Got back yesterday evening, the dry Canberra air quickly and mercifully cooling as the sun subsided into the Brindabellas. 'A city hidden in the landscape' as Bill Bryson described our bush capital.
Taxi glided along the parkway, the lush landscape always soothing after a trip away. I smiled thinking of my handsome lover who took me to the airport a week ago, after taking me at home. Wishing he was there to reverse the process.
The lovers I'd left just a few hours before now returning to their own abundant sex life. I'll be sleeping alone for maybe another week, until Stan can be enticed to visit me. Canberra guy can't do sleepovers.
Such is my soap opera life. Biggest drama, the property settlement, coming soon. I wish I could change the scriptwriter, but it seems to be me.
The temperate foliage and the geography so different from the tropical one I'd just left: Port Douglas and surrounds. A moist richness, the skies impatient to unleash the wet season. The invitation had just been made a few days before I left.
"We'll be in Port Douglas next week, would you like to join us?"
"Can I get a flight?" Luckily Canberrans were allowed in, the Queensland border still wary of virus carriers from interstate. Obedient and sensible, I wore a mask on all flights.
We first crossed paths a few years ago, at a Melbourne Saints and Sinners ball. I was with myjohn, but that's another story. It was early in the evening. The stage was empty, but not for long. The music much too loud, too raucous, but I got up and danced away in my skimpy costume, soon joined by a young guy who knew some ceroc steps. We set the scene so well we soon got crowded out. When I came off the stage, sweaty and feeling sexy they were with an acquaintance of myjohn.
In that setting, an introduction might quickly be followed by a kiss rather than a handshake. His was more than polite, it was delicious. Later that evening she was sucking him in the dungeon. Myjohn and I were having a go standing up. How my evening ended is of course yet another story.
Since then I've visited them a few times in Victoria. Part of an exodus, they got out of Victoria as covid refugees. Tootling around the top end, Far North Queensland, or FNQ, the Gulf. And now an apartment in Port Douglas, one of many coastal and northern locales that induces a full relax. For some of us, the warmth, clothing optional, brings also a whiff of decadence.
"Dolce far niente" as the Italians say. "Sweet do nothing."
Sybarites such as we naturally gravitate to such places. And to each other. Each of us a collection of adventures. Products and agents of our asserted freedoms. As we spoke and sipped, a foot might slide up his loose shorts.
"The 80-20 rules applies to the way men hang," he informs us. Our eyes turn to his crotch.
"Then it must be 80% to the left, if you're no exception."
"Right you are", placing his hands under my loose shirt. "No need for this," as he slips it over my head.
My hands reach out to confirm the obvious. As he swells, she and I apply our four hands to good effect. A hefty member. We connoisseurs agree his is a fine cock.
Doesn't take long in the tropics to shed any inhibitions along with our clothes, strewn as they should be, not folded, not now.
Naked now, we were kissing, stroking, drifting into the bedroom. Nice bodies, hers petite and strong, mine a bit more abundant but still the dancer's legs, the hips and waist still clear curves. His has the solidity I love, nothing overdone, and a charming little boy grin when he is being pleasured by two women together. Did I mention his cock?
We had lots of laughs, their long affair yielding opportunities for teasing reminiscences, shared and sometimes disputed.
"You didn't wear that on our first date."
"Maybe it was the third."
And the sixth before they passed a night together. A lesson for impulsive me perhaps.
She rode him first, me watching and getting wetter with expectation. Then my turn he mounted and we moved in sync until he came in me. Lots of aftershocks, then more cuddles, long strokes on soft skin. Later I toddled into the other room. A pleasant, easy going scenario we repeated and varied during the week.
On the last nights, there were violent but brief outbursts of lightning, thunder and sudden downpours. We three were sleeping too well to take much notice, sated as we were on pleasures various: lively conversations, music to get us dancing. JJ Cale now revived on my Spotify. Good food, nice wine, warm sun, time chilling, and some friendly fucking.
He tells about his true initiation to women at the age of 28 when an older colleague taught him a few new tricks. We all have stories to tell.
"This is every man's dream" he moans as we work him up and down in and out. A merry go round of mutual pleasure. The next time he had me from behind, glad the neighbors couldn't hear.
Don't think it gets better than this, a gentle getting to know you. Just another way of loving. Touch a fine addition to speaking. In a different culture, her heritage and mine might preclude our friendship. Instead it affirms a deeper kinship.
We all have health issues, and we spoke about those, but not too much. We all have ample but modest financial means. We mention that, but not too much. And families of course, but not too much. My occasional outbursts of vitriol against my ex and his Trumpian behaviour politely tolerated.
The week had the feeling of ease, of indulgence with moderation, maturity. Felt quite natural actually, don't know why people think such interludes are either rare or immoral.
But then the swingers are a breed apart, hidden in plain sight. They don't proselytise, condemn, or proclaim. We just fuck, but respectfully. And with great and innocent enjoyment.
"Stay in touch..."
"Let's catch up again..."
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