3rd August 2006: A story I wrote following an actual trip to Malta when I was keen to describe the unique atmosphere of the island. The storyline about the meeting of the man on the beach, however, is actually based on a previous holiday in Greece.


If ever you’ve been to Malta, as I did with my wife Melissa and our young daughter Beth this year, you might have noticed something about the men native to the island.

Maybe it’s just me, but when I walk down a street in the UK, I expect to exchange a few knowing glances with other guys — have them check me out while I give them a similar once-over — as well as with girls. I’ve noticed that it’s happening less often now that I’ve reached thirty, but I can still turn the occasional head.

Not so on Malta. Although gay sex is legal on the island, it might as well not be for all the action that seems to go on there. If you give a fit-looking Maltese guy a lingering glance, he’ll be either totally oblivious to it or otherwise appear puzzled as to why another man might do that to him. Wearing my tightest nothing-left-to-the-imagination trunks on the beach was met with similar disinterest by other guys, and any attention directed my way at all seemed focussed on Melissa rather than me.

At first I was a little concerned by the sudden absence of male-orientated interest in my life. I realised how much I missed the tell-tale glances and grins of other guys, some of whom had wives or girlfriends by their sides or little kids running around their feet, and those titillating moments of wondering “Is he or isn’t he?” when potential liaisons would present themselves.

I wondered if maybe I was no longer attractive enough to appeal to good-looking young guys. I have fair-skinned Scandinavian features and do enough exercise to keep my body in shape, but I wondered if maybe the long hours I work as a GP were showing themselves in the fine lines around my eyes and whether having a baby daughter in tow was making me look too straight in both senses of the word.

But then I began to realise that the lack of homosexual interest was virtually universal on the island. Maltese men just didn’t seem to notice one another in anything but the most superficial way. They seemed completely ignorant of the attractions of other guys’ bodies and unaware of the whole fascinating spectrum of sexual possibilities that can exist between two men.

I’m sure I’m over-generalising here, but that’s how it seemed to me.

I saw a group of young Maltese lads standing around chatting on the side of a harbour one day while another guy nearby was stripping down to just his swimming trunks. As he bent over to pull the leg of his shorts over his feet, my eyes were automatically directed to his arse — in particular to his firm-looking buttocks which were slightly parted inside his tight white trunks — and to the bulge of his balls hanging between his thighs. I noticed, though, that none of the locals paid him any interest whatsoever: not one of them even glanced over to check out what was an extremely attractive arse.

I’m pretty sure that in a similar situation in the UK, a few of the guys would have looked over at the undressing, bending man, even if they had feigned expressions of disinterest. And I’m pretty sure that at least a couple of them would have been, even if subconsciously, imagining what it would be like to penetrate such a well-sculptured backside, just as I had been.

But not here.

I noticed, too, that public toilets in Malta were almost completely free of gay-orientated graffiti and that glory-holes and under-the-stall signals were totally unknown.

Guys’ arses were, evidently, for shitting, not for shagging.

It was a real pity because a lot of the young local guys were really attractive with their dark Italian features and well-toned athletic bodies.

The lad who sold me some beach shoes on the first day we arrived called over to me, a few days later when I returned to the same shop, with a husky, “Hey! Nice shoes!”

We grinned at one another and then I asked him if he had anything else I could try on, glancing pointedly at the generous-looking bulge at the front of his shorts.

He shrugged, clearly oblivious to my intentions, and, gesturing to the range of goods on his shelves, said, “Take your pick.”

I slunk out of the shop feeling a little embarrassed with myself.

After the first week of our holiday, I began to accept that the only sexual activity I was going to be getting during this holiday would be that which Melissa deigned to offer or which my right hand could minister.

A couple of the Maltese women had thrown me very encouraging smiles and I probably could have manufactured a plausible-sounding excuse to nip off with one during the evening while Melissa was putting Beth to bed, but with all the good-looking young guys around me in shorts and trunks and all their chests and backs and crotches and arses surrounding me every day, I really felt like I needed a taste of something more masculine.

