Sex In Puglia – Part 2

The next day – Saturday – I rolled out of bed, grabbed a shower, and tucked into breakfast before heading out just before noon. My destination? Torre Guaceto, about a 30-minute drive from Ostuni, where I was staying.

Torre Guaceto is a magnificent marine protected area and nature reserve located in the region of Puglia, this coastal gem offers a pristine and untouched natural environment, making it a favourite destination for nature enthusiasts, beach lovers, and those seeking a tranquil escape.

According to my research, the designated large car park, located near a sailing club close to the entrance of the protected marine area, was a 15-minute walk from the nudist section of the beach. From there, I set off along a well-trodden coastal path, where golden dunes and rocky outcrops met the crystal-clear turquoise waters. As I walked, the 16th-century Torre Guaceto watchtower stood in the distance and offered a striking view against the horizon.

The first stretch of beach was occupied by very wholesome families on loungers and kids splashing in shallows waters. But as I wandered further, things got a little more liberated. The crowds thinned, as did the swimsuits and before long, clothing became more of a suggestion than a requirement.  

The further I strolled, the more the demographic shifted. First, a mix of carefree sunbathers, then mostly men, then exclusively men – and that is where I decided to stop and pitch my tent—both figuratively and well… you get the idea.

I settled down a respectable distance from my nearest neighbours—close enough for a friendly nod, but far enough to give them their space (and to pretend I wasn’t low-key checking them out). They were clearly a couple: one was tall and slim, naked and notably well-endowed, while the other, was slightly shorter, with smooth olive skin and toned body. He wore a form fitting pair of trunks and sported a pair of sunglasses that made him look like he’d just walked off the cover of some European beachwear ad.

As the day went on, I noticed Mr. Sunglasses would occasionally head to the water to cool off or stroll past me on his way to and from the cruising zone. Each time, we’d exchange a subtle nod—him cool and collected, me trying not to stare too hard at his perfectly shaped backside.

I considered my spot on the beach a vantage position as I observed a steady parade of men strolling past me towards the tower, heading for the three infamous “rooms”—secluded pockets formed by reeds and tall grasses stretching into the sea, where cruising was the main attraction. From this position, I could indulge one of my favourite pastimes of people watching, without passing judgment on their physique. Though the latter will always be a challenge, but the Lord is my strength.  

Some wore swimwear, while others had long since rejected the tyranny of fabric altogether. And, as with all things in life, the visual experience was a mixed bag—some guys were undeniably hot, while others… let’s just say the beauty spectrum was well-represented.

Much like the previous day at D’Ayalla, I got an absolute eyeful of dicks in every imaginable shape and size, plus a generous display of backsides. But the difference today? The sea was serene, postcard-perfect turquoise, the beach stretched endlessly, and the vibe was both relaxed and very intentional. There were more men, more dicks, more asses—but, unfortunately, the pancake-to-bubble-butt ratio remained disappointingly high. Some things, it seems, are Caucasian universal. Still, I kept an open mind. After all, I was here for new experiences—and who was I to turn my nose up at a buffet with so many options?

I also noticed the messy gays heading to the cruising area —the ones who travel in noisy little packs, seemingly more interested in being disruptive than getting off. You know the type: cackling like witches, sniggering behind bushes, and giggling their way through the dark rooms in sex clubs and saunas like they’re filming a gay reboot of Mean Girls meets Blair Witch.

The “I Know What You Did Last Summer” extras, except no one’s dying, just dignity.

The real tragedy? There’s always one guy in the group who’s genuinely attractive—objectively hot, even—but his appeal nosedives the second he joins in the hyena chorus. You can practically see him side-eyeing someone they’re mocking, clearly up for it, but too scared to peel off and make a move in case he becomes the next punchline. And from the outside looking in? Maybe you clock him too, think, hmm, potential, but trying to pull him away from that mess, feels like attempting to split up a herd of stampeding wildebeests.

It’s the ultimate cock block. A tragic squandering of perfectly good chemistry.

Honestly, guys—this isn’t secondary school. We’re all here for a bit of sun, sea, and sin. No one wins when the shade gets in the way.

