Erotic Flash Fiction: December in San Francisco

THE QUESTION WAS: HAVE YOU EVER SUCKED OFF MORE THAN ONE BLOKE AT THE SAME TIME?

It was December 2001 in a prison themed sex club in San Francisco. I was wandering around the fantasy locker room, wearing only a pair of short rubber chaps – with nothing underneath – when I was approached by a blond, fit, young man in tight blue jeans. He was topless. His muscled smooth chest and his masculine demeanour fit to perfection the American Beefcake stereotype. He got close to me and, looking at my uncircumcised cock, he asked with a smile: “Can I touch it?” I could not turn down such a polite request. One thing lead to another and soon he was out of his Levis & briefs, allowing me direct access to his beautifully shaped cock, balls and buttocks. We snogged and sucked each other off. We were soon joined by another boy wearing a white jockstrap. He was one of the handsomest men in the club and, as it turned out, also possibly one of the best hung. I suddenly found myself being the filling of a delicious sandwich. I kissed one boy, then the other. One of them attempted repeatedly to enter my arse. I gently refused. Then they kissed each other. I got on my knees. The task was probing but I finally, just about, managed to accommodate in my very small mouth those two massive cocks at the same time. I hardly touched myself but I came almost immediately. I got up, sweaty, and walked out of the scene, even if one of them kept pulling me towards them. When I looked back I just could not believe that those two beautiful men – who were now sucking each other off – had actually shown desire for me.

Erotic Flash Fiction: The same gay sauna in London (pt 2)

The dry sauna was empty. Two tiered wooden benches on the right mirrored two layered benches on the left. I sat on the right lower bench. I closed my eyes, lost in my thoughts, until someone walked in. It was a smooth slim man who sat opposite me. A second punter joined in: a grey haired man who took the left upper bench, above the first punter. He was followed by an athletic hairy man in his 20s, Mediterranean looking. The boy removed his towel, spread it on the bench above mine and sat on it with his legs wide open. Despite my best efforts, however, I could not get a good view of the boy’s genitalia: his knee was in the way and his arm cast a shadow.  It was getting sweaty. 

Then a bear walked in and sat right next to the younger hairy man. Opposite the bear, on the lower bench, appeared  a middle aged punter with a small blond moustache and receding hair. His gaze was focused on the hairy boy’s crotch. 

This boy was popular: a smooth blond jock took a seat on the lower bench just below him and soon was his hand going up the boy’s leg, slowly stroking his calf, his knee, his thigh, his thick pubic hair. Then his hand disappeared between the boy’s legs, starting a rhythmic up and down movement. The glans of the hairy boy’s penis appeared and disappeared between his thighs as he was masturbated by the blond boy. Most punters minded their own business but the balding moustachioed man’s stare was fixated on the boys. The hairy boy’s breathing pattern changed, getting faster and faster, his hands tightly clutching the edge of the bench. His upper body leaned forward and backward with jerky convulsions. As his breathing got faster and louder, the moustachioed man shouted: 

‘Are you going to come?’

 Everyone sat still. The blond boy pulled his hand away from the hairy boy’s body. 

‘Show some respect!’ the moustachioed man continued. 

The boys kept quiet but the bear bawled out: ‘What?’ 

The man with the moustache was relentless: ‘Aren't you ashamed?’ 

Timidly, the grey haired punter muttered: ‘This is a gay sauna…’ 

The reply was: ‘But you don’t have to do it in front of everyone! That’s what cubicles are for.’ 

He kept addressing the younger men. ‘Show some decorum! How can you possibly do this in front of everybody? ’ 

The dark haired boy mumbled something in a French accent. 

Mr. Moustache was outraged: ‘You’re not even English!’ 

The bear was dismayed. He asked: ‘Are you gay?’  

He replied: ‘Yes! But that doesn't mean I'm shameless. For fuck's sake! I have self-respect. And respect for others’. 

The bear stood up. ‘I give up,’ he said, ‘unbelievable’ and left. 

Everyone disappeared, one by one. I was left on my own again. I heard some shouting in the distance. When I got out, minutes later, the moustached man was nowhere to be seen on the premises.

