Newquay
by Oliver Jennings

 

Newquay’s significant to me because two important ‘firsts’ happened there.

The first ‘first’ took place when I was eighteen and my mates and I visited the town for a few days to try our hands at a bit of surfing and to see how many girls each of us could pull in the evenings. It turned out that we were all pretty equally inept at both, and the trip would have been very unmemorable were it not for something that happened on our last full day there.

We’d got to know a few other surfers from Manchester who were far more agile with their boards than any of our group could ever hope to be. One of them, a guy called Carl who was probably one of the best surfers in Newquay that week, was gay and made no secret of it. While the rest of us were drooling at some of the fitter girls on the beach, Carl would working out who, among the other male surfers, might be up for ‘turning a few tricks’ with him as he put it. At first I’d thought he was referring to other guys who might have the ability to surf a wave alongside him, but after he and another guy had gone off back to on of their hotels for a couple of hours, I’d realised what he’d meant.

The rest of Carl’s group accepted his sexuality with casual humour. While some of them were sharing twin rooms, for example, Carl had his own. I assumed that it was because the rest of the guys didn’t trust Carl to keep himself to himself while sleeping in the same room, but one of them, a lad called Jason, said it was simply because whoever was to share Carl’s room wouldn’t get much sleep as he’d strike lucky on almost evening out. Guys are a lot easier to pick up in nightclubs than girls are, or at least that’s what Jason would tell himself.

Anyway, there were odd jokes about Carl sneaking off to the ‘east beach’ in the evenings. Carl would laugh and make some response like, “Well, you know how it is when you’ve got a few rubbers left over and you’re lookin’ for somethin’ to do with them…”, and after a few comments like that I realised that the area must be a gay cruising ground.

I was pretty instantly fascinated. I’d heard about parks and picnic sites near to where I live at which men supposedly met other men for sex – there was a nature park about five miles from our house that had a pretty seedy reputation along those lines – but I’d always been too scared to go and take a look in case I was spotted by someone I knew.

The ‘east beach’ seemed like it might represent a chance to go and check one out with virtually no risk to myself.

Over the following days I became obsessed with finding out what went on there. I’d imagine scenarios I might stumble across if I wandered through it, fantasize about possible encounters I could witness, desperately wanting to pay it a visit.

At the same time, I felt guilty for becoming so interested in it. I had a girlfriend back at home and my mates had come away with me so that we could all have a good time together: it would be totally wrong of me, on both counts, to go wandering off like some gay peeping Tom.

But persistent, nagging thoughts as to what might be going on there kept sneaking their way into my mind.

In the end I decided I’d have to pay the place a quick visit, just to satisfy my curiosity. Nothing would happen; it would simply be a brief, cursory scout through the place for educational reasons; almost a research trip. I kept telling myself, “I’ll just go there, have a quick wander around, see what goes on, and then get out of there…” The visit would be so brief that you could hardly call it a visit; just a quick glance around as I happened to walk through. It was out of my way, but what the hell. Sometimes guys go out for walks on their own in the evening. Nobody had directly said the place was a cruising ground; how was I expected to know?

I chose the last evening of our trip to visit the ‘east beach’ for two reasons. First, Carl was taking part in a surfing competition that day and he was going to the pub with his mates afterwards. That meant there was no way I could bump into him and have him broadcasting my presence there to all of my friends later that evening. Second, if anyone else from the beach happened to recognize me as I walked through, there’d be little chance of their reports getting back to my friends since we were heading back home the next morning.

I planned my getaway from the rest of the group meticulously, and it went very well. I started mentioning, casually, that I was feeling a bit sick at about lunchtime and kept making odd references to it throughout the afternoon. By six o’clock I was saying that maybe I wasn’t going to go out for the last night’s drinking session as I was feeling pretty groggy, and at eight I was making that more definite. I said, “Look, guys, I’ll get my head down for an hour’s kip when you go out, set my alarm for ten, and if I feel better I’ll come out and find you…”

They seemed disappointed but it was a good enough compromise for them. In fact, I intended to take a quick walk along to find the area Carl supposedly visited, have a five minute glance around just to see what was going on, and then walk back and find my mates who would be in one of three possible pubs.

As it happened, though, it was about midnight before my five minute glance around was finished.

So my first ‘first’ at Newquay is that it was the first place that I went cruising for gay sex.

