This episode is part of a series of Travel Tales, about Jason’s backpacking trip across Europe in 1995.a
Nice Boys Finish First
If you know only two things about Nice (the city on the Mediterranean coast of France), they should be:
1) It’s pronounced like “niece”.
2) It has a lot of (tops-optional) beach.
But you really should know more than that, and I recommend a visit.
I spent three days and nights in Nice, and didn’t actually spend any time on the beach until my last full day there. I stayed in a hostel up in the hills, so it didn’t have a view of the beach. But from vantage points nearby there were really nice views of the city, which was actually cooler. I don’t know if it was a city-planning thing (like in Paris), a cultural preference, or an engineering issue, but despite the constrained real estate, the city wasn’t ruined by high-rises, even along the water. So once you got into the hills, you could easily see across the rooftops to the sea.
Viewed from the air, Nice must have looked like a shattered clay pot, because the roofs of the buildings were all made of the same red-orange clay, and the streets were laid out in the haphazard patterns that arise when people are building in the shadows of mountains next to a sea. The architecture was also very traditional… but not in the same tradition as Paris, so it didn’t fit that expectation. It was a distinctly Mediterranean-looking city, and the distinctiveness extended to the Cathedral, which was Baroque but in its own tacky way. I almost liked it. So I spent a lot of time just exploring the city.
Everybody raves about the beaches in Nice, but I have to say they didn’t live up to my expectations. Understand: I’m a West-Michigan boy, and we practically invented the beach, so I wasn’t easy to impress. For one thing, it didn’t have the super-fine sand that you find most of the way from Indiana to Mackinac. It wasn’t wretched Wisconsin-style rocks, so it was fine for laying out a towel and soaking up some sun, but still: B-grade.
Second, the urban-ness detracted from it. We have cities on the lakeshore in Michigan, but (for practical reasons) we usually don’t build right up to the beach, so they’re more natural settings. In Nice the beaches were bounded by a pedestrian way, then the street, and right to hotels. Great for selling “beachside” rooms, but not my thing.
And you know the “topless” angle? Not that big a deal. I enjoy ogling pretty young women more than your average faggot, and I did enjoy doing some of that. But it’s not as if going topless was required. It was just allowed, and plenty of women simply didn’t want to. So it was really more just like… going to the beach. Which I could’ve done if I’d stayed home.
Even so… even an ordinary beach in the city is still a beach, and a trip that had started in the shadow of glaciers, then made its way thru landlocked cities and mountains, meant that some beach time was a welcome change of pace. And just “going to the beach” still meant “cruising”.
Unlike back home, I didn’t know of any gay beach on the long strip of shoreline, so I just used the standard tricks of picking up tricks in mixed company: Look for single men. The more attention they pay to their appearance, the better. When you and someone interesting pass each other walking, turn around after you’ve passed: at worst you get another look at him from behind, and at best he’ll be looking back at you. That’s how I connected with Noah.
It was late in the day when I passed him on the beach, and he definitely caught my attention: deep tan, sun-bleached hair, and a noticeable basket in cute green swim trunks. And when I turned around for another look, despite my pale skin, ratty hair, and shabby shorts… he was looking back at me.
I could do the social math in my head, and walked back to where he was standing. “Bon jour?” I tried.
He nodded and smiled just a little. He was adorable. I was suddenly afraid that he might be a hustler. I… wasn’t prepared for that.
“Parlez vous anglais?” I ventured, a query I’d had a lot of practice with in the previous few days, because even though I could speak tourist-level French pretty well, understanding it was another matter.
“Sure!” This time he smiled warmly. That doesn’t seem like a hustler smile. Besides, they don’t work on beaches, do they?
“Do you have a light?” I asked, not sure what to say next. What if he isn’t actually cruising me? What if he‘s straight?
He looked confused, and glanced down at his suit and open hands. “Uh… where would I put it?”
“Good point. Besides, I don’t smoke.” We each grinned broadly. No question about it: this was the awkward interchange of two queers just looking to fuck.
We headed to Noah’s place, a hotel suite a few blocks from the beach. I explained that I was an American college student, doing a tour of Europe. He was a student from Paris, in Nice on vacation with his family for the past few weeks. “So, I guess you’re kinda rich?”
“No, my father is a salesman and my mother is a teacher. Why do you think that?”
“Well, that’s a long vacation….”
“No it isn’t. And what about you? Two months abroad!”
“Good point. But I’m staying in hostels, not places like this!”
Their hotel suite was in a cool old building on a quiet side street. It didn’t have a view of the sea, but their second-floor suite overlooked a little courtyard at the back of the building. It wasn’t large, but they had three bedrooms: one for his parents, one for his little sister, and one for him. He grabbed a half-empty bottle of red wine from the kitchenette. No one else was there, but we went into his room and closed the door.
Noah slipped out of his swim shorts and shoes and I followed suit (so to speak). The extent of his sun-tanning efforts became much clearer seeing it in contrast to his pale butt cheeks, and the darkness of his pubes. I was pretty sure he used lightener in his hair. My lack of exposure – contrasted with the little bit of sunburn that had sneaked thru my extensive sunscreen in the past few days – was just as obvious.
His cock was getting hard and pink, however. Mine matched it.
He took a couple swallows from the bottle, and handed it to me. I took three, then put it on the nightstand next to his bed. He was a few inches shorter than me… I’ve never been good at hooking up with guys the same height as me. As we explored each other’s mouths, he took my cock in his hand and gently stroked it. I reached around and massaged his butt.
He shifted his grip, managing to encircle both of our cocks and rub them together. I grunted my approval. Looking down, I saw that he was a little taller than me, after all.