Erotic Flash Fiction: A gay sauna in London (pt 1)

The techno remix of Stevie Wonder’s “I Just Called to Say I Love You" blaring out of the cheap tiny speaker above my locker was a not a good omen for a night at the sauna. As it turned out, the locker room was empty, the showers were empty, the steam room was empty. And the Jacuzzi was empty too. I splashed in, nevertheless, and sat on my own. Tired and stressed, I welcomed the bubbles in the whirlpool. Soon I was joined by an "older" gentleman - though probably younger than me - whom I found unambiguously unattractive. To my relief, he sat at a distance from me. We ignored each other. 

Another man joined us in a moment. He was younger, slightly hairy, with a fashionably beard.  I found this one more attractive, especially when he  took off his towel to enter the water. But I was dismayed when, with no hesitation, the younger man sat as close as he could to the older gentleman, without even looking at me. The men’s face expressions clearly indicated that something was happening under the bubbles. Something that was making the older gentleman uncomfortable; so uncomfortable, in fact, that he left the Jacuzzi almost immediately. The younger gentleman kept ignoring me.  To express my disapproval, I stampeded out of the Jacuzzi. 

On my way to the dry sauna, I bumped into the third  customer of the night, an exotic creature I would have never expected to find at this establishment. Long black hair and high heels, stockings, black shiny knickers and a feathery bolero falling over the pale flat chest, she batted her long eyelids seductively at me with a shy tilt of the head as she walked past. 

Up and down the corridor to the dry sauna, marched an athletic man in red Speedos. He stopped opposite the facility and looked through the little square window on the door. The corridor was dark and the light coming from inside the sauna made it look as though he had the face of a scary monster, grotesque and distorted. Or was he wearing something over his head? As he stepped back and my eyes got accustomed to the poor lighting, it became obvious that he was wearing a Mexican wrestler's mask. Red. Matching his Speedos. He approached me, stared at me and asked mysteriously: 

'Is that Turkish?' 

I shrugged. 

'Or Swedish?'  

I made a mental note: it was early October. April 1^st was long past and we were more than three weeks away from Halloween. 

'Or is it a Finnish sauna?' he continued. 

He was serious. I shrugged again and entered the sauna. Luckily, he didn't follow.

Erotic Flash Fiction: September in Chicago IL

Chicago IL, September 1995:

What Didier heard the young super-model – Cindy Crawford? Elle Macpherson? – say on TV, while he was changing in his hotel room, puzzled by the legal jargon in the ominous police notice in his pocket, shattered but safe: “In Europe everybody is naked! On the seaside in Italy and Spain. In France! People just don’t bother with swimming costumes. They’re all nude! Everywhere!”

What the blond police officer shouted, an hour earlier, inside the constricted lift, as Didier and all the others queued in our way out of the station house, causing the scraggy inmate in front of Didier to chuckle with knowing approval:  “Mind who’s behind you. Watch your asshole! It’s tight in here.”

What Didier thought the Puerto Rican police officer had said while he was taking his finger prints, joking in Spanglish about the beaches, the ‘playas’, ‘les plages’:  “The bitches! You like the bitches in France?”

What Didier thought to himself as he stood unable to pee into a toilet bowl in full view of the dodgy looking inmate in the second cell he was put at the police station:  “This rough guy is probably thinking I am gay.”

What his mixed-race companion inside the first police cell said after Didier explained to him why he was there: “For that kind of thing you go to San Francisco, buddie! You don’t do that here in Chicago!”

What the fat police officer handcuffing him in Grant Park said as he found a copy of Burroughs’ “The Naked Lunch” in Didier’s belongings:  “Just because the book says ‘naked’, you gotta get naked?”

What Didier thought earlier in the day when he saw the huge police car driving across the lawn, flashing lights on and sirens at full volume, speeding to reach him at the park spot where he was lying naked, face down, reading, in a sunny afternoon: “This is just like a Hollywood movie!” 