It took me ages to locate the area. Initially I took the references to ‘east beach’ literally and walked eastwards along the clifftops, looking down at the various beaches trying to see signs of potential activity. I soon gave up on that: unless dog walking was in some way a coded sign men were using to convey their interest in each other, the beaches were pretty much desolate.

I walked so far out of Newquay that I left the town itself. The high cliff paths gave way to a vast open area of sand dunes and small beach huts and I thought it possible that things went on in the evenings out here. The dunes offered a lot of shelter, both from the wind and from onlookers. I walked along the beach for a while, wondering at first if I was being evaluated by other men hiding among the dunes and worrying that, since no-one was emerging from them, I was clearly regarded as an unattractive proposition. But then, as I walked up into them and looked around, it became clear that the place was empty.

So I headed back towards the town, surprised at how disappointed I was starting to feel.

I found the real cruising area almost by accident. Walking past rows of run-down hotels on the way back into the town, I noticed that a sign pointing towards what looked like a wide alleyway read ‘East Beach Car Park’. That made me perk up a bit. On investigation, though, in the broad concrete expanse behind the hotels, I found none of the renowned hallmarks of a cruising ground I’d been allowing myself to hope for: there were no parked cars with figures sitting in the darkness inside them, no squalid-looking public toilets and not even any graffiti on the signs or litter bins offering meeting times and bemoaning stand-ups. Disappointment began to turn to annoyance.

Maybe the comments about ‘east beach’ had really been just a joke. Or maybe the place I’d been looking for was known as East Beach but it wasn’t to the east of Newquay; it might be to the east of one of the small towns nearby.

Just as I was giving up my last few vestiges of hope, I noticed some gates leading into a small park at the far end of the car park.

By now, it was quite dark and I wasn’t keen on exploring such an uninviting place. I could quite easily imagine myself getting mugged or beaten up in the darkness among the trees and bushes: apart from the shock of it happening to me, how would I explain it to my mates?

As I was leaving the car park, intending to walk bitterly back into town and find my mates, a guy walked past me in the opposite direction, heading into the car park even though there were no cars nor anything else that might reasonably interest him in there. He was a little bit older than me and, on seeing me, he grinned. I guess I just looked a little taken aback to see someone else because he said, “Alright, mate?”

I nodded and continued walking. Then, in the entrance of the car park, I stopped and watched what he was doing. He walked through the car park, through the gates and disappeared into the blackness of the park.

And then I thought, “Ah…”

I wasted no time and followed him in.

The park was dimly lit by a few ancient white sodium lamps, the insides of which were encrusted with the remains of thousands of moths and other insects. With the cold light thrown out by those, I could make out people in the darkness among the trees. Odd solitary figures, walking and watching, a few couples and one group of three.

As I slowly walked through, more curious than aroused by what was going on all around me, I tried to work out if the people around me were, as I suspected, all men or if I was making the potentially embarrassing mistake of intruding on the secretive fumblings of young heterosexual courting couples. The further I walked, though, the more convinced I became, that this was a gay area. The gentle moans and gasps which came from unseen encounters behind the bushes all seemed to be male in origin. The fleeting glimpses of activity that I got from between the trees seemed to be of hands and mouths on erect cocks, with no female equivalents. The one sexual act I saw for any significant length of time involved a cock sliding in and out of an arse: it could have been a woman’s arse, of course, but the cheeks were muscular and the grunts accompanying each thrust were gruff.

I had almost reached the far end of the park, another set of gates leading out onto a deserted 1950s street, when a guy stepped out in front of me from behind a bush, his erect cock poking out from his open trousers. Until that moment I had been ready to return to the hotel, having seen what I had set out to see, perhaps replaying in my mind some of the encounters I’d witnessed as I lay on the hotel bed. But the sight of the guy ahead of me changed all that.

He was tall, with short brown hair, and was wearing a black shirt, unbuttoned to reveal his chest, and black trousers. His cock was six or seven inches long with a clearly-defined head fully exposed at the tip of it. He raised his right hand and gently masturbated himself in front of me, making the head swell bulbously between his finger and thumb as he eased his foreskin back and forth across it.

He whispered, “You wanna do somethin’?”

Although that night was my first experience of gay cruising and I’d regard myself as being more or less straight, I’d had plenty of practice at playing around with other guys and his invitation seemed quite appealing.

I asked, “Is it safe?”

