Winter in Miami

By Willie Cici published December 4, 2018
Dante prefers the warm weather of Miami . . . and the hotties!

During my three-months in Manhattan and Brooklyn, I learned a great deal about the Americas. The nascent nation not even twenty years old when Lescaut cursed me spread the width of the continent. When the temperatures dropped in mid-December, I decided to abandon wintery New York City and venture south to the land of Spanish conquest – to Miami.

I arranged to rent a condominium apartment for the month of January. The king’s ransom demanded in rent I negotiated to an affordable $2000 for the four weeks. I had no intention of paying $9000. The nearby beach and poolside amenities would satisfy my needs, both physical and sexual.

On my first full day in South Beach, I put on some baggie trunks, a cotton short-sleeve shirt and designer sandals and walked about the neighborhood near the Hotel Excelsior, 12th Street and Ocean Drive. The eye candy I experienced in the first hour should have caused a diabetic stroke. Lescaut cursed me into a creature who hungered cum, but he did not remove my lust for both sexes. I did not know where to look first, but as I grew hungry, my eyes led me to the inevitable. Along the beach, I found this cute, little hottie that intrigued me. I normally do not find Asian men attractive, but something in this one’s eyes sparked my interest. (To see the Asian hottie, click here). I approached the Asian stud and introduced myself.

“Are you French?”, he asked. I nodded ‘yes.’ “I love French men. They’re sexy wild.”

I stared at the Asian hunk. He was a stereotype breaker. First, he had no accent. His English was impeccable. The tone of his voice was a bit effete, but his sculpted physique made up for the lack of baritone in his voice. “Do you …”, I tried to ask.

“Let’s go.”, the Asian stud said. I followed him, even though I did not know where we were headed. Soon, I found myself entering a nearby public restroom. This is not my scene. I was an aristocrat, a man of means, an artist, not some toilet cocksucker. The impulse to feed my hunger, unfortunately, overtook my will. As we entered the bathroom stall, the Asian lowered my trunks and sucked my cock. He stared into my eyes and smiled. As he nibbled and suckled, I noticed that he fondled his junk, hoping that I would reciprocate.

When he stood on the toilet and lowered his gym shorts, I watched another stereotype breaker. This was no small-dick Asian. This was … Godzilla, a fleshy beast of man-meat that I could not wait to swallow and feed upon. It even tasted sweet. “How could this be?”, I thought to myself. I enjoyed my Asian delight, sucking, licking, twirling and swallowing until the Asian stud blew his wad down my throat and filled my nagging pang of hunger. The Asian stud walked out of the bathroom stall, stood at the sink, washed his cock and dried it with towel papers. I watched my Asian stud saunter out of the bathroom and disappear into the crowd. I walked towards the sink, rinsed my mouth with some cool water, and washed my face. I smirked at my reflection in the mirror, and then, suddenly, burped. And then I burped again. And again. As I walked out of the bathroom, I felt hungry again. “Well that stereotype was accurate!”, I thought to myself. “Who knew Asian cum would make you feel hungry after ten minutes let alone an hour?”, I said to myself shaking my head, amusing myself with a not-so-funny joke.

I continued my walk along Ocean Drive’s beautiful promenade. The curbside of the Drive was laced with benches and small park-like settings that faced the beautiful pristine beaches of the peninsula. As I walked about surveying the scene and the eye candy, I found a handsome brunette, shirtless, sculpted and sexy as all hell. His body sparkled with glistening sweat upon his chest. The would-be athlete sported tight black sweatpants. As I approached the stud, he stared straight at the curling waves of the ocean. (To see the brunette stud, click here).

“Hey!”, I said.

The brunette turned and faced me. He smiled. “Hey!” The brunette scanned my entire body, as if he were making a purchase. “You’ll do.” He hopped off the bench and walked towards Ocean Drive. His bravura intrigued me. I followed the stud as he cross Ocean Drive and headed for a hotel towards 15th Street. The stud stood in front of the ‘Colonial’ and waited for me to catch up. He smiled. The stud knew I was following him, but he wanted to make a show. As I drew close to him, the stud grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me, putting on a show for the passers-by on the busy South Beach venue. I played along. An hour later, I strolled out of the lobby of the hotel, having extracted a week’s worth of cum from the stud’s reservoirs. I knew he was gay. I could care less. Yes, it is more fun to seduce the straight man. That goes without saying. That’s the gift that Lescaut imparted along with the curse. For now, I decided to resume my sightseeing and scan the hotties along Ocean Drive.