Erotic Flash Fiction: August in Formentera

I had missed the last bus from Besó stop, the one by the swanky new eatery next to the beach. I had wasted valuable time at the entrance to the restaurant, where angry beach goers, who had not made it to the guest list, argued loudly with the door whore. I gathered they were impatient to join the parade of Ibizaesque VIP wannabes at the restaurant terrace, sipping speciality mojitos concocted by the most beautiful baristas from Brazil. Or so the reputation went. I was starving and knackered after a long day exploring the northernmost beaches of Formentera, so I was disappointed to hear the restaurant did not serve dinner. I was not looking forward to a 20 minute walk to my apartment, along a deserted road with no scenic attractions. On my birthday. But I had no choice and walked on. Only isolated taxis and police cars interrupted the quietness of the road - not counting the infrequent outbursts of bling and laughter from mopeds driven by Italian teenagers. I was still far from my apartment when the sun set all of a sudden and dusk took over. I heard music from the other side of the road. I turned my head to see the silhouette a long outdoor table delineated against the entrance to a dimly lit farm house. In front of the table stood a man and a woman. The contours of their bodies shone smoothly against the dim light, betraying complete nakedness. I stopped and retraced my steps. If found myself staring at the shiny bare buttocks of the man. He was broad shouldered and tall. I cannot remember how long I stood there before the man turned slightly towards me, revealing the profile of an over-sized erect penis. It bent slightly inward in a way that reminded me of the phallus sticking out of the bronze statue of a satyr I once saw in the Archaeological Museum in Athens. I doubt, however, that the phallus in front of me was Greek. It was most likely Roman. Italian, at  least. And his athletic owner surely looked younger than the bearded satyr. The back light glinted on the wine glass he was holding in his hand with Bacchic pride. His other arm reaching towards his female companion. I think I heard laughter. Giggles. And the music and chatter from the radio. The woman seemed to embrace the celebratory mood. But I remember her only as an elusive silhouette in a blurred lively dance. The man’s profile was better defined. And, no matter how tall he looked, his male assets still struck me as distinctly disproportionate. There was no traffic now and I was tempted to cross the road to have a closer look. Would they mind my presence?  Would they welcome me as a spectator? Were they aware of me? Alas, I did not dare. I stayed on my side of the road and continued walking back to my apartment, on my own.

Erotic Flash Fiction: June in a gay club in Barcelona

OK. So you are wearing shoes. And that’s all! Ha, ha. I guess you have to wear something, right?  Nice I bumped into you here. I like the fact that you have no clothes on. Apart from the socks and trainers, that is. Lovely. It is a bit quiet tonight, isn't it?  Ah, you’re not from here? Just visiting, I see. But you speak Spanish, right? Of course. Yes,  I’d say the atmosphere is a bit weird here tonight. I think it’s because of the festival. The music festival: SóNAR. Apparently everybody is there. Yeah, that’s why Barcelona is so packed this weekend. No, it’s not the typical Saturday night here. There’s an unusual vibe. But, anyway, I like the fact that you are naked. Amazing. So they let you walk around like this? I never heard of anyone getting naked in this club. I am glad they allow you though. Well, you have a pretty cock, so why the hell not letting it all hang out? Nice pubic hair too. Have you ever been to Boyberry on a Thursday? No? Me neither. Apparently they have a nude night on Thursdays. Everybody is naked that night. I should go along one of these weeks. I love your moustache, by the way. You have nice hairy buttocks too. And lovely lips. So funny that I bumped into you here in the darkroom. You smell vintage, retro. But nice. I see: it’s the wax on your moustache. It reminds me of my grandfather – when he kissed me. It's nice, I like it. You were at the dance floor earlier, weren't you? OK. So it was you, indeed… Erm… hmm… I am going to tell you a story that is going to amuse you. You see. The thing is that… I am blind. I have 5% vision in one eye and I walk with a stick.  When you see me outside later, you will see me walking with a white cane. Anyway, my friend told me you were at the dance floor. Dancing naked. He is here now at the back of the maze, fucking with someone. He's not my boyfriend; we are just friends. So he told me you were naked but I couldn't see you. And I wanted to see you. I was wondering what you looked like. So it's a nice surprise I bumped into you here.I can see what you are like now, here in the dark room. As I say, you have a lovely cock. I like your thick bush, your little bum. Your chest. Beautiful lips. Yes, that's why I was feeling your legs all the way down to your feet earlier: to see if you were wearing shoes. I am not sure I would go naked myself though. But I love the fact that you do it. I'm lifting my t-shirt for you now. Feel free to stroke my flat hairy stomach. Can I kiss you again?

Erotic Flash Fiction, March 2015: At a gay strip joint in Miami

It was Sunday night at TWIST, prime gay complex in Miami beach. After ordering a caipirinha at the courtyard bar, I headed to the strippers’ shed. The place was busy. Semi-naked muscled boys in skimpy underwear mingled among punters of mixed ages. Only a handful of the customers were women. Apart from the spotlights on the podiums where the strippers danced, the room was dimly lit. On the microphone, a drag queen from Colombia described in English the sensual virtues of the go-go boys. In the shadier corners, one could spot the odd semi-naked dancer rubbing his buttocks against the crotch of some fully clothed older customer. As part of the “private dance”, it looked like the punter was allowed to stroke the boy’s muscley chest and nipples, his flat stomach, his tight belly, his strong thighs… but hands always stopped at the crotch. I never saw a punter feeling a dancer’s genitals, not even over the briefs. And the briefs never slipped down...