He smiled and it made his face look warm and handsome. “As it gets…”

So I nodded and he gestured for me to follow him into a small space between a group of bushes just a few feet from the path. Then he yanked his jeans and underwear down around his ankles and I did the same. He glanced at my cock, half-stiff, poking outwards from my balls and nodded approvingly.

We masturbated ourselves for a few seconds and then he pushed my hand away and took over the job for me.

He whispered, “What do you like doin’?”

I shrugged. “I dunno… I’ll suck you, if you wanna do me.”

He asked, as he squeezed my cock and gently jerked the foreskin up and down, “Do you like fuckin’?”

I was more hesitant. “I’ve fucked a couple of guys… but I’ve never been fucked…”

“D’you wanna try?”

“I dunno… not here…”

“I’ve got condoms,” he insisted.

“That’s not the problem… I’ve never done it… I don’t wanna start in a bush…”

He threw me a look as if to say, “Ooh, hark at Lady Muck” and then said, impatiently, “We’ll just suck then… unless you change your mind…”

As he went down on me a couple more guys pushed their way into our small clearing and started kissing and playing with each others’ cocks alongside us.

By the time it was my turn to take him, the other two were following our example and sucking each other in quick succession, taking brief but enthusiastic turns at each other.

The guy in the black shirt was the first to suggest we swap partners and couple up in different ways. He seemed to have his hopes pinned on getting to fuck someone and preferred his chances at getting into the arse the shorter of the two guys standing next to us. The other men readily accepted and I got the tall blonde one, who turned out to suck cock like he’d done it as a degree. He did things with my knob that I hadn’t thought were possible until that night in the park at Newquay: he played with my foreskin with his teeth; he milked my piss-slit for precum with his tongue; he seemed to wrap his tonsils around my bell-end and would gently squeeze it; he caressed my balls with his lower lip. All this without missing a beat as his mouth slid up and down my shaft.

When I came to suck his cock, I felt a little inadequate. Not only was his dick at least two inches longer than mine, my technique was workmanlike at best. Whereas I kind of know my way around a girl’s pussy, I’ve always gone through the motions of giving a blow job to a guy simply to encourage him to get to work on me. Although I tried to make things a little more interesting for him by playing with his cock inside my mouth with my tongue, I was afraid that I might accidentally bite him, and so I tended to keep things pretty simple.

After about thirty seconds of my fairly basic ‘in, out, lick, in, out, lick’ technique, that I must admit even I would have been a bit bored by, he pulled out and gestured for me to stand up. He smirked and whispered, “This is your first time?” I nodded, even though it wasn’t, and his smile became broader.

He said, “I’ll suck you, okay? Don’t worry about doing anything to me…” and his eyes looked across, perhaps a little enviously, at the guy in the black shirt rimming his former partner, deftly and expertly. I could see him thinking, “So that’s why he was so eager to change places…”

He knelt down in front of me again and gave me what was possibly the blow job of my life. He set about my cock with such delicacy and finesse that I was unable to stop myself moaning in appreciation, even though I knew that to do so risked being caught. While his mouth did things that my cock had only dreamed of, his slow, gentle fingers played with my balls, tickled the ridge beneath them and even, for a couple of minutes, fingered my arsehole.

About ten minutes into the blonde guy’s performance, by which time I was gasping for breath like a fish out of water, the guy in the black shirt finally got his wish and fucked his new partner’s arse about two feet away from us with fast, panting thrusts. He held the other man firmly around the hips, slamming his cock in and out between his cheeks with no trace of emotion; like he was merely using the other man’s bum as a means of pleasuring himself as an alternative to masturbation. He came very quickly, grunting gutturally as he unloaded his semen into the condom inside the other man’s rectum, and then curtly withdrew, flung the condom into the bush, and left, still zipping himself up.

The guy in front of me pulled away from my cock as his former-partner wiped his arse, and said to us both, “D’you guys wanna go over to the pavillion?”

I asked, “Where’s that?” I thought he meant a night club or something.

He said, “On the other side of the lawn. It’s where most of the guys go…”

I shrugged, noticing that the guy who had just been fucked had an impressive upwardly-curving erection, despite the abruptness and roughness the servicing he’d received. They seemed to be waiting for a more positive response so I nodded at them both. “Okay.”

