The Golden Question

The glory for me of Musa being such a draw for others was that the pool bar was considered the exclusive domain of expatriates living in northern Cyprus and UN soldiers and the diplomatic community from Nicosia on the other side of the guarded Green Line between the Greek and Turkish zones. Diplomats could traverse this border and came here to escape the glare of the attention in Nicosia. And here they murmured of the problems of their workday as they lay on their backs and Musa rode their cocks.

Musa, one of Angie’s waiters, one who specialized in taking care of the male clientele, was an asset I ran, one of my sources for information on what happened behind the scenes in Cypriot affairs and in embassies located in Cyprus. But Musa also liked the cock. And he really liked my cock, so a combination of money and attention kept Musa happy and me fed with a couple of useful reports home whenever I had a chance to go north for a swim.

On this night, Musa was comparing my cocking to that of Turkish soldiers, complementing me on taking my time and giving him as much attention as he was giving me—but, as an afterthought, saying that rough sex with a grin and no frills was nice to have occasionally too. I was agreeing with him on Turkish men in general. No one fucked with gusto and a smile like a Turkish Cypriot man did. And young Turkish Cypriot men had the bodies of gods, often pleasantly hirsute, until their late twenties, when, almost universally but not always, they quickly began to deteriorate into either a leather balloon or an emaciated bag of bones. At any age, though, they cocked with gusto and few, if any, inhibitions, all white-teeth smiles in grinning brown faces and vigorous thrusting. If you liked to be manhandled and taken hard, but not in anger, a young Turkish Cypriot man was what you wanted.