During a break, the Colombian drag queen made her way to the bar and stood next to me to order a bottle of water. She got talking. Apparently that night they were hosting an amateur stripper competition. Needless to say, nothing indicated in the way she addressed me that she thought of me as a potential contestant. From what I gathered, the competition was really a public audition to recruit new dancers for the venue. I asked casually if the competitors would have to get completely naked. She turned all thoughtful and weary, as though she was about to make a shameful confession. ‘Oh, no. Unfortunately, not. You can’t show cock here, sadly. We don’t have the right license. This venue doesn’t want to charge at the door. And only venues with a cover charge are allowed to show full nudity.’ Or something along the line. This explanation would have sufficed as far as I was concerned, but apparently she felt obliged to go on and on about the ins and outs of venue licensing, cock showing and male go-going in Miami. ‘I wish, I wish!’ she stressed, ‘I wish we could show cock!’ When she found out where I was from, she switched to Spanish. She told me about her experience performing in Gran Canaria, getting lost in the dunes of Maspalomas and how much she liked Serrano ham. ‘That’s the salty stuff, isn’t it? I love it!’

She returned to her hosting duties: ‘This is Eduardo, 26 years old. He arrived from Caracas just a couple of weeks ago. He likes playing football. Look at his huge strong thighs.’ On the podium, Eduardo lowered slightly the top of his red briefs, revealing his trimmed pubic hair and the top of his limp penis, which he covered up again almost immediately while teasingly shaking his hips. He dedicated a wide, frank smile to his potential dollar-bill-shoving admirers.

Erotic Flash Fiction, February 2015: Overheard at the Gents of a pub in Brixton

I hear a voice with a Cockney accent coming from inside the cubicle: "I'm gay but I don't take it up the arse," followed by a muffled reply that I fail to decipher. The Cockney voice again: "Come on. I'm queer; you're queer. Get your fucking knickers off and bend over." Another muffled reply, heavy breathing, rustling noises. Losing his patience, the man with the Cockney accent raises his voice: "I fancy you. You fancy me, don't you? Now then... bend over!" The panting gets louder. I wash my hands… and leave.

Erotic Flash Fiction, January 2015: On a London bus

I thought I was the only person sitting on the top floor of the double-decker. But a muffled sound behind me made me wonder. It was a night bus. I was immersed in the mysteries of the crime novel I was reading. I heard the sound again. It was a gasp, a rustle. Like the sudden sprint of a frightened mouse across the carpet. Distracted, I turned my head to find out indeed that I was not on my own. There were two other passengers on the upper deck. A young woman sat on one of the back seats with her legs spread out in the air. She was wearing leopard print stilettos. In front of her, on his knees, a man was pulling to the side the front of the woman’s panties, showing under her tight mini-skirt. He was smartly dressed. He pushed his head towards her, sticking his tongue out. Neither of them made eye contact with me but it was obvious that they were aware I was looking. The woman gasped again arching her head backwards.  When I saw the young man’s tongue reaching the woman’s exposed vulva, I turned my head and returned to my book. What happened next was very quick. The bell for a bus stop rang and the couple dashed past me.  As they went down the stairs, the man looked down coyly, visibly flustered. Behind him, the woman kept her chin up. Half-glancing at me, she fixed her hair, pushing her fingers through her big afro. Defiant. 

