While living on the island of Cyprus, I developed quite a taste for young Turkish men. If you could get a good-looking, well-constructed Turkish guy before he got too far into his forties, you could almost guarantee you'd have something forceful, vigorous, straightforward, and good natured to play with. You also, quite often, would have a guy with a pretty heavy pelt on him. Now, I didn't particularly favor a hairy guy, but on a Turk, it could be quite arousing, and sometimes I just felt like rubbing my nipples against a fine chest of hair.
Cyprus is a divided island, with the southern two thirds being in Greek hands and the northern, more isolated, third in Turkish hands, with a UN-guarded "Green" zone separating the two belligerent sides. I was able to go back and forth between the sides with my job and had been on the island long enough to see that both Greek and Turkish young men had their good points. I quickly found, though, that the Turks—at least the Turkish Cypriots—had fewer inhibitions against male-male activity than the Greek Cypriots did as a rule, despite the historical reputation of the Greeks, although it was never difficult to make a hook up of either. The Turkish men were just more matter of fact and lusty in their fucking and weren't given to long drawn-out preliminaries if they saw something they were interested in.
Thus it was that the first opportunity for a weekend alone on the Turkish side, I was off and running. My wife and kids were in Athens for five days, over a weekend, and so I decided it was time for me to check up on the office on the Turkish side one Friday and just to stay over at the Turkish Cypriot seaside for the weekend.
After a brief Friday-afternoon appearance at the office in the Turkish sector of Nicosia, the capital—which the Turks called Lefkosa, I was racing my BMW convertible across the width of the island to the remote Salamis Bay Hotel. This hotel sat on a rocky beach at the edge of the ancient ruins of the Greek city of Salamis, which had been founded by the Greek troops returning from the sack of Troy and had been destroyed by an earthquake and largely reclaimed by the Mediterranean Sea in the third century BC. I had picked this destination because it was in a remote corner of the island, where it was unlikely I'd be recognized, it boasted an infamous nude tourist beach, and I had been given the address of a small gay bar near the hotel. I wanted to make the most of my free weekend on the Turkish side.
When I got to the eastern end of the island, I got off the not-so-good direct road to Salamis onto the really-not-so-good coastal road so that I could locate the bar I wanted to go to that evening. I found it by following the really bad music of a live band gearing up in the twilight hour before the sun sank below the Troodos Mountains at the other end of the island. It was a beach bar composed of beverage carts surrounded by bar stools, under grass umbrellas around an ill-kept swimming pool on a terrace that went out over the Mediterranean. The enclosure was barely sectioned off from the view of the road by a scraggly bamboo-slatted fence. I could see that guys were already arriving for the evening; it looked like a young crowd and mostly the queen type, although I saw some well-cut studs among them. I could see that the typical attire was on the minimalist side. I stopped the BMW at the side of the road near the entrance to the bar to get a better look, and one of the more studly of the youngsters, a lithe, dark- but smooth-skinned guy appearing to be nineteen or twenty whistled and came over to the car. From the way he was looking the car over, I could tell he was whistling at the machine, not at me. But he at least was polite enough to ask me, with a toothy grin and a leer, if I was coming in to the bar, and I told him I might drop back later.
The Salamis Bay Hotel, a seven-story balconied building that would have looked out of place on this desolate coast if it hadn't itself lacked a renovation in two decades, was only about a ten-minute drive from the bar. I stopped in the lobby bar for a beer to knock away the dust of the road between Lefkosa and the coast and then went up to my seventh-floor suite. I suppose they called this a suite because I had my own bathroom, but it was fine for my purposes. I'm sure the diplomatic plates on my BMW had something to do the relative royal treatment I was getting here, although, of course, I registered under a false name. There was a carpet on the floor that didn't look too mildewed, I may have gotten the only queen-sized bed in the hotel, and there was an expansive balcony overlooking the Salamis ruins and that would afford a spectacular view of sunrise over the Mediterranean—if I was awake at sunrise.
With a view to the attire I'd seen entering the gay beach bar, I opted for low-rise cut-offs and sandals, a money clip, a couple of condoms, and my car keys—and nothing else, including briefs. I wasn't here to do much shopping; I was here to get laid.
The music in the bar was still bad when I got there, but it was a whole lot louder than it had been before, and there was a whole lot larger crowd too, swaying to the music, hips close together, or swimming—and, I could tell, fucking—in shadows in the central swimming pool. Cheap strobe lighting was flitting around everywhere, making the patrons frenetically multicolored and helping to mask where they had their hands. I could tell I was making quite a stir in the place, as an alluring foreign element, and a path parted between me and one of the bars under the grass umbrellas as I walked in. I asked for an Efis beer, and my American accent made the whole place my bosom buddy. Within seconds, I had the best of what I could see sniffing around me, looking for an opening. I gave the eye nod to a heavily muscled construction worker type in badly worn jeans and a black muscle T-shirt with a Harley-Davidson logo that must have set him back a week's pay. He was handsome in an ugly "don't mess with me" sort of way, swarthy of skin, with a two-day's growth of beard, and coarse, curly black hair trying to escape from every opening in his T. Just the change of pace I was in the mood for.
Half way through my Efis, he was sitting on a bar stool, with his legs around my hips and pulling my butt into his hard basket. He was moving my pelvis around on his crotch to the beat of the music, and I could feel that he wanted me in the worst way. Another quite acceptable candidate was trying to get my attention. He was standing close into the front of me. He had a palm of one hand over one of my nipples and took my beer bottle from me with his other hand and poked his tongue into it suggestively and gave me a lot of "cum hither" eye work. He handed the bottle back to me and was moving his face into mine, probably for a sloppy kiss, when there was a deep-grunted challenge from the guy who was lapping me and a beefy arm came out and pushed the challenger away. The battle for my attention seemed to be over then.