On one of the last days of the holiday, though, after I’d given up all hope of being able to sample the local produce, an unexpected opportunity presented itself.

We were spending the day at Ghajn-Tuffieha Bay, doing a bit of sunbathing and swimming. The beach was quite popular and there was only a few feet between peoples’ towels and belongings.

Melissa and I parked ourselves at the quieter end of the beach but were quickly joined by a young Maltese couple who set down their things a small distance from ours.

The guy looked over towards us and, ignoring me altogether, stared blatantly at Melissa in her skimpy bikini as she applied sun-cream to her legs. I allowed him his fun; she did look pretty good.

I wondered if he was developing an erection in his swimming shorts but they were too baggy for me to tell. It was a shame: he was a good-looking guy who’d suit a pair of Speedos. And since it looked as if this was to be the closest I was going to get to a Maltese guy’s erect cock, it would have been nice if I could have actually seen it!

Melissa took Beth into the sea for an hour or so, while I sat and read.

The Maltese guy and his girlfriend or wife went swimming together — being rather over-affectionate in the water together by my standards — and then came out of the sea to do some sunbathing.

After Melissa had come out from the sea and I’d been along to the kiosk to buy the three of us some drinks, I decided I’d take Beth back into the water. I hadn’t actually planned to go into the sea so I was wearing my normal shorts, but we’d packed my trunks in the holdall just in case.

I stood up, facing away from the sea, and wrapped a towel around my waist to pull off my shorts beneath it. I noticed the Maltese guy glancing over in my direction, shielding his eyes from the sun.

I awkwardly removed my shorts and underwear beneath the towel and reached down for my trunks.

“The whole world doesn’t want to see your arse, Sebastian!” Melissa snapped, and I muttered my apologies and yanked up the towel at the back.

Trying to balance on each leg to hitch the trunks over the other while holding onto the towel proved to be very difficult.

The Maltese guy was now sitting up and staring directly at me; or more precisely, was staring straight at the front of my towel which occasionally gaped open as I hopped around.

I thought, “You want to see a bit of English cock? You got it!”

I allowed the towel to gape wide open as I pulled the right leg of my trunks over my foot. My cock, limp but looking well-hung in the heat, seemed unnaturally pale in comparison with the tan on my thighs and stomach.

The Maltese guy stared at it for a few seconds and then looked up to my face. I smiled over at him and he smiled back. He had the expression of a naughty schoolboy.

His girlfriend was lying on her front, staring away from us and Melissa was playing with Beth.

I went to pull on the other leg of my trunks, flashing him another look at my cock. I was pleased I’d trimmed my pubic hair before we’d flown out.

I said, hopping around awkwardly, “It’s kind of difficult not to look like a twerp doing this.”

Melissa hissed something catty, assuming the comment was directed at her, but the Maltese guy muttered, “You look fine from here.”

I grinned at him, feeling my cock lengthen a little in response to his compliment. I granted him another lingering look at it as I hitched up my trunks and he stared at it appreciatively.

I had grown to suspect that most Maltese guys were quite well-endowed from the wealth of generously-proportioned bulges I’d seen during our time on the island, and it was nice to show him that English guys, at least in my case, had nothing to be ashamed of.

After I’d swam a little and then entertained Beth for twenty minutes at the water’s edge, I went back over to our stuff and reapplied sun-cream to my neck and shoulders while Melissa attended to Beth.

The Maltese guy called over to us, “Have you seen the view from the cliff up there? It’s quite impressive. You can see across to the next bay.”

I looked up at the outcrop of rocks he was gesturing towards. A network of paths wound their way up to it, through coarse scrub bushes. The way looked steep but manageable.

I shook my head. “Is it safe?”

“The way up is fine. You have to be careful once you’re up there. There’s quite a drop.”

Melissa glanced up at the rocks, clearly lacking any intention of going up.