#FreedomTo? @LondonLGBTPride

#FreedomTo join the #PrideLDNParade at any point without having to be part of a pre-registered group @LondonLGBTPride #undemocratic

#FreedomTo be part of LGBT+ Pride celebrations which are not tightly controlled by the hierarchies of a Tory Government: @LondonLGBTPride

#FreedomTo celebrate “LGBT+ Pride” & NOT @LondonLGBTPride’s “Tory Pride” ruled by non-inclusive corporate capitalism & consumerism 

#FreedomTo truly be oneself with real freedom of expression & NOT being coerced by the #PrideLDNParade stewards from @LondonLGBTPride

#FreedomTo join LGBT Pride celebrations without pandering to @LondonLGBTPride’s ill-conceived & restrictive “family-friendly” constraints

#FreedomTo be free in an LGBT Pride which is truly inclusive & truly respects all life styles & individualities - unlike @LondonLGBTPride

Formentera

(under construction)

grindr poetry

chain wanking

"Chain masturbating" (or "chain wanking") is equivalent to "chain smoking", only instead of having a fag after another, one has a wank after another (wank-orgasm-wank-orgasm-wank-orgasm-wank... until exhaustion)




(oh, those were the days)

August 2012 (reminiscing... ongoing ruminations)

August 2012:

(Comments on Lisbon coming soon...)

Thursday, 23 Aug 2012, Larrabasterra beach: 

On the day after my birthday, it was “big cock day” at Larrabasterra beach (aka Barinatxe, La Salvaje, Sopelana) near Bilbao. I was standing by my towel, at the nakeder section of the beach, when this short man in his 40s/50s approached me and asked: “Can you speak English?” I said  "yes." “Are you sarezale on flickr?” I nodded again. “I follow your photostream on flickr. I’m one of your contacts.” He was from Florida living in Pamplona with his wife, while having an affair with a local boy. “I thought it was you,” he insisted, “you’ve got a look.” Whatever he meant.

Caños de Meca: 

I must admit that the whole hippy vibe started to grate towards the end… Especially the mock hippy vibe: Blackberries, iPhones, iPads by the beach, champagne (or mojito) socialists sitting on cushions at cocktail bars decorated as Bedouin tents, dearer-than-average accommodation and food at exclusive venues, fancy cars and cameras, designer beachwear in nudist beaches, itinerant merchants with their business URLs on their belt, over-priced sarongs at handicraft flea markets, VISA and Mastercard,…  & of course, plenty of tattoos and earrings, uneven haircuts and rasta dreadlocks, ubiquitous hash, ubiquitous dogs (and their shit), baggy cotton trousers, waitresses with loose leopard print tops, old hippies singing flamenco to the strumming of Spanish guitars played by naked young men by the beach, a refusal to use deodorant,… and not a single bank in the whole resort! In any case: a beautiful, wonderfully relaxing place to spend a sunny week at the end of August. Very laid back and open minded.

Sevilla: 
Tanta Dolorosa, tanto Nazareno, tanta Macarena, tanto santo, tanta santa, tanto Crucificado, tantos pasos de Semana Santa… No me extraña que los hombres se santigüen cuando se arrodillan… para comerse una polla.  

(google-translate at your own risk)

pulchritudinous penises

...at Poltroon, the literary saloon where a baboon will give you a balloon...
  http://www.poltroon.org.uk/nights/poltroon/the-aftermath-and-average/

FAQ

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Miami, Fort Lauderdale and the Royal Wedding

SOUTH FLORIDA, APRIL 2011, EASTER:

‘Are you from the United States? No? From Europe, aren’t you? I knew it because you are intact’

‘Intact?’

‘Yes. Uncut. Uncircumcised.  I am from the United States and I am circumcised. I envy you.’

This guy from San Diego kept talking and talking, as we all gathered at the outdoor Jacuzzi under the torrential sub-tropical rain in Fort Lauderdale.

FLYING ON AMERICAN AIRLINES:

‘Your carry-on is too big, Sir.’

The solicitous air hostess, serving food and refreshments:

‘You, in the middle, anything?’

‘Ice?’ 

’Some ice?'

‘More ice?'

OVERHEAD IN MIAMI BEACH:

‘Is that David Bowie?’

I turned my head.

‘Is that Bowie on your shirt?’

I did a twirl to face her.

‘It’s fucking awesome!’

 -----------------------------

‘Would you like it with onions?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want ketchup, mayonnaise or mustard?’

‘Just onions.’

‘Just onions with ketchup, mayonnaise and mustard? Or just onions?’

‘Just the onions only.’

‘I got you!’

 -----------------------------

‘Para ir al Downtown, es el C  y el 120’

‘¿El 6 y el 120?’

‘No, el C.’

‘Ah, el S.’

‘No. El C. C de casa.’

