Gaycruise Daddy

John was riddled with mixed emotions—nerves, arousal, a bit of dismay—as he stood in line waiting to register with the clipboard-laden, Speedo-clad tour director at the bottom of the gangplank up to the sleek, small Poseidon’s Spear, the cruise ship that was to take him two days out and two days back to Bermuda from Baltimore at the top of the Chesapeake Bay.

It was true, as he had actually hoped, that he was the only fifty-something man standing around waiting to get on the ship. The up side, though, was that the other men there were almost universally young hunks he would love to sink his dick into.

The cruise was one of the ones offered by the Gaycruiser Web site on a quarterly basis that augmented their on-line dating service. The fees were stiff, but the Web site no doubt thought that charging sixty men cruising for hookups on their site for the added hookup chance of four days out on the ocean on a sleek yacht where clothing was optional and fucking like bunnies was actually encouraged helped their paid membership statistics. Especially as extra money could be made from selling videos of the cruises on sex sites.

The cruise was going to be extra expensive for John. He had something of a plan—and there wasn’t much of anything else in his life to spend money on. So, he’d reserved, and paid a high premium for, one of the suites on the ship. And before arriving, he spent weeks in the gym. His muscle tone was fine—for his age—but he had needed to get a little less thickish around the middle, and he’d at least partially succeeded at that. As he approached the cruise ship from the stern, he’d done a mental comparison of his torso with that of the Poseidon depicted on the fantail, and he didn’t think he came off that badly. A man in his fifties had to be expected not to have a willowy figure. He’d had his gray hair styled and highlighted in a shimmery silver that caught the light and the loose hairs plucked from all of the unattractive places so that what was left on his chest was a pleasing—at least to him—patch that trailed intriguingly down his belly to his pubes, which he’d also had trimmed and shaped. He’d left curled tuffs in his arm pits, enough so that they wouldn’t give the impression they’d been purposely shaved. And he’d spent enough time in a tanning both for a sort of all-over tan so that he wouldn’t look like the office worker that he was when he got to the ship’s pool.

And he’d bought some spiffier, expensive-looking clothes at the Tanger Outlet near the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. He’d been lucky to find a Speedo with sort of a bull’s eye design on it that would help emphasize his best feature—his thick, eight-inch cock.

When he got up to the tour director, a well-built hunk with blond-highlighted curly hair with a chiseled face and a practiced smile, he opened up his gambit.

“Ah, and you are?” the young man asked dubiously, looking down at his clipboard after a quick look up and down John and a slight sniff of his nose.

“Jonathan Pender. From Baltimore. Although, I’m not sure what home base was given you when the reservation was made. It could have been the Hamptons or Aspen too, I suppose.”