Sex In Puglia

In my last post, I casually mentioned—okay, teased —the fact that I accidentally found myself in a bukkake situation on a nudist beach in the south of Italy. Naturally, I couldn’t just drop that bombshell and not follow up. So, as promised, here’s the unfiltered, slightly implausible tale of how it all began…  

Puglia, also known as Apulia, is a region in southern Italy renowned for its rich history, beautiful landscapes, and vibrant culture. Often described as the “heel of the boot” of Italy, it is bordered by the Adriatic Sea to the east, the Strait of Otranto and Ionian Sea to the southeast and the Gulf of Taranto to the south.

We touched down at Bari airport one late morning in mid-July and were greeted by a toasty 36°C. Coming from a mild 15°C in London, it felt like walking into an oven set to “crispy human.” After the initial shock (and melting a little), I quickly adapted. I picked up my rental car and made the hour-long drive to Ostuni, my home base for the trip, with very minimal questioning of my life choices along the way.

I’d love to say I just happened to stumble upon the local gay scene by sheer coincidence—like one of those absurdly convenient gay porn scenarios where two male strangers bump into each other on the street, exchange a knowing glance, and boom, they’re suddenly banging. And, by some miraculous twist of fate, the bottom had already douched. 

But my OCD won’t let me, so I came prepared. I did my research, mapped out all the must-see tourist spots, and naturally, pinpointed the gay hotspots with the precision of a seasoned explorer. Because while spontaneity is great, a little strategic planning never hurt anyone!

The first few days, I did the dutiful tourist thing—checking off all the must-see spots: Alberobello, Matera, Monopoli, Cisternino, and Polignano a Mare. Each had its own charm, rich history, and postcard-worthy views… but let’s be honest, this isn’t a travel blog, and I’m not here to wax poetic about ancient architecture. I came for a laid-back beach holiday, pure and simple. And if, along the way, I just so happened to stumble upon a few stray men sunbathing naked on the sand—well, let’s be real, that’s probably the part you’re interested in.

From my research, I learned that while Italy is still conservative when it comes to gay rights, Puglia has quietly evolved into a bohemian playground for gay travellers. Think sun, sand, and a side of fabulousness. The region boasts a handful of gay beaches and plenty of gay hangouts, especially in Gallipoli. Now, a fun fact: due to socio-economic reasons, a lot of young men here continue living at home well into their 30s, which adds an interesting layer to the dating scene.

And then there’s the Italian married men phenomenon—many stay closeted, marry, and still cruise for sex with men. Because, you know, nothing says “traditional values” like a Grindr hookup in between Sunday family dinners. But the question remains—where exactly do these men converge for those covert meetups?

The first gay beach I visited, about an hour’s drive from my hotel in Ostuni, was Spiaggia d’Ayala. Situated along the Ionian Sea, this stunning hidden gem is renowned for its serene, crystal-clear waters. It’s a popular spot that attracts a diverse crowd, including members of the gay community. With its naturist-friendly atmosphere, it’s the perfect place to indulge in a little sunbathing in the nude.

The nudist section was only a five-minute stroll from the street where I parked. And from personal experience, the nudist section of public beaches is like a gay magnet—gay people tend to congregate there. And cruising on a nude beach is basically an international pastime. It’s just sun, sand and a whole lot of sex.

That day, the beach seemed quite busy for a weekday, but I was still able find a spot to lay my towel down, set up my umbrella for some shade, and settle in. After a quick glance at the people around me, no one really caught my attention, so I decided to simply relax, soak up the sun, take occasional dips in the sea to cool off, and enjoy some casual people-watching.

There was no shortage of variety when it came to the parade of manhood on display—different shapes, sizes, and mostly uncut, providing endless entertainment. As for the backsides? Well, most were flatter than a pancake, with a few impressively managing to dip into concave territory. Every now and then, a mildly convex one would stroll by, but not enough to warrant a second glance.

I may not have been interested in the men I had surveyed around me, but that doesn’t mean there was no shortage of interest in me from them as self-absorbed as that may sound, but they kept a respectful distance away…. except for one. 

I will call him Dario – not his real name but then again, I didn’t ask his name.  He was Italian, about 5’6, average build, bald, tanned, looked mid to late 60s but could be younger, the sun has a way of aging certain skin types and he had an okish size dick when in its resting state.

I first noticed him pacing the beach, slowing as he passed me and speeding up after. As a South Londoner—and the only Black man on a nudist beach in right-leaning Italy—I stayed alert. Against my better judgment, I smiled at him once. Big mistake!!! On his next pass, he stopped about three meters in front of me, directly in my eyeline, and just stared for two minutes before moving on.

I went for a swim to cool off, and he entered the water too, keeping his distance but still watching me. Eventually, he drifted close enough that I couldn’t ignore him. He waved and spoke in Italian, and I replied that I didn’t understand.

He approached me hesitantly, speaking in broken English, and asked where I was from. Then, almost as if it was just as important, he stated that he was 54 years old. I found the mention of his age a bit odd and wasn’t sure why he felt the need to share it, but I decided to be polite. Keeping the conversation light, I told him I was visiting from the UK and, in the spirit of reciprocity, I lied that I was 35.

He kept chatting, but I responded with monosyllables, hoping to signal my lack of interest beyond polite greetings. He didn’t take the hint. Even asked if I liked him and if I was a top. In response, I returned to my spot on the beach, and he seemed to get the message and left— or so I thought.

Behind the beach lay a protected area of vegetation, which also doubled as a discreet cruising spot. Curious, I decided to have a gander. When I got there, I spotted Dario—bent over, being taken raw by a thick-waisted, beefy hairy man. If the beefy guy and I were any more different, we’d belong to separate species. One minute, Dario was lusting after me, and the next, he was getting absolutely wrecked by a big, thick bear of a man. If that’s not sexual fluidity in action, I don’t know what is. Not wanting to intrude, I attempted to retreat, though two other men stood nearby, watching them while pleasuring themselves.  

Before I could slip away unnoticed, Dario saw me. He abruptly stopped what he was doing and followed me, much to the irritation of the burly man, whose impressive, thick 10-inch cock remained poised for action. It struck me as rude for Dario to end things so suddenly, but I made it clear—I had no interest. Still, he pursued me, seemingly convinced that my presence there meant I intended to fuck him. Nemmeno una possibilita. Not a chance.  

And let’s be realistic here – if I had been in the mood to bang Dario, how would I comfortably do anything with him, while the visibly irritated man he just abandoned was lurking somewhere in the bushes like a jilted Bigfoot. Maybe I was overthinking it, but I prefer my extracurricular activities without the looming threat of a 10-inch grudge.  

I wasn’t named Osoundu for nothing.

Self-preservation kicking into high gear, I did what any sane black person would do in a horror flick and hot footed it out of there pronto “Not today, Satan,” I muttered under my breath as I made a beeline back to the beach, dodging Dario’s persistent advances like my life depended on it. Because honestly? It just might have.

I lingered on the beach for another hour or so, soaking up the last bits of sun before finally deciding to call it a day. I took a last dip in the sea, came out and dried myself. With a mix of curiosity and mild exhaustion, I packed up my things and made my way back to the car. The drive to my hotel was filled with hopeful anticipation—surely, the next beach on my itinerary would offer a more relaxed atmosphere and, with any luck, a much more aesthetically pleasing and potentially shaggable selection of sunbathers.  

The next day arrived, and as I stepped onto the new beach, I took one look around and knew instantly—I had chosen well. It did not disappoint.

To be continued