  -----------------------------

‘This water is better,’ said the chunky hairy boy showering next to me at the outdoor showers by Haulover Beach. He was pointing at his own shower. I looked at the water coming out of his shower and then at the water coming out of mine. I couldn’t tell the difference. Both seemed to have the same water pressure and volume. In what way could his shower be better? Was it that the water he was getting was cooler than mine? How could he know? I asked: ‘Better than this?’ pointing at my shower. He said: ‘No;’ and pointing at his shower he added: ‘This one is better.’ I was confused. But he finally explained: ‘The other water is warm, salty, sticky… fucking nasty,’ turning his shoulder in the direction of the sea as he rinsed soap out of his hairy scrotum.

-----------------------------

A few yards away, the busy public men’s facilities brought back memories of, ahem, 80s pop icon George Michael. Ominously idle butch men who at first appeared to be queuing for the cubicles would stand aimlessly without budging even after several of the urinals and cubicles were vacated. The mirror at the end of the row of urinals was grossly stained and cramped not only my attempts to check the state of my hair after swimming in the ocean but surely also the opportunities for many of the patrons to strategically keep track of the movements and glances of the other patrons, especially those who stood in front of the urinal a lot longer than would normally be granted. The stares were intense. The air was full of threat, as well as the stench of urine and faeces. Was there any user good looking enough to be suspected as an under-cover policeman? I washed my hands in a hurry at the filthy basin and left.

-----------------------------

ON THE BUS IN MIAMI BEACH:

The old, grey-haired Latino lady standing in the middle of the bus was wearing a white working man’s helmet covered with ‘Dora the Explorer’ stickers. Other accessories included pink gloves, pink bracelets and a necklace made of pink plastic beads. Her hands gripped tightly a ‘Hello Kitty’-themed wheeled suitcase. Pink, of course.

Inside Miami’s buses, the air conditioning was very strong. So strong in fact that, whenever I got off after a long ride, my specs would steam up when facing the hot Floridian temperatures outside, even in the evenings. Not surprisingly, then, this pair of young Italian men, who boarded at Bal Harbour, felt forced to cover their mouths and noses with fashionable scarves inside the bus. So cold they seemed to feel that they stood uncomfortably next to the driver for the duration of the ride – just because it was the section of the bus less exposed to air conditioning. In spite of the merciless sunshine and high temperatures outdoors, they were wearing long trousers and long sleeved summer jackets over their shirts, which were perfectly coordinated with their scarves. Their hands were full of shopping bags from Bal Harbour’s fashion designer stores.

FORT LAUDERDALE:

I was greeted to Fort Lauderdale by a colossal billboard commanding: “Continue your trip with us.” It arose from a big roundabout in the middle of the highway. On the billboard, an elderly priest and an elderly nun looked down on us, smiling spookily, to advertise the local Catholic temple. Who would have thought the Catholic Church would hire the services of David Lynch to design their publicity campaigns? 

 

Fort Lauderdale: Men in uniform by the beach; men out of their clothes at “clothing optional” all male resorts; students on Easter vacation; northbound palm trees bent by the persistently soothing ocean wind; oversized yachts and millionaires’ villas at the seaside canals of the (cough; cough) “Venice of America”; overcrowded restaurants at Las Olas Boulevard; ‘calamari’ (uncircumcised penises) and ‘eggs and chorizo’ (Spanish genitalia) at the Battle of the Bulges at the Ramrod leather bar; good karaoke and bad drag at Bill’s; sunburnt Anglo-Saxon queers of all persuasions at the oversized Alibi pub in the queer Florida Mecca of Wilton Manors; multi-racial cab drivers greeting poor tips with a disappointed “thank you” (including the Jewish cab driver from the Bronx who scrutinised the Royal wedding for me – more about him later); teenage Latino ‘travestis’ bringing their mothers to their drag shows at 2a.m. in the biggest gay compound of them all; learning that ‘My name is Anthony and I am at your service for whatever you want’ translates as ‘I expect a tip at the end of the ride.’

I wonder if the watchful gaze from the old priest and nun on the motorway billboard was still on me whilst surrounded at The Alcazar/Worthington Guesthouse by the uncircumcised South African, the circumcised New Yorkers from Long Island, the uncircumcised Venezuelan from Chicago, the Lebanese couple from Oklahoma (whose organs, probably circumcised, always hid under their designer swimwear), the circumcised Texan, the uncircumcised Argentineans, the circumcised New Yorker from Colorado and the Coloradoan boy from San Diego (who was wearing shorts all the time so no one could tell for sure whether he was circumcised or not). 