And that’s how it took me so long to leave. I must have been wanked by a dozen guys, sucked by six and had my arse rimmed or fingered by four. I fucked two guys, both of whom were okay about the fact that I wasn’t prepared to let them fuck me; I think the second of the two was the one who’d been fucked by the guy in the black shirt, but I can’t be sure. They were both, as were most of the men I had sex with, about my age and height, and reasonably good-looking, and that was all that seemed to matter.

When I got back to the hotel it was about twelve thirty and the guys weren’t back. I took a shower, washing the strong smell of male sex from me, and then went out to find them. I decided, while wandering around the pubs and clubs of Newquay looking for them, that a trip to some of my local cruising areas might well be on the agenda on our return.

But before I get into that, let’s move onto my second ‘first’ which happened at Newquay.

This one involves my younger brother Chaz with whom I’d occasionally meet up with for alcohol-orientated weekends when he and I were at university. Newquay was the place we got so pissed that we ended up ‘turning a few tricks together’, as Carl would have put it, on one of the twin beds in our hotel room. Fortunately, though, I can call it a ‘first’ because this isn’t a story that ends in guilt, shame and recriminations: the two of us accepted what we’d done together and have had a few intermittent repeats over the years since then.

I used to call Chaz Charlie, like all my family had since he’d been a kid, but when he went off to university, that had to change. He became Chaz and if you called him Charlie he’d either glare at you or ignore you.

The weekend the two of us drove down to Newquay, mainly so that he could have a break from our parents over his long summer break from uni, he was nineteen and I was twenty-two. The official story, to our parents at least, was that we wanted some time together to chat about what Chaz was going to do when he left uni, but really he just desperately needed to get away from them for a couple of days during mid-August before he ended up stabbing one of them. My dad had said, “I’m pleased you guys are getting on so well… this weekend will be great for bringing the two of you together…”

If only he’d known…

The two of us were more like a couple of mates than brothers. Actually, we still are. We don’t quarrel much, like most brothers seem to, and we don’t get competitive against each other. My relationship with Tom, my older brother, is more traditional – there’s the usual mutual sniping and games of one-upmanship – but that between Chaz and I has always been more affectionate and relaxed. Maybe it’s because Chaz is the ‘baby’ of the family, I don’t know.

Anyway, the big night happened because, like I said, the two of us ended up getting bladdered. We’d been out most of the afternoon and evening, wandering around the pubs and clubs of Newquay getting progressively more rat-arsed and idiotic together. We must have turned in at about two in the morning, but exact details are kind of difficult.

Chaz had tried, with some initial success, to pull a fit-looking girl in one of the clubs along the seafront. Things had gone rather badly awry when they’d pieced together, in the roundabout way that you do when you’re both trying to cop without being too obvious about it, that she couldn’t take Chaz back to her place because she lived with her parents, and her coming back with him wasn’t exactly ideal because big bro happened to be in the next bed.

He’d apparently tried to rekindle things by telling her I’d be cool with having her stay over, but she’d got all funny about it, saying, “I’m not gonna shag you with your older brother lying next to us… I’m not a complete fuckin’ slag…”

So he’d ended up walking home with only me for company at the end of the night, raving drunkenly about her thinking she was all “high and fuckin’ mighty” because she wouldn’t do something as supposedly commonplace as being screwed while her lover’s relatives were in the same room.

When we got back to our hotel room, and were sitting around in our underwear, he was beginning to settle down and his earlier irritation was starting to turn to humour. That’s always been Chaz’s way: he gets a bee in his bonnet for half and hour and then starts taking the piss out of himself about it. Tom would have been mardy about it for a week.

At one point I said to him, “Do you really think I’d have been cool with lying here, just three feet away from you, listening to you hump some tart?”

He chuckled and nodded. “Yeah. Why not?”

I could tell that he knew that I would have had a fairly significant problem with it, but he acted like it was the most ordinary, bog-standard thing to expect from a brother.

He added, “We’re not exactly shy around each other… what’d be the harm in it?”

“You’d be totally pissed off if I did that to you. If I brought some girl back with me and screwed her while you were lying there, listening.”

He laughed. “Would I fuck! It’d be a fuckin’ non-event, mate. And you know it.”

He was being deliberately facetious. I could tell. There was no way he believed a word he was saying. He got like that sometimes when he was pissed. He would argue, sometimes quite convincingly, stuff as ridiculous as the moon being populated by giant hamsters if that was the mood he was in. He never got aggressive with it, and it was always just a case of him “having a laugh” if you managed to overturn his argument, but while it lasted he could be surprisingly insistent.