I decided to make myself a couple feet shorter, and dropped to my knees.
His crotch smelled deliciously of sweat; he hadn’t been to the beach that day to go swimming. I licked his balls gently, tasting the salty tang of them. He spread his legs a little, and I tongued his taint. He giggle briefly, then moaned softly. His cock teetered slowly above my head.
I put my lips around one nut and sucked, licking the part of his hairless sac inside my mouth. I switched sides and did it again. His free ball pulled up then dropped, and his hips squirmed.
Releasing his balls, I licked a finger generously, and spread the spit around the rim of his head. Spreading my tongue broadly, I slid up the shaft of his cock. “Oh, man….” he pleaded. “Suck it!”
I didn’t, at least not right away.
I licked my thumb and index finger and rubbed his pink head between them while I licked the length of his shaft again. His butt muscles flexed, squirming his hips again. I continued this routine for a couple minutes, until hips were nearly dancing, and I was out of spit.
I took another hit from the wine and swished it around my mouth. I handed it up to Noah, who nearly finished it.
When he’d safely swallowed, so did I. At least I tried to, plunging his aching cock into my mouth. My nose rustled his dark pubes, with their intoxicating scent. I inhaled thru my nose and sucked thru my mouth. “Mon dieu!” he gasped.
Slowly I pulled myself up, stopping just before his head slipped past my lips. I paused, plunged back down, then pulled back again, slowly. He put his hand on the back of my head, and tried to nudge me to go faster, but I resisted. At first. Adding the other hand, he applied a little more force, and I started to comply.
He was seriously getting into it, when one of his knees buckled. He caught himself – jerking my head a little in the process – and looked at me sheepishly. I got on his bed, and directed him to lie on his back. I took another swig from the bottle and worked up a good mouthful of spit, which I applied to my palm… which I applied to his cock, in long slow strokes.
When that started to dry up, he reached over to the nightstand and produced a bottle of lube. And not a travel-sized bottle: this was a six-month supply. But it was almost gone. My joli garçon was apparently a bit of a slut. Which made me want to fuck him all the more.
I warmed up a handful of lube, and got back to work on Noah’s cock. He tried to guide my pace with a hand on my arm, but I gently removed it. I wasn’t going to be just another jacques-off appliance for him; I was the guy who was going to get him off. “Je suis en charge.” I explained. He moaned his consent.
I continued even more slowly. It was a struggle for him to lie still, and from time to time his butt and abs would flex, to thrust his cock within my firm grip. He held his breath for a little while, then started taking deep breaths to make up for it. I increased my speed, and slipped by free hand underneath him, to grab his butt. His breathing turned to shallow, rapid gasps. I slid a finger toward his asshole, and put my fist into turbo mode. As the tip of my finger slid into his hole, it clenched down on it. With a series of grunts, he launched streams of jizz up his torso, as his ass repeatedly squeezed my knuckle. I wiggled my finger, and he made a sound like the bark of a dog.
I began to lick his chest clean, but he scooped it up himself and smeared my cock with it. It went from hard to hard. He reached for the lube and slathered his asshole with it. “You need to fuck me!” he insisted. He suddenly produced a condom from somewhere. He was right: I did.
He got up on his hands and knees, and waited while I hastily unrolled the condom. I knelt behind him, and slid a middle finger into his ass. Nice and slippery.
I slid my cock between his cheeks a few times, lubing up the latex. I bumped my head against his sphincter a couple times, then on a third pass, pushed it inside. With a grunt, he relaxed, and I slid about halfway in. “Fuck!” he gasped. I pushed again. “Me!”
He started to sway forward and back in rhythm, slowly jacking me with his butt. The springiness of the mattress limited his speed and made balancing a little awkward. I stayed still and enjoyed it, putting my hands on the sides of his torso to steady myself and give his rocking a little extra leverage.
But I soon wanted… needed to go faster, and he was literally in no position to stop that. It was now my turn to flex my ass muscles, and with my hands firmly on his hips, I fucked that boy pretty hard. “You OK?” I checked. He said something that wasn’t in my phrasebook.
I pushed myself balls-deep into him and stopped. I leaned forward, holding myself up with one hand but putting some of my weight on his back. He took it. I put my free arm around him and resumed fucking him. I knew better than to try dirty-talk in a foreign language, and instead growled, “I’m gonna cum in your ass, pretty boy!”
“Do it!” he whispered hoarsely.
“Oh… I’m….” I don’t think I got any farther with it than that. I just thrust into him again and again, the bed squeaking, the boy whimpering a little, my cock throbbing.
My elbow buckled and the full weight of my torso landed on Noah, as my cock gushed inside him. His every muscled tensed to hold us up, as I fumbled to grab onto him with both arms, and drive deeper into him. Finally his right elbow gave out, and we rolled together onto our sides.
We lay there for a minute or two, before a sound came from the outer room. Someone had entered the apartment and was walking around on the hardwood floors.
By this time my cock had slipped out of Noah’s, so he rolled out of bed and grabbed his swim trunks. Slipping into them, he pointed at the open window. Seriously? I pulled off the condom and handed it to Noah, who tossed it in the trashcan while I put my shorts and shoes back on. “There are… handholds. And a bench below the window,” he whispered.
I looked down and saw what he was referring to. “You can do it! Lots of guys have!” His grin was both proud and apologetic, and his blush was adorable. He kissed me sloppily for about five seconds, then walked to the door, opening it just enough to slip outside, and closed it behind him.
I could hear him talking with someone – I couldn’t make out a word of it – as I climbed out the window, and lowered myself enough for a safe landing on the bench. I found my way from the courtyard to the street, and walked back toward the beach. Just to look.