TWO DAYS AFTER THE ROYAL WEDDING, AT FORT LAUDERDALE:

The reception desk at The Alcazar/Worthington Guesthouse. Two men in their 30s had just checked out and were waiting for their taxi. They were concerned the taxi was taking too long to arrive. The receptionist filled the void with friendly chatter:

‘Did you see the wedding?’ he asked excitedly.

‘Erm… we saw the vows as we were changing planes in Dallas.’

‘I loved the impromptu part!’

‘The car?’ replied reluctantly the customer, the silent ‘r’ in ‘car’ betraying his English origin.

‘Yes! The thing Prince Harry did. It was totally impromptu. Not scripted. I loved it!’

The customers half-smiled with aloof British restrain.  

My taxi driver arrived on time. He was a nervy middle aged man with blond curly hair and a big nose. It soon became apparent that he was a Jew from New York, from the Bronx specifically, a neighbourhood he claimed to miss. Florida was too sunny for him. As soon as I told him about my final destination, London, he asked:

‘Are you into the Royal Wedding?’

‘No. I came here to get away from it, actually.’

‘I can’t believe it! Everyone’s into it. Men, women, transsexuals. All! And such a waste of money.’

I agreed with him.

‘And what’s Westminster Abbey?’ he asked.

‘It’s the church where they got married.’

‘Is that near the Buckingham Palace?’

‘Well, it’s one of the two biggest churches in London. The other one, St. Paul’s, is where Diana got married.’

‘You see! You’re actually into it. You are a closeted Royal Wedding follower.’

He grabbed a newspaper lying on the front seat and flashed it to me.

‘This is the New York Times. It has a 15 page spread about the wedding. Do you want it?’

‘No, thanks.’

He read the paper as he drove.

‘It says here that there is a couple from England in New York who went there to get away from the wedding too…’

It was like being in a Woody Allen movie, only in sunny Florida. 

Palm trees flanked the motorway. The blue sky was mirrored by the imposing ocean. The air was humid. Sweaty.

I was missing Florida already.

Es Trenc (nudist?)

Is Es Trenc beach still a naturist paradise...?

http://www.flickr.com/photos/sarezale/es_trenc

Es Trenc is a well-known beach on the South Eastern coast of the Balearic Island of Majorca. It is located between two villages: Ses Covetes and Colonia de Sant Jordi. Considered by many as the most beautiful beach in the Balearics and often featured as one of the best naturist beaches in Spain, Europe or even the world, a distinctive characteristic of Es Trenc is that it is a "non urbanised" beach, that is, unspoilt by urban development: no hotels or apartments are allowed to be built along its more than 3kms of coastline. The beach is secluded, bounded by a nature reserve, with protected vegetation and dunes.

I believe there are 3 main points of entry to Es Trenc:

• From the village of Colonia de Sant Jordi, past Estanys beach (this is how I always accessed Es Trenc)
• From the small village of Ses Covetes (where many of the visitors seemingly park their cars)
• From a car park located a few meters from the beach, behind its main bar/restaurant (a point of access that I have not tried myself)

Regardless of how one accesses Es Trenc, a question that seems to be unresolved is whether it really is a naturist beach nowadays. Of course, it always depends on what one classes as "nudist", I suppose. Based on various reports on the internet, there seem to be 3 schools of thought on the matter:

• For some, it is an unspoilt nude paradise
• For others, it used to be a clothing-optional paradise until it became too popular (especially with locals) and swimsuit-wearing beach users took over (or rather invaded) the beach, taking away from it its Eden-like, naturist atmosphere
• Most reports seem to describe it as a beach which has a “nude section”

Although all three versions hold some element of truth, my personal experience in 2011 presented a more complex picture.

I will describe what I saw and experienced when I visited Es Trenc (and Majorca) for the first time at the end of August 2011.

As noted, I always accessed Es Trenc from Colonia de San Jordi, the village where I stayed for the 5 days of my visit. To reach Es Trenc from this village one first needs to walk along Estanys beach, which can be easily accessed from Hotel Marqués.  Estanys is a densely populated beach, long and fairly narrow, with fine white sand and calm clear waters. I guess it is the kind of beach people refer to as a “family beach”, with many toddlers and grannies. This beach is 100% “textile”, that is, everybody is wearing swimsuits (except for some of the toddlers). Some women sunbathe topless but that’s standard at any Spanish beach. This beach has a bar/restaurant called The Pine Trees.

