Sex In Puglia – Part 3

Ah! So, I woke up the next morning and convinced myself that my unhinged idea was rational. It was the last day of my holiday — that bittersweet limbo between checkout and check-in at the airport and my flight wasn’t until late at night, so I had time. In fact, I had plenty of time. The kind of time that either brings divine surprises… or pure boredom. I leaned hard into my Lord and Saviour and went with the divine.

I asked the hotel for a late checkout — and bless them, they agreed. So, after a good breakfast (and some strategic carbs for potential energy expenditure later), I jumped in the car and drove 30 minutes to Torre Guaceto and anticipated the 15-minute trek to the nude section.

To be honest, I wasn’t expecting any action. It was a Monday, the sun was out, and the gods of beach frolic were probably sleeping. Hence my only mission was to marinate in the sun like seasoned oxtail, and slide into the sea when the heat got too fresh. Simple pleasures. But alas, the universe had plans.

Just as I parked, guess who pulled up behind me? A gay couple I’d spotted the day before. I remembered them well. One was a bookworm-flirt hybrid – he strolled to and from the cruising zone reading a novel, like he’s on a literary safari- I mean who does that??  His partner was a shy, sweet-looking type — the kind that steals glances like a schoolboy with a crush during Sunday school.

We exchanged polite greetings and ended up walking to the beach together. The bookish one talked non-stop. His partner, who I’ll now call Shyster, kept his eyes on the sand like it owed him money. They eventually walked ahead and when I got to a spot in the general vicinity of where I settled the previous day, I stopped and started setting up camp. They doubled back, walked past me and settled 150 metres away from me, but within eye contact range – because we all know gay men are blessed with Special Ops-level peripheral vision (and night vision for darkrooms).

The beach was quiet — desolate, even. Just a few sun-worshippers scattered like coconut husks. Everyone had their space. I laid down and people-watched the sparse foot traffic going to the cruising zone like a horny security guard. So far, zero temptation. Even Bookworm, who strolled past a few times completely starkers, didn’t do it for me. Cute body, sure, but his nyash had no storyline. Flat. Silent. Like a failed Jollof rice — no flavour.

Then came Shyster. He walked by heading to the cruising zone, seemingly looking for his partner. That was the first time I noticed his behind properly. Hmm. Not bad. Not bad at all. In fact, compared to what I’d seen all morning, his ass was practically First Class.

So on his way back, I stood up to engage. No time to waste. Life is short, and I had a plane to catch.

“Looking for your friend?” I asked.

“He’s my husband, actually.”

Oh! Husband? My apologies — I was clearly distracted by the cakes and missed the covenant.

I think he’s probably back at your spot…” I said, even though we could both clearly see that patch of sand was emptier than a church on Monday. “Or maybe he wandered off that way,” I added, pointing vaguely behind me like someone trying to distract a Nigerian aunty from asking when you’ll marry.

It hadn’t hit me till then — not all the action was happening towards the cruising zone. Some folks were clearly taking the scenic route to sin. Plot twist.

Then, channelling my inner Lagos danfo conductor — loud, fearless, and always ready for action — I asked:

“Do you want to head over and see what happens?”

Man looked me up and down. By then, I was semi-interested and not even pretending to hide it.

He hesitated.

“Maybe later. I need to find him first.”

“Oh… you guys play together?”

“No. Let’s just say we keep secrets.”

Ehn? Secrets? Omo, it’s always the quiet ones. But this wasn’t adding up — two men constantly roaming up and down the nude beach, together, near the cruising area, and now you’re telling me you “keep secrets”? Ah well, everybody and their kink, whatever makes the marriage work. I will play along.

“Maybe he’s keeping secrets right now,” I said with a sly grin.

“Yeah. Maybe,” he shrugged and strolled off like someone going to look for small chops at a wedding.

