Back in the 1990’s, I guess it must have been August, 1992, when I was working down in Miami and oftentimes I’d go to Bayside Marketplace during lunch, especially if it was a slow day and I could take my time and stroll through, checking out all the cool stores.
It’s an incredible mall, although it’s not really a mall. It sits on Miami’s Biscayne Bay and it’s an open air shopping destination anchored on one end by Miami’s Marina and on the other end by Bayfront Amphitheater so one can enjoy the sights and the waterfront atmosphere. And check out the people. Miami has incredible people watching.
August isn’t kind to Miami, what with humidity spiking at molasses level, so thick you can feel as if you’re wading through it, it swirls around you as you walk, leaving a wake behind you. Clothes stick to you instantly, your nice business shirt becoming a sopping, dripping sponge.
God I love this place! Nothing like a hot man in a business shirt with that oh, so tempting damp patch in the small of his back, the pit hairs tantalizingly visible through the now translucent shirt and the little patch of hair at the top of his shirt visible where he’s had to loosen his tie and undo the top buttons just to be able to catch his breath. Sigh! Oh for the small, deliciously simple pleasures in life. But I digress.
Being a native, yes we do have native Floridians, not everyone has been transplanted from New York or South America.I knew how to dress for our incredibly humid summers.
I was working so I had on my usual summer work clothes. A pair of nice light Dockers, something to accentuate my nice Cuban ass and a light blue, short sleeved shirt. Something I could leave the top buttons open so some of my dark chest hair could peek through just right.
At 5’10” and with a hard, well shaped workout build, I cut a nice profile. Add my dark, almost black hair and full well cropped beard and hazel green eyes and I didn’t end up at the bottom of the pack. Hmmmm, bottom of the pack. Not usually, if you catch my drift.
August was a notoriously slow, boring month in Miami, so having some time to kill, hell, lots of time to kill, I thought to myself: “Self, why don’t we go to Bayside and walk around, maybe catch a hot, damp, sticky bay breeze and enjoy the sights.” So off I went in my trusty steed, my lovingly restored 1978 Ford Thunderbird. You remember the one, with the flip open headlights, long as a block, two doors and an “opera window” for the back seats. What the fuck is an “opera window”? Someone really needs to ask the collective Detroit mind what the hell their marketing people were on in the ‘70’s. Oh wait, I remember, never mind.
I got to Bayside and proceeded to park in the garage. Back then you didn’t have to pay to park! Can you believe it? So I parked my trusty steed and went down the stairs to cross the alleyway separating the parking garage from the rear doors of the shops. As I looked to my left, my eyes locked with the damn hottest, most incredible looking, ginger blond man I’d ever seen.
I was taken aback at the man I saw. About 6 foot tall, clear blue eyes, hot as hell moustache, a light ginger dusting of hair on his nicely developed arms, short sleeve tan shirt accentuating his hot as fuck biceps, navy blue pants, a big, thick utility belt for his gun and night stick and some other things I have no idea what they were for, but were definitely working for me. A Bayside security guard! Hot damn!
Our eyes locked for about thirty seconds, just looking. He nodded, I nodded, and off he went into the back door of a store, nice sexy damp patch in the small of his back drawing my eyes to one finely shaped ass. Shit! Oh well, I thought, suck it up and stroll around before you have to get back to work.
I went in the main entrance, the one with the huge banyan tree in the center, and went to my left. If Mr. Ginger went that way it was definitely worth a shot, besides, Brookstone was in that direction and that store was a total black hole time vortex. I could spend hours in there.
Brookstone was in its usual jam-packed state, with lots of South American tourists trying to decide if they wanted to take ten or fifteen of the same thing back to their country. Hey, it kept us all employed, don’t knock it. I wandered through Brookstone, enjoying the usual strange, odd assortment of junk that one absolutely must not live without, or else, and as I was looking towards the cash register out walks Mr. Ginger from the store office.
Zing! Eye lock! Damn, those were mighty fine, light blue eyes, perfectly framed by long, blond eyelashes and totally rockin’ laugh lines on his perfect face. He tilted his head a bit to the right, still doing the Vulcan Eye Lock with me, nodded at me and proceeded to walk towards the front of the store. Was that an invite? I don’t have to be asked twice. Trust me, mama didn’t raise no fool!