Past Estanys, one encounters a relatively long pathway, snaking along the seaside.  The dunes and nature reserve are on one’s right as one walks towards Es Trenc. This rough path is sometimes rocky, sometimes sandy, often covered in algae but always an easy ride. The colour of the rocks is mostly pale, similar to the colour of the sand. A few yachts can be seen anchored nearby.

After walking for about ten minutes, one reaches a smaller beach, less populated than Estanys. The beach feels secluded and a bit wilder than the previous beach. Many of the people one encounters here are walking on their way to (or from) Es Trenc. Of those who stay to sunbathe and swim at this beach, the majority (I’d say more than 75%) are nude. Many of them are middle-aged German couples. Past this predominantly nudist beach, one can find a sandy path between rocks, which leads to what I believe is the beginning of Es Trenc proper.

The sand in Es Trenc is fine and light coloured, the water clean and quiet. Algae often pile up where the waves break gently on the sand.

The first few yards of Es Trenc could be described as no man’s land. This stretch of the beach is not very populated. Some people wear swimsuits, some don’t.

One can soon distinguish a beach bar/restaurant in the short distance. As one approaches the bar, past the first set of bunkers and a lifeguard tower, the beach gets busier and busier. The bar, rather large and decorated as a cabana, hosts a restaurant with wooden tables. The most populated part is the area surrounding the bar and the long row of sun loungers and umbrellas for rent on its right hand side. The crowd here is generally younger and less “family-oriented” than at Estanys beach, but the vibe is predominantly “textile”. In this section of the beach, everybody wears swimsuits apart from a few isolated nude sunbathers at the far end of the row of sun loungers and the surroundings of the first set of bunkers.

This section of the beach ends in a rather scenic point, a few rocks marking the separation between this and the next section, with a short sandy path leading to a second bar, past a deserted construction (an old mill?). As one looks in over the low walls which surround the old construction, one is faced with a little pond. On one of the walls of the derelict building, a faded spray sign pleads in Catalan: “Salvem Es Trenc” (“Let’s save Es Trenc”).   

The second bar (called “The Bar in the Middle”) is next to a lifeguard tower and is a bit smaller (and somewhat pricier) than the previous bar. No loungers or umbrellas for rent here. The stretch of beach around this bar is less populated than the previous section but is still busy and predominantly textile. However as one moves away from this area, in the direction of a second set of bunkers, more and more nude sunbathers can be seen amidst the swimsuit-clad beach users.

From now on, the beach becomes more sparsely populated and the vibe is clearly “clothing optional”: nude and swimsuit-wearing punters co-exist. The second set of bunkers mark an area with a larger proportion of people, including families. Sprayed on the walls of the bunkers read signs like: “Nude only" or "Zone Sex . Couples”.  Past the bunkers, the beach takes a slight turn to the left. The long stretch of beach which lies ahead (all the way to Ses Covetes) is predominantly nudist and comprises at least half of Es Trenc beach. This section feels closer to nature, more relaxed.

As one walks on, in the direction of the third set of bunkers, one even comes across a section which is clearly used mainly by gay men…

There is a new concentration of beach users (both nude and textile) around the third set of bunkers.

A few yards ahead of this set of bunkers, at the far end of the beach, one bumps into a new row of sun loungers and umbrellas that announce the third bar/restaurant of the beach. This area is popular with families and the vibe is predominantly textile. But, still, some of the sun loungers closest to the bunkers are used by nudists.

From this end of Es Trenc one can access directly the small village of Ses Covetes. I never ventured into the village but the houses one can see from the beach all seem uninhabited and derelict… It is a picturesque view.

In summary, Es Trenc is an established clothing-optional resort. One is free to go naked anywhere on the beach. One can even have a drink at the bars in the nude without any hassle (unlike bars by nudist beaches in e.g. Ibiza). Obviously, it can be intimidating to be naked in the busiest textile-dominated sections. However, apart from the odd raised eyebrow or nervous giggle, beach users in those areas seem to be relaxed about other people’s nudity even if they don’t practice it themselves.

Es Trenc is a beautiful beach and, arguably, it caters to the many tastes of diverse holiday makers. Whether you like your beach busy and lively or sexy and adventurous or secluded and natural, you are likely to find a spot on the beach that suits your preference. One could even say that Es Trenc is gay-friendly and family-friendly at the same time – that is, of course, if one goes with the right set of mind… and finds the right spot.