He went on, “I can show you both the way, if you like^Å? I feel like taking a walk anyway.”

Melissa shook her head. “No thanks. Not with Beth.”

I muttered to her, “I’d quite like to take a look. Would you mind?”

She glared at me, no doubt mistrusting my intentions. “If you must, I suppose.”

I stood up and pulled a tee-shirt on. The Maltese guy got up too and glanced at my crotch inside my still-damp swimming trunks. He fished a bottle of water from their stuff for the walk and I grabbed my own bottle of water.

Melissa said, “I don’t want you falling into any holes, Sebastian.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“And I don’t want you walking funny when you get back. You know what I mean.”

I nodded. “I know what you mean.”

We set off; the Maltese guy’s girlfriend or wife seemed totally indifferent to our goings-on and just lay face-down sunning herself. Perhaps she had no idea that two men could be going for a walk in the bushes with any ulterior motive.

If only Melissa could have been so naïve.

The two of us set off along one of the crumbling paths with Melissa glaring after us.

I knew that, had it been the guy’s girlfriend who had offered me a walk up into the bushes, Melissa would have refused to allow it. She saw female interest in her husband as far more of a threat than male interest.

As it was, she obviously strongly suspected that I was going off with this guy for reasons other than to see the view from the cliff, and yet was prepared to accept those reasons, albeit with reservations. She knew her husband enjoyed playing around with other guys – sucking a few cocks, screwing a few arses, even allowing myself to be fucked sometimes — but, so long as I was discrete about it, she would turn a blind eye.

One afternoon, a couple of years earlier, we’d been out shopping in Leeds and I’d been drawn into the scene of an accident to offer medical help. The cop who had shown up to sort things out was a really attractive young guy and, as I’d made my statement, a lot was going on between us in terms of glances and grins.

At the beginning he’d said he just needed a short statement from me, but as things had progressed between us, he’d invited me back to the police station to “take down more particulars”, as he’d smirkingly put it.

Melissa had looked suspicious but had agreed that I’d better go along.

Locked away in a small office in the station that evening, he’d fucked my arse pretty roughly with me squatting on a chair, and had then refused — as I’d assumed he would all along — to allow me to reciprocate.

That night I’d used Melissa to vent my frustrations at having been unable to have my turn at the cop’s arse.

While I was on top of her, she’d groped around behind me and felt for my arsehole; something she never normally did. I’d started enjoying the unexpected the attention but realised why she was doing it when she said, “You’re sore round there, Sebastian.”

My hole was, indeed, very inflamed from the cop’s exertions.

I’d grunted, still fucking her, “I’ll be okay.”

“You need to be careful.”

“I’m very careful.”

She’d nodded. “Well make sure you are.”

And that had been it; enough to let me know that she knew what I got up to but not enough to suggest that she condoned it.

The Maltese guy wound his way through the scrub up the steep slopes and I followed him. Occasionally he’d look behind himself and grin at me and I’d smile back.

About two-thirds of the way up, he veered off the main path and we headed into an area of denser bushes with steep overhanging cliffs. He pushed his way through the coarse foliage of a couple of bushes and I followed him into a small, shaded sandy clearing.

He said, “We’ll stop here for a minute.”

I nodded. “Yeah, great.”

He didn’t say anything else but just stared at me. I wasn’t sure what to do — how to make a move since I wasn’t completely sure of his reasons for bringing me here — so I just smiled back at him.

He took a swig of water and I did the same.

Then he said, “I saw your cock on the beach.”

I laughed. “Yeah?”

He laughed back: “Yeah.” We were both feeling really awkward with this.

I was going to ask him if he’d like what he’d seen, but he cut in with: “You want to see mine?”

I smiled. This was like being fourteen again.

I said, “Yeah.”

He untied the cord in the waistband his swimming shorts and then pulled them down around the tops of his thighs.

