The Greek lad

I saw the again lad tonight, plucked up courage and winked at him as I passed. That, as it turned out, was all I needed to do. It is now dawn, he’s just left and I have to get this down before I forget. Not that I ever will.

I had been on the island for only one evening when I started to realize two things about the local lads. One, they were all desirable and two, they all wore really tight jeans even in July when the sun was burning hot. I had only been on the island two days when I realized a third thing: quite a few of them looked at me strangely whenever I walked by their café in the tiny, half ruined back street of the village. And then I realized another thing: I was going to have one of these lads before I left. He looked at me, I looked at him and I knew instantly. 

I was staying at a friend’s apartment, he’d let me rent it for the whole month of July and I had exclusive use. A balcony overlooked a delightful view of ancient houses, a courtyard below and trees rambling down a valley to the sea about a mile away. The room off the balcony was perfectly furnished with a large sofa, wall hangings and old photographs of the island dating back at least one hundred years. Off this ‘salon’ was my bedroom; a large double bed that I hoped might see some action, a wardrobe and a table were the only things in it. And, from another door off the salon, was a short corridor leading to the front entrance, a bathroom and a small kitchen. Outside I had a courtyard with fruit trees and steps leading down to a private entrance yard, guarded by ornate metal doors. The place was private, cool in the heat of day, and comfortably warm in the evenings. I’d be happy here for a month.

After recovering from my flight, it was an overnight journey finished off by a boat ride to this remote place, I spent my second day exploring the village; checking out where the cafes were, the shops and the tavernas and how far the beach was. I familiarised myself enough to be able to find my way home through the intricate maze of cobbled alleys and unlit passages that made up this village half way up a mountain. It was while doing this that I passed by the café. It was obviously the local lad’s hang-out, not a tourist in sight, pop music playing and a collection of youths hanging around at tables outside. From my quick reckie I guessed it was a place for those in their late teens, early twenties; I saw no one older than thirty as I walked by.

It was while checking it out that I noticed the looks. In the few seconds it took me to pass, look into the gloomy inside then out at the pavement tables, I noticed the strange looks. A couple of the guys stopped their heated conversation and stared at me, then they carried on chattering in their indecipherable language while cocking their heads in my direction. I was clearly a talking point and I had no idea why. Assuming it was because I was the only tourist to be staying in their neighbourhood I took no notice, nodded at them and carried on. I didn’t let myself feel intimidated, I’m 32, I work as a builder, live in London’s East End and can handle a few inhospitable foreigners if I have to. I’m also up for a bit of trade with the same kind if they’re consenting, cute, younger and gagging for it.

I doubted any of this lot were and, sighing (because they were all tanned, fit and wearing tight jeans but this was not my home turf,) I carried on back to my apartment.

As the holiday progressed I passed by the ‘Andras’ café regularly at the same time each day on my way back from the beach. Each day the same lads were sat around drinking their cold coffee and playing backgammon and each day they would throw me a look. I started to make it a custom to say hello and learned the Greek word from a fellow tourist so that I could surprise them. It didn’t seem to make a difference. They still just stared blankly at me with their huge, brown eyes. Each day I sighed and each night I jacked off with one of their bodies in my mind. One in particular. A slim guy of about 19, whose eye I had caught on my first passing. He had short jet black hair, a smooth closely shaved face and a cocky grin. His torso shaped down from a worked-on chest to slim hips and the oh so tight jeans rose up in his crotch to a tantalising mound as he sat with one leg rested up on the other. He always sat apart from the others like he was some kind of outcast and that appealed to me.

I winked at him last night and made sure I walked more slowly. I’d had some wine with my lunch and the afternoon had been spent lying on the busy beach staring at men in wet trunks, straight lads with their girlfriends had posed all round me and I had flicked my hungry eyes to crotch level at any chance I got. Something about the day had made me more horny than usual and something about the day had told me that the night would be a special night. I was right.

As soon as I had winked at the slim one he winked back and flashed me a quick smile. Immediately my heart was up and pounding and I knew I’d started something. By the time I’d passed his table he was putting some coins down by his half finished coffee and standing up. I walked on. I heard him follow.

I turned right, up the steps that led to the narrow lane my apartment was in. After a few paces I heard someone coming up behind me and knew it was him. I didn’t turn back, just carried on – in case I’d misread things and he was only going home the same way. I didn’t feel threatened, it’s not that sort of place and, like I said, I can handle myself. I came up to my front doors, got the key into the metal gate and went inside. Should I leave the door open? Why not? 

I climbed up the steps to the apartment and pushed open the front door. The apartment was bathed in late afternoon light, diffracted through the lace curtains, filling the corridor with a magical, pink glow. I left the front door open and went through to the salon. The French windows were open to the view and I stepped quickly out onto the balcony, hoping to see the lad standing below, waiting for me to invite him up. The alley was empty. All there was to be heard was the sound of sparrows, a far off cockerel and a slight breeze annoying the fig trees below. My heart sank and I realised I’d got the whole thing wrong. He wasn’t interested in me. He was at least ten years younger and probably had a girl waiting for him somewhere. I turned back into the flat, deciding that a cold shower and a quick wank was all I needed to drive him from my mind.

The cold shower did nothing to stop the swelling in my cock and by the time I got out it was still semi hard, hanging over my filling balls and craving attention. I grabbed it in a fist and gave it two hard yanks. That was enough to get it upright and to attention. It stood out seven inches in front of me waiting for me to carry on. I left it there and padded through to the bedroom. The day’s wine had also tired me and I decided that, after all, I needed a siesta more than a wank. Heading for my bed I walked back into the salon.

He was standing in front of the window, his back to the sunset and the long white curtains shielded the light as they sighed in the breeze. His hands were on his hips and his jeans had been undone at the stud. I couldn’t make out his expression but he did not move when I came in, naked and still damp, still hard. I stopped dead still, first with shock and then with uncertainty. He was in my room, he would have to be the one to make the first move. 

And he did. He took one pace towards me, looked over his shoulder as if to check he was not being watched and then made another step closer. His arms rose up in a shrug and I could see his face, he smiled, broadly, and winked again. I did not move a muscle. His expression changed and he looked worried.
‘I should go?’ he said and his accent was heavy.
I shook my head slowly, my eyes fixed on his. 
‘What should I do?’ he whispered and I got the impression that he really had no idea what should come next. This was new to him.
‘What you want,’ I whispered back. I had still not moved, my cock was still straining out for him and all I could feel was a drip of water running beneath it, gathering on my heavy scrotum. Another drip trickled, tickled and ran there while I waited. Waited and watched.