartender at an upscale restaurant in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. I've spent a typical day so far: late morning and early afternoon in the sun among a large number of scantily-suited, body-beautiful college age guys and girls. It's time to clock in at the restaurant for the evening shift which I pulled today.
Rehoboth is a beach town which draws its summer clientele from the Washington and Baltimore metros--and a few from Philadelphia. Historically, it was a place for church bible and revival "camps", but in recent years it has become an upscale weekend and summer hangout for busy urbanites, many associated with the Federal government and those who profit from it. It's a fairly young town, obviously no longer dry, and by no means mono-hetero. Dewey, the town on the beach immediately to the south, has one of the few openly gay (and nearly nude) beaches on the East Coast--at least for a few blocks.
I've just finished my third year at Georgetown where I made the JV rowing and varsity swimming teams. I was originally from Owings Mills, MD and a large family. (I am the youngest of six--yeah, Mom was conservative Roman Catholic, but she would be horrified at what has happened to her church where piety is now defined as ultra-conservative godless politics bordering on theocracy and focused on abortion, contraception, and sexual identity--but that is for another story.) Mom died when I was 14 and Dad sent me--the last still at home--to Phillips. He was a pharma exec and spent long hours in the lab and days away at testing sites and drug conferences. Two years ago, he retired to a planned community near Rehoboth and built a nice home with a large workshop/lab where he continues to tinker, mostly with small medical devices. I spend most nights there although the restaurant association provides inexpensive crash pads in Rehoboth to accommodate the large number of summer employees who can't afford the summer house rents even when they group up. I occasionally use one of those like a motel to avoid the late ten mile drive inland, particularly if I have been drinking and cruising. Most of our family circulates through Dad's house some time during the summer, so the house is almost always full and Dad is pleased to have my room for grandchildren when I stay at the beach.
I'm tall (6-4), blond, with a short crew cut, square jawed, deep blue eyes, full lips. I'm slim with light but defined muscles and since my strokes are butterfly and breast, my pecs, delts and glutes are reasonably developed. There is a clear vee from my shoulders to my narrow waist. Clear skin with a nice deep rosy tan right now. The hair and jaw suggest Marine, but the body tells a different story. I've got big hands and long feet--so it is assumed I have the required equipment in my boxer briefs--which I don't usually wear in the summer. The assumptions are correct. Either from the communal showers or the beach, the regulars know that I'm endowed--cut, long, big-headed and a shower. They originally nicknamed me peach, I thought because of my blond crew cut or my peach fuzz facial hair, but I later learned it was the size and shape of the knob at the tip of my dick. I'm known among my summer friends as gregarious and extroverted, although that is not me--I'm a quiet, nerdy intellect who is generally happy to be alone with a good book. I know that, deep down, I am pretty middle class and conforming--except of course that I am gay.
Summer is a time to decompress from the demanding academic requirements of my combined theoretical physics/theology double major--even with a typical 50 hour per week work schedule--and I'm taking advantage of the anonymity of a summer beach town. I'm getting away with a very different persona during the summer. I'd really like to have a summer romance, but it's already late July and that has not yet materialized.
The Left Bank Rudder (how original!), the bar-restaurant where I work is fairly typical: slightly upscale pseudo-French seafood restaurant at lunch and evenings until about 9:30, when the place shuts down briefly and turns into a club/dance/bar, populated mostly by gays and metro-sexual gay watchers until 2 which is mandatory closing time in this formerly "dry" community! There are three other similar establishments on the same street (two are more hetero) and each offers a couple of days of discrete happy hours, designed to attract the young crowd on outdoor patios--but often nearly deserted as the potential customers are already serving early diners at the restaurants. The real action is late at clubs and it moves along the beach block street on different days.
Given my large family--and the fact that I was shipped off to prep school at 14--I am not a prude. I'm attractive, intelligent, know how to sell the food and booze (and me) and make customers happy. So I typically attract large tips--yeah, both kinds. I hang with a large group of similar guys--and some ladies. Life seems to be an almost constant summer party.
My typical routine includes late morning to the beach--Dewey of course--where Speedos or even a little less are acceptable. (There are large placards in the sand at the northern and southern ends of a roughly three block beach span warning that public nudity violates state and county law and that family-friendly beach attire is required on the other side of the signs. Street side of this beach is mostly parking, so no residents or vacationers are likely to be scandalized. Then a nearly block long "no man's zone" is found to the north and south before families spread their blankets. Dewey's Chamber surely knows who spends, who waits, who tends--in fact who makes this beach what it is--so they tolerate our near nudity, within limits. Some more daring tourists even cruise our beach, treating it like a zoo.)
