A few months after my divorce I moved down the coast a short way from San Francisco, to a smallish town where I hoped to get some of the quiet I had long craved. The divorce had not been especially angry or bitter; after a while my wife and I simply had nothing to say to each other, and while we rarely argued, the long silences at had home become oppressive to us and to our teenage kids. Luckily they were old enough so that our split wouldn’t traumatize them, and we didn’t have much trouble agreeing on a distribution of property. She got the house, of course, which was fine with me. I wanted to move anyway. My new home was close enough so that I could see the kids often, and they liked coming down to my place for weekends. By some miracle I had managed to find a small cottage in the woods about half a mile from the highway, and there was a protected cove near the end of my driveway with a small beach that got plenty of sun in the afternoon. We would walk down on weekend mornings and spend the whole day there swimming, grilling burgers, lolling in the sand and climbing the overhanging rocks. My kids were wise enough to know the divorce was probably the best thing, but I could they worried about what they thought was my hermit-like existence. I didn’t think of it that way. I didn’t want any company besides theirs, I had long worked from home, and I got all the conversation I wanted on my twice-weekly trips to town for groceries. I usually stopped in for a beer at the beachfront bar, where I was one of the regulars whose privacy others respect. Now and then a woman I met would show some interest in me, but I could never seem to work up much interest in them. I missed the sex, of course, but not as much as I thought I would. When I felt horny, solo sex usually took the edge off. It sounds like a dull life, but it had its spicy moments. Exploring above my cove one day, I found a path that ran through a thicket into a sandy spot with big slabs of standing rock on the landward side and a clear view to the water on the south and west. I started going there two or three times a week, admiring the view and basking in the sun. I often did this in the nude, and naturally this became one of my favorite places to rub one out. I wasn’t worried about getting caught; I’d never seen anyone isvecbahis around, and I figured I’d hear anyone coming in plenty of time to cover up. One fall day, though, I was lying in the late afternoon said, fantasizing about a girl I had dated in college, and that familiar heaviness was starting in my cock. I was just about to grab hold when I heard rustling in the thicket, and before I could react someone pushed past the last bush and into the clearing. It was a guy about 35, maybe older, wearing shorts, hiking boots, sunglasses and no shirt. He stopped abruptly when he saw me, and as I started to make excuses he held up his hand and said, “Hey, don’t mind me, just passing through.” He pushed through the bushes at the other side of the clearing and was gone. For several seconds I sat there stunned and ashamed, but then I saw the humor in the situation and starting chuckling to myself. I glanced down at my cock; I was surprised to see that it had gotten very hard — harder than I usually get. I settled back in the sand and finished the job, and didn’t try to stifle the moan that accompanied my cum. If he’s close by, I thought to myself, he must have gotten a laugh out of that. A week or two went by. I was sitting at a table in the back of the bar when a guy walked in and sat down on one of the stools. When his eyes swept the bar to see who was in they rested briefly on me, and I thought I saw a smile flicker across his face. What’s up with that, I wondered, but at that point my phone vibrated and I got into a text conversation with my daughter. When I looked up again the guy was gone. Another week passed. I was laying in supplies at the grocery story when I turned a corner and there he was again. He looked up, registered who I was and smiled again. This time I spoke up. “Have we met?” “Sort of,” he said. “You have no tan lines.” He waited. For a second I was puzzled. Then it hit me; the guy who had found me naked, ready to have a wank. I felt myself starting to blush. “Hey, it’s cool,” he said. “We’ve all been caught at least once.” He smiled again, so broadly I had to laugh. “Steve,” he said, holding out his hand. “Mark,” I said. But before I could take his hand he pulled it back. “Washed your hands recently?” he asked. This time we both isveçbahis giriş laughed. He held his hand out again, and I took it. “Have a beer next time you’re in town?” he asked. “Sure,” I said. “l’ll be here Friday night.” Friday night was unusually warm for October. I had been gotten sweaty working around the house all day, so I decided to take a shower. As I soaped up I felt myself getting hard, but I resisted the temptation to beat off. Drying myself in front of the mirror, I looked at my semi-hard dick and thought, “Wonder what Steve thought about this?” I surveyed the rest of my body — not bad for 42, I thought: not muscular but reasonably toned, only the hint of a belly. I suddenly felt self-conscious, and shook these strange thoughts from my head — thoughts I realized were usually prompted by women. Twenty minutes later I walked into the bar. Steve was already there, sitting at a table off to one side. I shook his hand as I sat down, noticing for the first time what a good-looking guy he was; not move-star handsome, but an honest, open face with regular features, tousled blond hair and green eyes. “Clean hands?” he asked, and I was strangely glad I had not jacked off in the shower. I said yes, laughing again. He gripped my hand firmly and said “Mine aren’t.” This time we both laughed, and in that moment, I think, we became friends. We drank and talked for a long time that night, covering most things guys do when they talk: sports, work and sports. After the fourth beer we moved to more personal stuff: I told him about growing up in the Midwest, moving to California for a job, marrying and having kids, the divorce. He had grown up in the Bay Area but never liked city life, and after law school had moved down here to be close to the beach and the woods and set up a small-town practice. He had been married briefly in his 20s, no kids, and since then had three or four long-time girlfriends, each of whom dumped him when it became clear he wasn’t going to marry again. We were still there when the bar closed. We sat outside to sober up before going home, and it wasn’t until nearly 3 that I rolled into bed. I was not as badly hung over the next day as I thought I would be, so I grabbed a towel, put a coupe of beers and a sandwich into a cooler and headed isveçbahis yeni giriş down to the beach. It was still warm, so I climbed up to my sandy spot, spread the towel, undressed and opened a beer. I sat there for awhile to let the beer take hold, and then lay down. When I closed my eyes I saw not my ex-wife’s lovely breasts, which I had never tired of admiring, nor did I remember the long slow fucks we used to have before we had kids; instead I saw Steve, quietly watching me. In my fantasy he didn’t move off as soon as he spotted me, but stood watching while I stroked myself. I had a long, slow jack, and my dick was almost painfully hard and swollen when I finally went over the edge, blasting cum all over my stomach, chest and chin. When I opened my eyes I half-expected Steve to be standing there. Good Lord, I thought, where is this coming from? I went home a little disconcerted by what had gone through my mind while I was beating off. Why was I thinking about a guy? The next week was a busy one, so I didn’t have much time to dwell on it. My kids were down for their fall break, and we kept busy hiking in the hills and strolling along the beach, though the water was now too cold to swim in. They left Saturday morning, and it was only after they left that I thought of Steve again. We had arranged to meet at the bar again that night, and I was really looking forward to seeing him. About 2 p.m. I had a thought; why not invite him down to grill steaks and maybe hit the beach? I called him — we had exchanged numbers — and he said, “Great idea. I’ve got a couple of errands to run but I can be there about 4.” I tidied up the place a bit, took a shower and put some more beers in the fridge to cool. At 4:15 I heard a car coming up the drive, and as he got out I thought again what a good-looking guy he is. He was wearing shorts and a faded green polo, and his face had that slightly weathered, reddened but not unattractive look of people who spend a lot of time in the sun. We stuffed the steaks and beers into packs and coolers, put the portable grill in my trunk and drove back down to the road above the beach. Fifteen minutes later we had the grill set up and the first beers open, and within 10 minutes we were deep into conversation. I can’t remember now what we talked about, before, inevitably, the conversation turned to sex. We talked about our first times, our first real lovers, what this or that woman would or wouldn’t do — all the usual things men talk about when they’ve had a few drinks.