I went along with his game.

I asked, “Okay, so let’s accept that you might be okay with it. Possibly. But what makes you so sure that I’d feel the same way?”

He shrugged. “Come on, mate. We’ve never had any secrets. We’ve never been embarrassed around each other… I mean, we’ve never had any problems being naked and stuff…”

I laughed, “But Chaz. This is about you having sex, mate…”

“Yeah and we’ve wanked and stuff… you’ve never had any problems with that…”

I shrugged. “That’s something all brothers do. That’s natural…” Then something came right out of my mouth before my alcohol-sedated brain had time to censor it. I added, like it was just another teasing comment we were making with each other, “We’re not talking about us having sex together, mate. I’d have no problems with that… what we’re talking about is…”

Before I had time to finish, Chaz leapt on what I said. “You’d have no problems with us having sex?”

I lost my train of thought but was sure my argument was sound. I continued, attempting a shrug of dismissive authority, “Yeah… but this isn’t about that… it’s about the fact that -”

He laughed and interrupted me again before I could continue. “Hang on, Ollie, let me get this straight – if that’s the right word…” He paused to chuckle at his own wit, then went on, “What you’re saying is, you’d be okay with screwing me, but you’d have a problem if I was screwing a girl…?”

Now that did sound a bit odd. I couldn’t have meant that, surely. I stammered, suddenly uncertain of the point I’d been trying to make, “I wasn’t saying that… I just meant we could wank and stuff like that… I wouldn’t have any problem with that. We’ve done that since we were kids…”

He smirked broadly. He was going to remember this conversation. This one was going to come back and haunt me. He went on, “I remember the wanking, Ollie, mate. I just don’t remember the ‘stuff like that’ you mentioned… what else did we do?”

“We did some other stuff… didn’t we?” My voice sounded too defensive. To be honest, I couldn’t really remember what exactly we’d done together.

He shrugged. “Maybe in your fantasies, mate… I don’t remember anything…”

I glared at him, now very uncomfortable by the turn our conversation had taken. I paused for a few seconds, and then went on, slowly, “Look, Charlie… I mean, Chaz… I’m don’t get myself off by imagining the two of us having sex together… you know that…”

He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. Of course he knew that. He’d just wanted to provoke a reaction, like he always did when he was drunk.

He said, “Okay… sorry… but you’ve got me really intrigued. You said, ‘We could wank and stuff like that’. What exactly did you mean?”

I was becoming irritated by his persistence. “Come on, mate… I’m as pissed as you are. It was a slip of the tongue… don’t fuck around with me…”

He laughed again. “I’m not fucking around with you…” Then he did a mock-smooch and added, in a camp voice, “Unless you want me too, big boy…”

I was getting really pissed off. “Come on, Chaz. Enough.”

He went quiet, still grinning at me, and must have recognised – finally – how annoyed I’d become. His smile faded and he said, in a low voice, “Okay, mate, that was too far. It’s just I know this guy at uni and one night when we were both pissed he made this comment – obviously intended as a joke but he made it – ‘no girl can suck my cock like my older brother’.”

I looked up at him, a little shocked.

He laughed, but this time his face betrayed a little of his own discomfort. “The next day I said, ‘Dave, what did you mean about your brother sucking your cock?’ At first he said nothing, of course, like anyone would. That it had just been a joke. But after a while of me going on at him, asking, ‘Where would a joke like that come from?’ he eventually admitted that they’d been doing it since he was sixteen. Their closeness and their physical similarities meant they knew exactly what each other liked…”

My face must have still looked stunned by what he was saying. It was dawning on me that his attempt to draw out of me what I’d meant by my throwaway remark was rather more than just him taking the piss. This was something that clearly interested him…

I shrugged and shook my head. “Come on, Chaz. He was having a laugh with you…”

He shook his, looking more serious. “He wasn’t. There’s no way. And they weren’t gay, neither. They both had girlfriends. They just liked getting blow jobs and… I suppose, when you think about it… who can give you a better blow job than your brother?”

We both left that one hanging in the air, staring at each other. I was about to tell him that I was crap at giving head but fortunately realised before it came out how much explanation that would have lead us into.

I settled for, “I think I’d be crap at it. Girls reckon I’m all teeth when I take the plunge…”

He asked, his eyes fast on mine, “But would you try it?”