His cock, limp but very thick and large, flopped out. It was a little paler than the rest of his skin; the colour of milky coffee. A small part of the head of it, little more than the tip and the slit, was peering out from his slightly-retracted foreskin. His pubes were unclipped and bushy around it and his balls were loose and hung low, like two conkers in a sock.

He looked up at me, assessing my reaction.

I smiled and said, “Nice.”

He just stood there, showing me his cock with his shorts around his thighs, clearly unsure of what to do now.

I said, “Do you want to see mine again?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

I hitched my tee-shirt up a little and hitched down my trunks. My cock was now semi-hard and was rising upwards from my balls, as if straining to get a look at its Maltese equivalent.

He looked at it and I noticed his own cock starting to slowly lengthen.

I wondered if this was his first time with another guy; he seemed very uncertain about what to do. He made no attempt to come over towards me and I wasn’t sure how he’d respond if I walked over to him. So we just stared at each other’s cocks, watching them slowly stiffening.

At length he said, “Does your wife know why you came up here?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I imagine so.”

“Is she happy that you do this?”

“We’ve never talked about it. She seems to accept it, but I don’t think she’s exactly happy with it.”

He nodded.

My cock was now well on the way to being fully erect. I wanted to masturbate it but I wasn’t sure if that might — as the first overtly sexual gesture between us — freak him out.

I asked him if his wife or girlfriend knew why we’d come up here.

He shook his head. “This doesn’t happen here. It’s against our culture, our religion^Å”

I nodded. “Have you done it before?”

He shrugged. “A little. But not a lot. It’s just that sometimes I^Å like it. You know?”

I smiled. “I know exactly!”

He walked over to me and asked if he could touch my cock. I nodded and he gently worked his fingers around it, easing the foreskin down the pale shaft of it and caressing the head of it with his thumb.

I took the opportunity to touch his, coaxing the thick stem of it to full hardness by gently squeezing and wanking it, while at the same time kneading his balls and pushing a finger into the hot hairy crack between the tops of his thighs.

I asked him, when his cock was throbbing upright at its full seven or eight inches in my palm, “What do you like to do?”

He seemed unsure. “I^Å I don’t know^Å”

He was really aroused by this, but clearly on very uncertain ground.

I said, “Would you like me to make some suggestions?”

He nodded, his deep coffee-coloured eyes staring into mine.

I smiled. “I’d like to suck your cock. Then I’d like to lick your arsehole. Then I’d like to fuck you.”

I felt his cock throb in my hand at the prospect.

He said, “I don’t know about the last one. Does it hurt?”

“I’ll be really gentle. You’ll love it!”

He considered. “You know^Å I’d quite like to fuck you^Å”

This was the problem with coupling up with straight men: they always wanted to be the one doing the fucking; they never wanted to receive.

My cock really needed to have an arsehole gripping it; I’d gone nearly two weeks without it tasting the thick, pungeant stench of another guy’s innards.

I lied, “In Britain, the guy who licks the other guy’s arse gets to fuck him. That’s how it goes. Are you okay about doing that to me?”

I was gambling that his inexperienced manner was genuine and not just an act, and my gamble paid off. He looked as disgusted as most newcomers to gay sex look when faced with the prospect of rimming another man.

“No — I won’t^Å I can’t do that to you. Sorry.”

I smiled. “That’s okay. So you’ll let me fuck you?”

He nodded. “Okay. As long as you take it slowly^Å and you’ll stop if I tell you to^Å”

I agreed readily. I was going to really enjoy this!

I dropped to my knees and began sucking at his cock which had softened a little at the prospect of rimming me. It rapidly swelled back to full size and he began fucking my mouth with it, gripping my head and groaning gently.

His cock smelled strongly of pubic sweat — inevitable, I suppose, in the heat — and its head tasted sharp and acrid as I retracted his foreskin with my lips. The smell and taste of him — so raw and masculine — really aroused me after having to make do with only Melissa’s feminine versions during the preceding fortnight.