The next day, I opted to take advantage of the condominium’s amenities and spend a day at the pool. I had opted to dress ala American, i.e. jammers, these baggie bathing trunks that mask the downstairs. As I descended the stairs of the apartment complex, I approached the concierge, a young man named Trevor, and asked his opinion for trendy restaurants nearby. As he answered my question, I spotted a sign at the concierge’s desk: ‘Clothing Optional Thursday at the Pool’. My curiosity peeked.

I pointed to the sign and asked the concierge. “Is this accurate, Trevor?”

“Yes.”, Trevor said. “However, the management reserves the right to … discourage certain clientele from … bearing it all.” I must have had a puzzled look on my face. “You can appreciate, I’m sure, that there are some people who should be clothed at all times. This is South Beach, after all. We have … our standards.”

The tone and innuendo forced a smile upon my mien. “Of course. I understand. I’m an art photographer. I can appreciate the visual.”

“At one time, we required a photograph of the person renting in the complex. Our attorney later advised that we cannot pursue that policy.”, Trevor said. “I don’t know why. Sexy is sexy, irrespective of race, color, creed or … persuasion.”

It took everything in my being to refrain from bursting in laughter. Trevor’s tone and inflection masked nothing about his ‘persuasion’. Trevor belonged to the Gay-Police. He would only grant permission to the attractive, the sexy, and the fit to display the goods. I appreciated the effort. The Europeans could learn something from Trevor. My last vacation on the Italian Riviera proved nightmarish, as I found myself surrounded by speedo-wearing overweight specimens that should never have donned the lycra bathing attire. “Thank you, Trevor.”

As I walked away, Trevor called out, “You may … bear it.” I smiled. Of course, I had permission. This body should never suffer from clothing, but decorum forces my hand, and clothing I must wear.

I reached the pool pavilion and found myself surrounded by a mixed assortment of husband and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, dressed to impress. I am an artist, after all. I can appreciate the female body, especially here in Miami where the women take special care of their assets. In Paris, from time to time, I would stray and debauch a mademoiselle, but my hunger never let me forget the source of my food supply. As I walked around the pool, searching for an empty lounge chair, I found a lone male, reclined upon a chaise, enjoying the late morning sun, taking advantage of the clothing optional. The orange striped towel that covered the lounge chair provided the perfect background for the young stud’s tanned, ripped, smoking physique. His member rested lazily upon his groin, pointing toward his cobbled core. (To see the stud, click here).

I lay my towel upon the lounge chair and quickly removed my baggie shorts. I couldn’t wait to let my beast get some fresh air. I walked around to the front of the pool, posed at center point, and readied for a belly flop dive. I wiggled about for a little, making sure that everyone who wanted a good look could enjoy themselves. I turned about and smiled. Of course, the stud was watching me. I faced the pool and dove in the cool, calming waters, with awash of splash. As I swam about the pool, the sun blinded me. I could not notice if anyone was mulling near the pool edge or making their way into the pool. About ten minutes into my swim, I heard a voice. “Are you Dante Denuit?”

At first, I was taken aback. I have done little to attract attention to myself. Even my photograph work, I preferred the anonymity of my art. For someone with my peculiar circumstances, it served me well. “Yes. I am. Do I know you?”

“You photographed me in Manhattan several months ago.”, the man said. “I’m Jan Jansen.”

I smiled. I remembered the lad. He had the porn star name to match his porn star cock. Unfortunately, in Manhattan, he was surrounded by an entourage of cockblockers that deprived me of a taste. That was not going to happen today. “Oh, yeah.”, I said. “I remember you. You’ll forgive me. I run into so many faces in my line of work. I … uh … I photograph the everyday model, not the Victoria Secrets models.”

“No. I understand.”, Jan said. “I just wanted to thank you because my pics were chosen for the underwear catalogue. Your photos made the difference. Paid for this vacation.”

I swam near the naked model in the pool, graced my hand upon his wiggling member, and said, “I think your … little friend had something to do with your underwear pics.”

Jan looked into my eyes and stared. He shook his head, as if he were trying to shake off a feeling. “I’m … not … sure about …”

I stroked Jan’s cock and said, “Follow me out of the pool and don’t say a word.” I climbed out of the pool, Jan following in tow. I grabbed my towel and wrapped the towel about my waist. “Jan, get your towel and follow me upstairs.” We walked from the pool pavilion towards the elevators. As we rode the elevator, I stared at the tanned hunk. So cute! As we exited the elevator, I noticed the time. It was almost noon – lunchtime.

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