Adults Only

While doing some housekeeping on my blog, I noticed that this story, linked to The Masturbatathon post, had somehow vanished. Here it is again. Originally published in Joani Blank’s First Person Sexual. You must be over 18 to read this or your head will fall off.

Ah, San Francisco! Balmy weather, artsy cafes, sun-drenched or fog-shrouded beaches. I strolled along Baker Beach on a sparkling October day, congratulating myself on having left the rot and decay of the Great Northeast merely two short weeks ago for good. The Left Coast was my  home now, the place where I’d stake my claim to fame and fortune, find my soul mate, learn to live a “laid back” California existence.

Looking back, I see that I was naive in many ways, not the least of which was my total lack of awareness that I’d just moved to Sex City, U.S.A. Oh, sure, I knew the place was a gay mecca where everyone could be themselves, and I looked forward to being out as a bisexual. But with all those gay boys cruising one another, I figured encounters with men would be few and far between.

Not even this thought could dampen my spirits as I made my way along the beach, toward the cliffs rising in the distance. Slowly it dawned on me that the further I walked, the less clothing people were wearing, until I found myself almost entirely surrounded by naked bodies. Vaguely I recalled hearing that this strip of sand was a nudist haven. Indeed, sunbathers bared all and naked volleyball teams cavorted. My eyes roved from one body to another, awed by the sight of asses and breasts and penises bobbing unselfconsciously in the breeze. A far cry from the bundled-up folks back East.

Though I knew I stood out in my print shorts and t-shirt, no way could I imagine publicly baring my own flesh; never would I allow strangers to see my physical flaws in the harsh light of day. Oh yes, I definitely needed time to become acclimatized to this brave new world.

I meandered over to the cliffs, sat down on a craggy rock, and watched the waves rolling in, lost in thought. To my right was a small clearing sheltered by huge rocks lapped by the sea. Suddenly out of nowhere appeared a tall, thin man, naked but for a blue baseball cap and dark sunglasses. He was bearded, dark, good-looking. My eyes immediately fell to the space between his legs, where hung

the longest, thickest cock I’d ever seen outside of porno films.

Briefly the stranger glanced up at me, then proceeded to wander around the clearing. I smiled inwardly, thinking he was just a guy on the make, parading his goods for my inspection.  After strutting about for several minutes, he leaned against a rock and, to my astonishment, began fondling himself. Quickly I glanced around; a few people were scattered here and there, but no one else could see him. My first impulse was to run: the guy was obviously a pervert who, if encountered on a subway or dark street, would have scared me to death.

And yet, my eyes were mesmerized by the movement of his long thin fingers around his throbbing prick. So I watched. And he watched me watching. My cunt juiced up and my mind went wild: I imagined diving over the cliffs and impaling myself on the handsome stranger’s stiff prick.

Just then a teenage kid came bounding over the rocks. My flasher instantly ceased all activity. I considered leaving–but, much to my shame, I found that I couldn’t. I desperately wanted to see more. Surreptitiously I glanced around for more intruders, and when the coast was clear, cast a subtle nod in the stranger’s direction.

He resumed his self-pleasuring, leaning back luxuriously, allowing the sun to dance across his hairy chest and well-hung balls. Slowly he stroked his dick up and down for my viewing pleasure. My mouth tingled with desire and lust, and I briefly considered running over and giving him the blowjob of his life. But for all I knew he really was a pervert, possibly even dangerous; maybe he had a gun hidden beneath his hat. (Remember, I was fresh off the streets of New York.)

You know how some guys masturbate, desperate to come, jerking it so fast that their prick whizzes by in a blur? Well, this guy wasn’t “jerking off”; he was loving his dick and showing me how much he loved it. He took his sweet time, fondling and stroking, waving it teasingly in my direction. He let his prick stand straight up to its full glory while he squeezed his globular balls. The sun glinted over the pearly cum forming on the smooth head. And I sat, impassively watching, pretending that nothing out of the ordinary was going on, while my cunt palpitated and my mouth salivated.

Finally my masturbator surrendered to nature in the fullest sense of the word, letting his milky fluid spurt into the briny sea. I allowed myself another moment to feast my eyes on his cock as it slowly went limp, then jumped off the rock and walked rapidly away, hotter than a furnace.

I must have been emitting animal smells, because every man on the beach turned to look at me. Any one of them could have thrown me down and fucked me on the spot, and I would have been grateful. As it was, I was going to have to find release on my own.But how to do that in public?

They say necessity is the mother of invention, and in this case it was surely true. It didn’t take me long to figure out how to masturbate surreptitiously–in fact, I taught myself something that day that I was to practice many, many times in the future. I gathered a small hard mound of sand in one spot underneath my blanket, then laid myself face down placing my cunt directly over the little sandhill. I put a book in front of my face and rubbed my pelvis up and down in tiny, infinitesimal movements, pressing my clit hard into the sand. My eyes glazed over so the words on the page in front of me swam around meaninglessly. The sun beat down on my bare legs; the ocean lapped ceaselessly before me. People strolled all around me, and not one, so far as I know, noticed anything unusual when my cunt convulsed and my whole body shuddered in orgasmic release.

As soon as my orgasm subsided I left the beach, my mind a whirlwind of confusion. I thought about friends who would have been appalled by the stranger’s display and shocked by my acquiescence. So many of us have been frightened as little girls, hiding in some apartment stairwell while a “dirty old man” jerked off. Most of us have seen men whip it out on the subway or the street, in parked cars or movie theaters. These unwanted displays have scared and disgusted us–yet  there I had sat, watching, even encouraging, a man to masturbate in front of me.

But, I reminded myself, I had been safe. I’d known the stranger could not and probably would not touch me. Had I encountered him in a dark alley I would certainly have fled in terror–but this had not been a dark alley; this had been a beach in San Francisco.

Many times since then I’ve returned to my beach in San Francisco, and though I have never again encountered my handsome stranger, I’ve enjoyed many delicious orgasms humping myself up against the sand, unnoticed by other beach lovers.