Got back yesterday evening, the dry Canberra air quickly and mercifully cooling as the sun subsided into the Brindabellas. 'A city hidden in the landscape' as Bill Bryson described our bush capital.
Taxi glided along the parkway, the lush landscape always soothing after a trip away. I smiled thinking of my handsome lover who took me to the airport a week ago, after taking me at home. Wishing he was there to reverse the process.
The lovers I'd left just a few hours before now returning to their own abundant sex life. I'll be sleeping alone for maybe another week, until Stan can be enticed to visit me. Canberra guy can't do sleepovers.
Such is my soap opera life. Biggest drama, the property settlement, coming soon. I wish I could change the scriptwriter, but it seems to be me.
The temperate foliage and the geography so different from the tropical one I'd just left: Port Douglas and surrounds. A moist richness, the skies impatient to unleash the wet season. The invitation had just been made a few days before I left.
"We'll be in Port Douglas next week, would you like to join us?"
"Can I get a flight?" Luckily Canberrans were allowed in, the Queensland border still wary of virus carriers from interstate. Obedient and sensible, I wore a mask on all flights.
We first crossed paths a few years ago, at a Melbourne Saints and Sinners ball. I was with myjohn, but that's another story. It was early in the evening. The stage was empty, but not for long. The music much too loud, too raucous, but I got up and danced away in my skimpy costume, soon joined by a young guy who knew some ceroc steps. We set the scene so well we soon got crowded out. When I came off the stage, sweaty and feeling sexy they were with an acquaintance of myjohn.
In that setting, an introduction might quickly be followed by a kiss rather than a handshake. His was more than polite, it was delicious. Later that evening she was sucking him in the dungeon. Myjohn and I were having a go standing up. How my evening ended is of course yet another story.
Since then I've visited them a few times in Victoria. Part of an exodus, they got out of Victoria as covid refugees. Tootling around the top end, Far North Queensland, or FNQ, the Gulf. And now an apartment in Port Douglas, one of many coastal and northern locales that induces a full relax. For some of us, the warmth, clothing optional, brings also a whiff of decadence.
"Dolce far niente" as the Italians say. "Sweet do nothing."
Sybarites such as we naturally gravitate to such places. And to each other. Each of us a collection of adventures. Products and agents of our asserted freedoms. As we spoke and sipped, a foot might slide up his loose shorts.
"The 80-20 rules applies to the way men hang," he informs us. Our eyes turn to his crotch.
"Then it must be 80% to the left, if you're no exception."
"Right you are", placing his hands under my loose shirt. "No need for this," as he slips it over my head.
My hands reach out to confirm the obvious. As he swells, she and I apply our four hands to good effect. A hefty member. We connoisseurs agree his is a fine cock.