I didn’t know how to answer. I had no immediate hang-ups about the act itself: I’d sucked cocks, or attempted to suck cocks, since I’d been at school. Even the fact that Chaz was my brother didn’t pose any physical problem: if anything, it would make his cock far more palatable to me than those of the strangers I’d taken. The problem centred around how we would both react afterwards: we’d have to see each other for most of the rest of our lives; would the memory of what we’d done come to mar our relationship?

After a few seconds, I said, “I dunno… if we did it, we might end up getting funny with each other… regretting it and stuff… it might completely fuck us up…”

This time the mood was far too serious for him to make another pun on the word ‘fuck’. He replied, “Maybe, but it didn’t fuck Seb and his brother up. They still do it, sometimes, he told me. I think as long as the two guys go into it on the understanding that it’s sex purely for pleasure, no different to wanking together, then there aren’t gonna be any emotional screw-ups. It’s not like the two guys would be boyfriends or lovers or anything – they’d just be taking brotherly intimacy one step further than most people do…”

There was a long pause as I thought about what he’d said. He shifted around a little, perhaps becoming worried that he’d said too much.

After half a minute or so, I nodded slowly. “Okay… let’s say I accept that… what about you? How far would you be prepared to go with me?”

He looked at me and smiled humourlessly. Then he said, his voice serious, “You know how much you mean to me, mate. If you wanted to screw me, I’d let you. You know that…”

What he said was both startling and touching. All the more so because it was obvious he’d thought deeply about this since finding out about his mate and his brother.

When I’d recovered my wits a little, I muttered, “I couldn’t do that to you.” Although, even as I said it, the idea was slowly becoming attractive to me and I knew that I could.

He nodded, his expression suggesting that my answer had been the one he’d expected rather than that he shared my opinion.

He asked, “And what about the other?”

“The cock sucking?”

“Yeah.”

Again there was a long pause. I liked the fact he’d indirectly set the terms and conditions, making it clear that this had to be sex purely for mutual pleasure. No emotional screw-ups, that’s how he’d put it. I liked that idea.

And we were both still very drunk: that had to be in our favour. If guilt-trips kicked in in the morning, we’d have the old chestnut of being too drunk to know what we were doing to fall back on. It was a reassuring safety net.

So, after a while, I said, “Yeah. I’d go for that.”

He stood up, the unremarkable package in the front of his tartan briefs showing that his cock was in a similar state of uncertainty about the whole thing as mine was.

He pulled off his tee-shirt and asked, “You wanna try it now?”

I stood up and began to undress as he was. “Yeah. Might as well.”

Our tone was conversational: we were making this sound like we were about to play a game of darts or something. Maybe that was our way of dealing with the magnitude of it.

He looked over at me and smiled. “Your place or mine?”

It took me a few seconds to realise he was asking which bed we ought to do it on. When I understood him, I muttered, “Oh, right. Whichever…”

Then he asked, with his hands on the hips of his briefs, “Should I take these off?”

I shrugged, again distractedly as though he was asking if he could have the first throw of darts, and said, “Yeah. I guess…”

He pulled off his briefs and his cock, small and thin, flopped out into the dense bush covering his balls. Then he climbed onto my bed and lay on it, his hands behind his head. He opened his legs slightly and his scrotum dropped downward into the black fuzz of hair between his thighs, leading my thoughts down towards his unseen arsehole. The image of me fucking him down there flashed through my mind again, this time becoming even more appealing.

He saw me looking intently at him and giggled, covering his cock and balls with both hands. “Stop looking at me! I’m already totally freaked out…!”

I smiled and pulled off my own briefs. Now it was his turn to stare at my crotch with my limp cock dangling as unimpressively as his had. I said, “I was just thinking how similar we are. How this is going to be just like sucking my own dick…”

He uncovered himself and looked at his cock and then mine. “Yeah… they are pretty much the same…”

I got on the bed next to him and he said, through a trickle of nervous laughter, “I haven’t a fuckin’ clue what to do…”

I laughed too and then rolled on my side to face him. It was going to be up to me to take the lead; that was becoming obvious. I was the older brother and I was, in all probability, the more experienced. I pulled him towards me and our chests touched.

Then I put my arms around his back and he did the same to me. Now our cocks were gently flopping against each other.