He began oozing thick gobs of precum into my mouth as I wanked his shaft with my lips and caressed his bell-end with my tongue. It tasted salty and made my mouth water.

I gripped his arse and pushed my fingers into the hot hairy moistness of his cleft. His buttocks felt firm and round; it was going to be so good to watch them eating my cock.

He kept fucking my face and his balls thwacked against my chin with every thrust of his hips. He was loving it; groaning and grunting and gripping my head like he thought I might try to escape.

I groped down inside his arse crack and found his hole. It was tightly clenched but wet and slimy: my cock would easily slide into it.

I withdrew from his cock and pushed my face into his hairy balls. He grabbed his cock and began to wank himself, enjoying me taking his balls into my mouth in turn and tasting the cloying sweatiness of his scrotum.

I muttered, my mouth planted on the ridge beneath his balls, “Squat down.”

He yanked his shorts further down until they were around his ankles and then squatted down. This was my favourite part, bar the fucking: exploring the fascinating pathway between the base of a guy’s balls and his arsehole. You never knew what smells, tastes and textures you were going to encounter.

In this guy’s case — I never found out his name — the smell was powerful and the taste was bitter. I licked excitedly at the hairy ridge leading towards his anus, enjoying the intensifying aroma of him as I homed in on my target.

Then, reaching his small puckered ring, I pushed my tongue up into it, feeling it dilate to urge me inside. The taste here was intense — so crude and carnal — as I probed his most intimate spot with my eager, hungry tongue. This guy’s arse was as hot as hell: this was going to be a fuck to remember!

He squatted lower and opened his legs wider to try and take my tongue more deeply into him. I strained to push it as far into him as I could, my lips clamped tightly onto the sides of his arse cleft, and revelling in the seedy taste of him.

Just then his hips began bucking and his rectum began squeezing my tongue in short bursts.

Jesus, he was cumming! And I hadn’t got to fuck him yet!

I pulled out of him, hoping desperately I might be in time to stop him on the brink of his orgasm but knowing full well that he was too far gone.

He was wanking his cock frantically, clearly having been overwhelmed by the sensation of me rimming him, and it was spewing strings of white semen across the sand in front of us.

I stood up, my erection straining painfully, and said, urgently, “I really need to fuck you.”

He stepped away from me, still cumming and breathless. “You can’t now.”

“I really need to. Just for a few seconds.”

He shook his head, milking the last few gobs of semen from his cock. “I’m sorry.”

“Just let me put it inside you then.”

He pulled up his swimming shorts and tucked his cock inside them. “No. We have to go now.”

I was angry with myself for rimming him so assiduously that he’d climaxed. I should have known that he’d enjoy it so much since it seemed to be his first time. A couple of quick licks would have done; then I could have replaced my tongue with my cock.

He finished tying the cord in his shorts and said that we should go to the top of the hill to look over the cliff because “the girls will be watching”.

I nodded, tucking my own painfully hard cock back into my trunks.

I kept looking at his arse inside his shorts as I followed him up the hillside, longing to climb onto his back and slide myself into him. I was imagining the light brown colour of his buttocks framing the paleness of my cock.

When we got up to the top and we looked over the cliff to what he informed me was Gnejina Bay, he glanced at the front of my trunks, with my cock still quite obviously hard inside them, and said, smiling, “You’ll enjoy yourself with your wife, later.”

I muttered, “I suppose I’ll have to,” and then we began the descent back to the beach.

Melissa was glaring at me with the same disapproving scowl when we got back to her as she had been when we’d left.

She saw my cock, still waiting excitedly for an arse that it hadn’t yet realised wasn’t going to be forthcoming, straining in my trunks as I pulled on my shorts and said, “The walk wasn’t everything you’d hoped for, then?”

“I guess not.”

She sneered at me and got on with rubbing after-sun lotion onto Beth.

A short while later, as the couple next to us were packing up and the guy was doing everything to avoid looking at me, she said, “I could just eat a Malteaser. You haven’t come across any, have you?”

I glared at her.



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