The beach begins to fill after 10. Many claim to be exercising--walking up and down the beach at the waterline showing off bodies sculpted by hours in the gym. Mostly flirting. My package is well-above average and fills one of my light-colored Speedos nicely--going nearly transparent when I decide to cool off in the Atlantic and advertise. I'm hardly ever alone, but I am a little choosy on who I date. And my tan is coming along very well, thank you. Around three, it's home or the crash pad for a shower and dress for work. My restaurant has a uniform: khaki cargoes shorts (which I wear tight to showcase my offerings) and a navy t-shirt with the restaurant logo, a tricouleur wound tightly around a tiller with a rudder handing below. (Some have described it as a French-wrapped phallus with free hanging balls!) But, no one has to agonize over dressing--which takes about two minutes. Then it's table setting and about five hours of table-waiting--7 days per week. Several times per week, I draw lunch duty and bartending at the later club "re-opening."
Even if you don't use the crash pad (two twins to a room, no choice of roommate usually, communal baths, $20 per night for towels and linens--you make and strip your own bed), all waiters at the sponsoring restaurants are welcome to use the large communal showers and lockers before and/or after work. Definitely a typical "Y/hostel" atmosphere. I always have a gym duffle nearby with the Speedo, toiletries, extra tees and, of course, the accessories for hoped-for sex.
Several nights each week, I cruise a club where the various logo-d tees intermingle with others who have come in for a week or weekend of sun and fun. The regulars can pick out a vacationer within a few minutes, and he is immediately labeled, based on very superficial observations, most importantly the face, the evidence of his equipment and muscle development. Some more attractive guys are immediately surrounded and hit upon. Others need to show talent on the dance floor. And some obviously are totally ignored. Very superficial. Not much bling or leather; no elaborate piercings or large tats--all minimally and colorfully clad, pseudo-clean-cut-college bodies since those are the kids the restaurant proprietors hire for their "family" atmosphere. Sometimes I successfully hook. Sometimes, it's home to Dad's place.
Sounds very vanilla. And it is for the most part. I've been with some of the other gay waiters that I fancy, usually as a top, but occasionally, I have bottomed. Sometimes a customer will hit on me and I have responded, particularly if he's a good tipper and reasonably good looking. I do manage to get off a few times per week. But so far it is pretty mechanical, just one step up from self-stimulation. Few repeats. No sparks. No regrets. No all-nighters. Certainly no take-me-home-to-Mama's.
Then one Friday near the end of July, an older (28?) guy walked into the club--it turns out Fridays are at our club. So I was on home turf. I was bartending that night. It was busy, and it was getting late. The disco was loud, the strobes were dimmed and getting slower. The dance floor was nearly full, hot and erotically charged. Tees and shirts littered the booths which had been left around the perimeter. Sweaty muscled torsos glistened in the disco lights. More than a few couples danced as one with hands inside shorts, both front and back, obviously in advanced foreplay--although the morals police prevented anything further in public. (The bath stalls, on the other hand, are in high demand.)
He approached the bar and called for a very expensive single malt scotch-rocks. This entitled him to a few seconds of conversation even though we were busy. His name was Mark and he had it all. I almost lost my cool when he said he was an associate at one of the big DC law firms. He didn't look like an attorney-grunt. He was dark, maybe mixed race, with wavy black short curls for hair, strong square facial bones, deep brown eyes, thick red lips and a toothy smile that looked like a commercial for ortho. All in all, he gave off a dark and dangerous vibe. He was wearing a white linen long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up over muscular arms, his hairless bis straining the fabric. I couldn't see below the bar, but he was tall--perhaps as tall as I. I learned from a few quick comments, spoken in a deep, jock-melting voice, that he had just arrived for a week at the law firm's summer group house--having driven out from DC in the late Friday summer traffic. He was tired and obviously still wound-tight. He was cruising. Our eyes met and they both simultaneously asked and signaled yes. He smiled, touched and covered my hand which was on the edge of the bar, and the contract was signed.
"What time do you get off?" "The club closes at two. Whether I get off or not, depends on my luck." "I'd like to see whether we both get lucky tonight. I'll stick around until then." "Name is Steve. I'll look forward to it." With this brief exchange, he turned to the floor, leaned back against the bar, and watched the dancing. I caught a few glances at his crotch as he leaned back and stretched his legs. He seemed to have what it takes to keep my interest. Later he ordered another drink for himself, declining several offers to dance or to buy by others. "I'm waiting for someone, thanks." His baritone refusals were like dismissive pronouncements from on high. Later, I was pleased that he left a normal tip on his tab. I was already fearing that he might think he could purchase my services and dominate our coming encounter--although with that body and that voice, I was probably game anyway.