He was really uncomfortable with this. No doubt he hadn’t expected to be – he’d assumed, once we’d got past the discussion and had undressed, that it would all go really well and we’d be sucking each other’s cocks like a couple of pros in next to no time – but now that we were here, lying naked together, he didn’t seem to know where to put his hands, what to do with his legs and where his face should be.

He tried to kiss me on the lips at one point, but I gently pushed him back and whispered, “We agreed, Chaz – no emotional screw-ups…”

He nodded and his cheeks went a little pink.

I set about trying to help him relax and become less awkward the situation. I slowly caressed his back, running my fingers down the smooth curve of his spine to the top of his bum and then across his buttocks to the hairy tops of his thighs. He liked that and tried to do the same to me, but his fingers weren’t happy to be on such unfamiliar territory and he seemed reluctant to do anything more with my arse than to brush his hand hastily across it.

I gently tickled his balls and ran my lips across his chest, hesitating at each nipple to lick and run my tongue over it. As I did that, I began to feel his cock stiffen.

He laughed, still nervously, “You’re pretty good, Ollie… have you done this before?”

I didn’t answer him directly. I said, “Having this done to me is the kind of stuff that turns me on, mate. I figured it’d be the same for you…”

He pressed his cock against me, maybe in case I hadn’t been aware of how hard it was becoming, and said, “Looks like you hit the bullseye…”

I worked my mouth down past across his hairless, athletic stomach, down towards his developing erection. Even as I breathed on it, it grew an inch or so, and when I licked the tip of it, it throbbed to full size. He was about seven inches long, like me, but the stem was a little thinner than mine. I pressed my face into his thick, pubic bush, inhaling the sharp, pungeant smells of his crotch that were similar, yet distinctly different, to my own. The main drift of it was the same as mine – the thick odour of my pubic sweat and the musky scent of my precum – but Chaz’s version had unmistakable shades and undertones that were all his own.

At first, I used my hand on him, masturbating him a little, as I licked and sucked at the round purple head of his cock. He moaned his appreciation and took my head in his hands, guiding me further onto his cock and easing me into a rhythm. Soon I took my hand away and used only my mouth. With one hand I stroked his balls; with the other I massaged my own now engorged and demanding cock.

He chuckled something like, “Way to go, Ollie,” as my mouth began to pump his cock, working at it roughly and rapidly with my lips, my tongue and as much of my throat as I could manage. Precum trickled from his piss-slit, wetting my tongue and tickling my throat. I wondered if my own cock was so copious.

After a few minutes, he pulled back. “Whoa… whoa… getting close, there… I think we might need to swap over…” He laughed again and by now it was sounding something like genuine.

So that was my second ‘first’ at Newquay. I must say Chaz’s early attempts to perform oral sex on me wouldn’t exactly rank among my top ten pleasurable experiences – in fact his method was more gynaecological than sensual – but the fact alone that it was him doing it to me made it feel surprisingly nice. He was my little brother and – far from that making the experience disturbing, as I might have expected – it gave the situation an air of warmth and tenderness that seemed to bring us closer together.

As our experiments with one another continued, we found ourselves making jokes about the amount of my pubic hair Chaz seemed to get in his mouth and laughing about how his attempts to play with my balls usually ended up bringing tears of pain to my eyes. Our manner became as unaffected and natural as if we were laughing at his ineptness at cricket or at knocking back whiskey chasers. In fact, by the end of the night, as we were both about to reach our climaxes while masturbating ourselves and hugging each other, we were totally comfortable about being so intimate with each other and all traces of stilted embarrassment had long disappeared.

The next morning, as we showered and got dressed, we were also thankfully free of awkwardness. We both had hangovers, which probably helped matters by dulling our reactions, but we chatted openly and freely about the night before and decided that we’d just get on with our lives, as mates and brothers, as we always had. I didn’t tell him that, at about six o’clock in the morning, I’d awoken in disbelief at what we’d done and had lain for an hour worrying that this would be the end of our relationship, nor that the fact we could be so calm about it – laughing, even, at some of the more farcical moments – made me so pleased I could have hugged him.

We didn’t have any other sexual experiences together at Newquay – in fact, as my weekend there with Chaz was the last time I visited the place, I haven’t done anything there since – but it didn’t take long for one of us (me, I think) to suggest a repeat performance.

And I guess I’ll tell you about that too. Sometime.

 

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