(Rant over.. back to regular programming)

I took a few dips in the sea to cool off—both from the heat and, let’s be honest, a little bit from the sights. After one of such dips, while towelling off I decided to do a little reconnaissance of the infamous cruising area. You know, for research purposes.

Tucked away from the main beach, it was relatively private—well, as private as an outdoor orgy can be. There were men in all sorts of configurations, like a live-action menu of debauchery. Some couples were fully immersed in each other, while others had an audience of hesitant onlookers, stroking themselves like they were trying to decide whether to join in or maybe voyeurism was just their thing. Threesomes, foursomes—at some point, I lost count. Oral, full-on sex, all happening under the open sky, with nothing but the sea breeze for a soundtrack.

Despite the setting, it felt surprisingly liberating. I didn’t exactly feel like diving in headfirst (so to speak), but the idea of being watched? Oddly not as intimidating as I’d expected—provided no one had a camera, of course. Not quite ready to make a debut on a free porn website.

I’d been to a few sex clubs before, but they were always dimly lit, tucked away in some basement or backroom. There was something thrilling about seeing it all unfold in broad daylight, like an episode of Planet Earth, if it were directed by someone with a subscription to OnlyFans and a love for Vitamin D.

After that little Planet Earth experience, I absolutely had to take another dip in the sea to cool off. Once I got back to my spot, I noticed a guy who had been making a few strategic passes at me on his way to and from the cruising area. Each time, he’d lock eyes with me for just a second—no nod, no hello, just that look. You know, the universal gay telepathy that says, Hey, I see you. Do you see me?   

He wasn’t bad-looking, either—mid-to-late 20s, toned but not overly muscular and rocked a pair of speedos with confidence. On one of his trips towards the cruising area, I decided, why not? Let’s see where this goes. When in Torre Guaceto and all that….

So, on went my swim trunks, and off I went, following him at just the right pace giving the right distance—interested but not desperate, like a gentlemanly stalker. If my intentions weren’t already screaming from the rooftops, the number of times he turned around to see who was behind him—and found me there, meeting his gaze with a cheeky little smile—pretty much spelled it out in neon. But to be sure – on the last turn—I hit him with a nod while touching myself. A gesture he returned with a broad smile – the gay handshake of Yes, this is happening.

Finally, he found a little clearing with just enough privacy to pretend this wasn’t technically an open-air theatre production. I strolled in a few seconds later, casually, as if I just happened to be wandering in the exact same direction at the exact same time.

We made some polite small talk before getting to the main event. I mentioned I was on holiday, and he said he lived and worked in Lecce, just a 40-minute drive away. Then, with the efficiency of someone placing a fast-food order, he declared, I’m a bottom.

Well, alright then.

I admitted I was a top, though in my head, I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about doing the deed out in the open with an audience. But hey—YOLO, right? He was already naked, so I reached down, squeezed his ass like it was a prized peach at Brixton Market, and he let me know he’d happily suck me off if I promised not to finish in his mouth. 

A gentleman’s agreement. I nodded.

Contract signed, I pulled down my shorts, and he dropped to his knees like a man on a mission. His mouth was warm, wet, and enthusiastic. I moaned. Things were getting steamy. And then—of course—company arrived.

A couple wandered over, clearly eager to turn this duet into a quartet. My new friend, however, was not having it. With all the grace of a bouncer at an exclusive club, he waved them away. Thankfully, they weren’t my type, so I wasn’t exactly heartbroken. Instead, they took a respectful step back, settling for the role of enthusiastic spectators, stroking themselves like they were watching a particularly gripping sex scene in an episode of P-Valley.

I didn’t really mind. I mean, if I’d wanted true privacy, I wouldn’t be standing out in the open with my dick in someone’s mouth. As long as they kept their distance and – most importantly – weren’t secretly recording (not that they had anywhere to hide a phone in the first place), I was cool.

But he wasn’t.

Suddenly, he pulled away, muttering something about people talking—because apparently, public sex was fine, but public gossip was a dealbreaker. Being a local, he probably had a reputation to protect. Without another word, he stood up, put his speedos back on, and left—presumably off to find a more discreet rendezvous and/or less “judgemental” audience. And just like that, the show was over.

I causally pulled up my trunks, making a two second process under normal circumstances when my dick wasn’t erect, last ten seconds much to the pleasure of the masturbating onlookers. Shameless.