Thirty minutes later, Bookworm strutted by solo, heading back toward the cruising zone. Now, I wasn’t sure if Shyster had spilled the tea about our little chat earlier or if Bookworm was just out on a suspiciously timed “casual” stroll. Either way, it looked like he was coming to see if the story added up.

I stopped him on his way back.

“Your husband was looking for you earlier.”

“I saw him,” he said, nonchalant.

“So… wanna go over there and play together?”

Now, even I was confused. I wasn’t even that into him. Maybe it was the sun, maybe the testosterone, or maybe my body just didn’t want to leave the country with full balls. I don’t know. Either way, I threw the line — the way a corporate brand hurriedly throws up a rainbow logo in June, not because it cares, but because HR said the DEI checklist is due by lunch.

“Not now. Maybe later,” he replied. “Let me give you, my number.”

He leaned in close and whispered the digits like we were plotting a military coup. I reached for my phone, and — boom — he changed his mind.

“Never mind,” he said and disappeared like a ghost. Apparently, his husband’s eyes had zoomed in.

I lay back down, already accepting that I’d be flying out with nothing but salty water and swollen balls.

Then, ten minutes later, the plot thickened.

Both of them strolled past me toward the cruising zone. For a couple that “don’t play together”, they were putting in a suspicious amount of together time where the playing happens.

So I got up, dusted the sand off my behind and caught up with them.

“You both want to fool around?” My voice calm but loaded.

They paused. Looked at each other like they were standing at the edge of a decision neither one wanted to make first. I could almost hear their thoughts: Are we doing this? Are we really about to do this? Then I wondered if I was pushing too hard. But then I caught it — their eyes dropping to my semi-interest, lingering just a second too long. A silent yes.

They nodded.

We walked five minutes down the shore further into the cruising zone to a quiet spot. We walked past, a fit couple coming back from the zone who promptly turned around and started following us. Clearly, our little procession gave them ideas.

Once we found our clearing, Shyster moved first. He leaned in and kissed me. Bookworm got behind him, reaching around to tweak his nipples, and started dry-humping. Then — boom — three-way kiss. Coordination 101.

Shyster reached down and grabbed my passport to pleasure, stroking it like he was trying to win a scholarship. At that moment, the fit couple caught up, looking like they wanted to join. Bookworm quickly and assertively shooed them off — and frankly, he wasn’t wrong. Had they joined, I might’ve redirected all my energy to them. They were fine and my unethical slut would have manifested.

With them gone, three of us got back into it. Blowjobs all around. It looked like Bookworm wanted to fuck his husband, but either the openness of the setting or the fact that he hadn’t douched, Shyster kept things PG-13.

Instead, we pivoted to a low key bukkake session. Shyster, bless him, was a willing target. After Bookworm and I gave him our respective blessings on his chest, we both jerked him off. He seemed to enjoy it, basking in post-nut glory like someone who just got admitted into an Ivy league university.

On the way back to our spots, we passed the fit couple standing stiff by their towels — faces like they just lost an EU subsidy. I tried to mouth “sorry,” but they turned their backs like I’d spilled hot pepper soup on their egos. 

Ah ah. Na wa o. Some people really don’t take “no” like adults. Me? If roles were reversed, I’d have smiled, clapped, and celebrated the blessed threesome like a proper church usher. After all, as Romans 12:15 (roughly paraphrased in the Nigerian Standard Version) says:- rejoice with those who rejoice, so that when your own turn comes, others won’t squeeze face like they just tasted rancid cum.

We dipped into the sea for a quick rinse, had a bit of friendly banter, and then I headed back to my hotel to check out and then on to the airport. 

Balls thoroughly emptied, conscience cleaner than Sunday clothes and a big smile plastered across my face like I just won the Euro millions lottery, I made my way through airport security and boarded my flight.

Moral of the story?

Sometimes, the best part of your holiday happens in the last few hours — when you least expect it. Just make sure you’re showered, shameless, and ready to improvise. ✌🏾