As Mr. Ginger walked out of the store, turning left, he glanced back towards me, blue eyes drilling deep down into my gut, his brows slightly furrowed, with a small smirk on his sexy lips. Oh yeah, that was a definite come to papa look that was hitting me right in my balls.
Fuck the heat, the boys were tightening up and letting me know they wanted a hot, ginger snack. Mr. Happy down below was starting to perk up and notice, sucking all the blood out of my brain, a knot of excitement forming in the pit of my stomach. I followed him out, and turned left out of the store looking to see where Mr. Ginger went.
There he was, about 15 or so paces down the promenade, gorgeous ass filling those very well-fitting, navy blue pants, that hot, sweaty, damp patch in the small of his back accentuating his mouth-watering broad, muscular shoulders. Sexily defined delts were nicely framing the top of obviously rockin’ triceps that swung back and forth with his arms in a very hot, masculine, self-confident stride, sexy hips swinging to and fro.
We walked down the promenade a ways, my hot ginger turned left into a hallway I didn’t even remember being there. No reason for me to notice before this, I guess. Who cares about alleyways if there isn’t a hot as fuck man in it!
As he turned left he glanced back at me, his penetrating light blue eyes locking on me like a heat seeking missile, my balls tightening even further, my cock starting to do the Macarena happy dance, my foreskin slightly pulling back saying “hey there, big boy!”
I was either walking into a big fag bashing or this was going to be off the Richter scale intense, that’s for sure. Someone’s world was going to rock and I definitely had whose world it was going to be in my sights.
Mr. Ginger walked down the hallway to two freight elevator doors at the end to carry merchandise up to the upper floors. He stopped, took out a big key chain from his accessory belt with a ring that could have doubled as a horse cock ring, and keyed one of the elevator doors open.
As the doors opened, he turned towards me, smiling his sexy as hell smirk and tilting his head down to the right, inviting me in to the freight elevator with him.
Aw, fuck! Now I knew how a bull feels when the matador waves that red, sexy cape in front of him, only this wasn’t a cape, this was six feet of fucking hot, muscular, ginger blond deliciousness ensnaring me in his wicked web of debauchery. Alrighty then! I’m always up for some nice, depraved debauchery.
Mr. Ginger Goodness walked in, and I followed faster than a hooker running out of a church as he took out that horse cock ring and keyed the doors shut, punched for the third floor, the doors swinging shut, my heart wanting to explode out of my chest, my balls drawn tight, cock leaking like Old Faithful at Yellowstone and those incredible light blue eyes boring a hole in me.
Crap! This is what the fly feels like right before the spider wraps him up in that oh so wonderfully tight, confining, secure, enveloping web.
The freight elevator started up and two seconds later Mr. Ginger Goodness turned the key on the controls and we lurched to a stop, right in between floors.
Fuck! You know how they say time slows down to slo mo in ‘those’ moments? Yeah, they’re right.
No sooner had the elevator come to a stop than Mr. Ginger Goodness turned to me and said “Hey”, in the smoothest, honey thick baritone I’d ever heard as those beautiful, light blue eyes looked me over, top to bottom, assessing me like a slab of well-seasoned, marbled beef.
My legs felt like jello as he walked over to me, smiling, and pulled me into an embrace. I could feel his biceps wrap around me, a warm, tight masculine tug, his musky, sweaty scent working its way into my brain, my cock straining my Dockers so tight I could scream. His mouth found mine, his tongue prying me open, working its way into me. All I could do, all I wanted to do, was wrap my arms around his ample back and hold on. This was a big boy ride and I was on it for the duration!
As he pressed me against the elevator wall, his tongue in my mouth, alternatingly chewing my lower lip and nibbling around my beard, he brought his arms down and pulled down his zipper, reached in and hauled out a wonderfully cut, mushroom headed, very nice sized cock. He brought my hand down to his thickening cock and undid my zipper, pulling my cock out and skinning back the foreskin all the way. A deep, agonizing groan escaped me, making him grin all the more. He had me where he wanted me and he knew it, I knew it, we both knew it. Yes!
Slowly he pushed me down onto my knees, holding me back against the elevator wall, slowly guiding my lips onto his now slick with pre-cum cock. Well, I’m certainly one to take a hint! I slowly, sensually licked his pink mushroom head as my right hand wrapped itself along his milky white cock and my left hand fondled his tight ginger, blond fuzz-covered balls. A low moan escaped his throat as I ever so teasingly licked his pulsing cock head and worked my mouth and throat down his hard shaft. I was rewarded with his salty pre-cum tickling my taste buds, sliding down my throat.