As I turned to head back to my spot on the beach, who should I bump into but my tent-neighbour, Mr Sunglasses strolling towards me back to the cruising zone like he was just out for a midday stretch. We exchanged smiles, and he stopped to say hi.

“Leaving already?” he asked, with a hint of disappointment.

“Not necessarily,” I replied with a smile that suggested I was open to… alternatives.

So, off we went, casually retracing my steps in search of a semi-secluded spot—not exactly a needle-in-a-haystack situation out there. We didn’t have to go far before finding a place that felt private enough for some low-stakes scandal. We started kissing and getting handsy, the way you do when the sun is shining, the sea is in the background, and you’re both feeling a little reckless.

Just then, two guys appeared nearby and started orbiting us like curious satellites. One of them edged a bit closer with the boldness of someone who didn’t quite get the vibe. Mr Sunglasses shot him a look—a mix of not today, Satan and this is a duet, not a quartet—and both guys took the hint and retreated.

Then Mr Sunglasses turned to me and asked if I wanted to fuck him. I was into the idea, but confessed I didn’t have a condom on me. He didn’t love that answer and floated the idea of going raw. I politely declined, opting for the “safe and sexy” route.

Unfazed, he dropped to his knees and went to work with enthusiasm. When I got close, I pulled out and came on his chest—he didn’t seem remotely bothered. If anything, he looked pleased with himself. As he stood and began stroking himself, I reached down to help, but he redirected my hand to his posterior, guiding me between his cheeks.

I slid in one finger , then two, then three. He was well-lubricated. Suspiciously so. Possibly the leftover handiwork of some earlier encounter(s), which meant my fingers were now taking a casual swim in someone else’s leftovers. Slightly gross, sure, but in the moment, oddly not a dealbreaker.

He rocked against my hand, his moans rising with the tempo. With one hand bracing my shoulder for support and the other working himself to climax, he clenched around my fingers and came with a shudder. His body gave a few dramatic twitches before he exhaled and released his grip, both on my fingers and on reality for a second.

This segment of the tryst unfolded in maybe two minutes—but apparently, that was more than enough time for a small audience to assemble. A respectful distance away, sure, but watching intently like they’d stumbled into an X-rated improv show. I hadn’t even noticed them until the final credits were already rolling. 

We wandered back to our spot on the beach, but not before taking a quick dip in the sea—part cleansing ritual, part casual cooldown. As we floated and splashed off the evidence of our seaside adventure, we made some light conversation.  

Turned out he lived in Palermo, Northern Sicily, and the guy he showed up with wasn’t a boyfriend, just a friend—though I raised an eyebrow at the “just” part. We exchanged numbers, did the polite “keep in touch” thing, and said our goodbyes as I packed up to leave the beach.  

Who knows—maybe I’ll plan a little getaway to Palermo sometime and surprise him. You know, just a casual cultural visit…with benefits…and condoms.

On my leisurely stroll back to the car park—through the sun-drenched, family-friendly zone of the beach, where everything radiated innocence: sunscreen, sandcastles, and inflatable flamingos—I suddenly clocked a familiar face.

It was a guy I’d seen earlier during my reconnaissance mission of the cruising area and let’s just say, in quite the compromising position—mid spit-roast while being enthusiastically milked. A scene one doesn’t forget easily.

I remembered that roughly twenty minutes after seeing him, he’d hustled past my spot on the beach, heading back toward civilization at a brisk pace with classic walk-of-shame energy.

Now, reinserted into the wholesome side of the beach beside his wife and two kids, He looked—how shall we say—well-exercised, hair tousled by more than just the breeze, and carrying that unmistakable post-fun aura: the distant, blissed-out look of a man who’s recently done something gloriously filthy. And now he is trying to channel PTA dad vibes.

But hey, no judgment here. We’ve all had our buffet days.

As I drove back to my hotel, I briefly entertained the utterly unhinged idea of squeezing in one more trip to Torre Guaceto the next day—because nothing says “responsible travel planning” like a final round of sun, sand, and potential debauchery just hours before a flight back to London. I could already picture myself sprinting through airport security, reeking of sea salt and one or two questionable life choices—sweating not just from the heat, but from the fear of missing my flight.

We will see.