As I slowly started to work my tongue around that beautiful, pink, mushroom head I wrapped my right hand along the length of his now fully hard, veiny, white cock and my left hand reached up to search for his right nipple through his now very damp shirt. Bingo! There was that happy knob! A throaty groan escaped his throat, a nice and prominent adam’s apple bobbing up and down his corded, muscular throat. And then that rich, molasses baritone hit me right on the tip of my cock.
“Aw fuck yeah, man!” That’s all I needed to get busy on the hot, pulsing cock, deep throating it all the way down as I slid my right hand up and down his spit slick shaft.
Mr. Ginger reached down and held me in place, both hands on either side of my head as he worked his now steel hard cock down my hungry throat, his Glock hanging from this tool belt to my left, the night stick hanging to my right.
If Heaven was a place, this was it.
I could feel him getting closer, his cock starting to pulse, ginger blond fuzz balls tightening up, his sweaty musky scent making me dizzy with hazy lust, salty-sweet pre-cum making my taste buds come alive, and then… he went perfectly still, rigid, frighteningly totally quiet, gave one giant, trembling shake and shot into my mouth, coating my throat with musky, salty-sweet goodness.
Fuck! Swallow! Taste! Lick! Yum! He emptied himself as I swallowed as fast as I could and I still got some on my beard. Dammit!
Those piercing blue eyes looked down at me, that gorgeous smirk still on lips as he reached down and grabbed me under my arms and hauled me up, locking lips with me and wanting to taste himself in my mouth.
Who am I to deprive a hot man from a nice meal? Nah, not me!
I kissed him back hard as he licked in my mouth, sniffing and licking around my cum smeared beard, as he reached down and grabbed my leaking, stiff cock.
Pressed up against the elevator wall, six feet of sexy Ginger Goodness all up against me, kissing and licking my mouth, stroking my poor, hard cock… nah, I didn’t last but mere seconds as I shot my load into his meaty hand, collapsing against him, totally spent, dripping sweat.
It seemed like time came to a complete standstill, but in reality we must have stayed like that, leaning against each other, for about a minute or so. Finally Mr. Ginger pulled back, smiling at me, and then in that honey thick baritone I heard him say “Thanks, man.” All I could do was smile back and nod.
Isn’t it funny how we guys get all bashful and shit after mind blowing sex? Yeah, we do. I guess deep down inside we’re still that little kid at Christmas time.
Mr. Ginger Goodness took out a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped my cum off his hand and cleaned me up, all gentlemanly like.
We each stuffed ourselves back into our pants, strictly not looking at each other while we each re-arranged ourselves back to some semblance of decency.
Hah! Mr. Ginger got that big ol’ key chain out again and re-started the elevator back up to the third floor, each of us standing next to each other, smiling like the cat that ate the proverbial canary.
As the doors swung open, we exited, heading down the hallway. He turned left; I turned right.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hey there, I’m Reinier Báez although I prefer Renny, mostly. Unless it’s the police or the warden (ask a good friend of mine about the warden, she can tell you!) then it’s definitely Reinier.
Come to find out people are actually interested in the escapades of a Cuban from Miami. Huh! A Cuban from Miami, imagine that. What are the chances, right? Miami boy through and through and I still have that Miami accent. New York has nothing on us with the accent thing, papo.
I was sharing laughs and stories with my partner in crime, Adira, and she was all like “you have got to write some of this stuff down, it’s fantastic” and silly man that I am, I listened to her.
I came of age in 1970s Miami when water was free and you paid for porn. When if you had ‘the look’ you didn’t get carded to go into ‘those’ discos – I was the one with tambourine, OK? It also helps I had a full beard by 15. It also helps I like sex. A lot. No kidding. There’s nothing to be ashamed of or dirty, sex is something to be celebrated and enjoyed, like fine cigar and a scotch. The more, the merrier.
I remember, sometimes a little too fondly, the Cocaine Cowboy days and the renaissance of South Beach. When South Beach went from old, semi-decrepit retirement hotels to a hopping sea of delicious debauchery full of muscled mens.
Now, as a gay man of a certain age living in South Florida I get to still enjoy my favorite sport, although now I’m a happily married gay.