Date: 7 Jun 1999 11:18:26 -0700
From: poondu@members.gayweb.com
Subject: Club Med Boy

			       Club Med Boy
		   by Thole <poondu@members.gayweb.com>

The club was on Moreno Island. My company sent me there; I'd never
have paid to vacation in a spot like that with my own money. Actually
the island itself and the people who live there are great but the
club is a summer camp for the rich and that is not my style of
camping.

I'm a troubleshooter by profession. Whenever a local office has a
problem with one of our products they can't handle the company sends
me. Sometimes a week, sometimes a month; hard to tell ahead of time
so I always have to pack for the long haul. When I'm not on the road
for the company I'm usually on the road for myself. I run a 32 foot
land yacht, just drive around the old roads looking for interesting
diners, old churches, kids hitching.

I remember one time up in the mountains of northern Idaho; was right
in the middle of one hellascious August thunderstorm, rain coming
down so you couldn't see the road. I picked up these two bedraggled
kids at a trail head.  They weren't wearing but shorts and sweaters
from what I could see and it didn't take but a minute before I'd
talked them out of their wet togs and into a nice warm blanket.

But anyhow here I was at this rich man's playground to work on their
satcomms and maybe get in a visit to the beach. The place takes up
most of a several acre point of coral spit out into a lagoon
sufficiently deep for water skiing. There was one restaurant serving
meals from a menu besides the main dining room that served a kind of
buffet or smorgasbord. And there was a list of organised activities a
yard long. Seems like all these folks can't think much for themselves
so the club keeps them out of mischief with all these plans and
trips. Most of the campers, if you'll pardon the term, were Americans
or Europeans; most of the support staff were islanders. The
islanders, they were the really beautiful people.

All smiles and trim; the women shapely, the men muscled, the children
lovely. They almost all wore a simple cotton garment called a pareu.
Nothing else. Up to about three or four years the kids I saw outside
of the cities didn't wear anything. I guess they had to learn how to
tie the knots that held the pareu on before they could wear one. The
pareu is a cotton cloth a metre wide and two long printed with bright
colours and designs. They're easy enough to obtain; all the touristy
stores sell a wide selection in cotton blends but the best ones are
the straight cotton ones available in the local shops and markets.
Though they're not as easy to get in and out of as a pair of shorts,
I purchased several. Learning the way to fold it and tie it is one of
those secrets probably passed from mother to son.

After a couple of days at the city hotel I was ready to go to the
outer islands where the club was located. The only way to get there
is by ferry. I'd sent my test equipment and parts on ahead so it was
just me and my pack trying to not look too much like a tourist.
That's hard in this kind of a place where the majority of the people
are brown skinned. Native or European, everyone has a dark tan. One
of the kids on the ferry looked like he'd just stepped out of the
travel poster; perfect proportions everywhere I could see, which was
most everything. Curly black hair, brown eyes, dark skin, barefoot,
wearing a blue patterned pareu; he was taking turns with two other
boys at the ship's wheel under the direction of the ferry master. I
tried not to stare but it was hard. I wondered if he wore anything
under the pareu and I studied it carefully, as much as not staring
would allow, to figure out how it was tied. He caught my eye more
than once and smiled like the poster lad.

After getting settled in one of the club's bungalows and having a
look at the job site, I took the rest of the afternoon to play at the
beach. The area just at the club is often set with tables and snacks
and most everyone wears swimsuits at the least though many women are
topless.

Further along, where the bungalows front onto the beach, it is
acceptable to wear less. Skin diving takes on a whole new meaning.
That's where I headed. There were only a few people around as most of
the campers frequent the part with the snacks. Being American what
can you expect. I was able to have a few hours of relaxing sand
castle construction and lie around in the water. That evening I put
in some time on the problem my company was paying me to investigate
and the next day returned to the beach for most of the day. This time
I brought along my kite and after stashing my shorts under a rock
took the kite for a walk up the narrow strip of coral beach between
the lagoon and the jungle.

During the whole day I met only one family and a couple of other
people. Usually the kite will attract a few urchins but not today. It
did not occur to me that the locals might be in school but likely all
the camper kids were off to some organised activity. Late in the
afternoon I returned to my bungalow, showered and spent a mostly
unproductive half hour experimenting with a pareu. I couldn't get it
so I felt secure, it always seemed if I started walking it would fall
off or if I was to sit for dinner it would stay on the chair when I
got up to leave. The double sliding glass doors that open out onto a
deck overlooking the beach were open all this time; it never occurred
to me to close them. A few people had passed by but I thought nothing
of it; I've been working lately to suppress my prudish upbringing
that makes it necessary to hide behind a false wall of modesty.
Suddenly there was a young voice from the door.

--Need help? I know how to fix.

It was the boy I watched on the ferry.

--Yes, come in please. I do need help. I want to learn how to wear a
pareu. Perhaps you can show me.

I was standing there naked but for the drape of cloth I had been
working with when the youth stepped in. His pareu was tied short and
fitted him snugly like I'd seen it on the ferry. He untied two knots
and it fell away revealing what I'd hoped for all along. This lad at
least didn't wear anything under it.

--I show you how. You follow me.

But then as he held the cloth up to start his lesson he espied my
kite hanging over a closet door.

--You fly kite this morning? I watch. Very beautiful kite. I fly kite
with you?

--Yes, sure, we can do that. Perhaps tomorrow morning. Would that be
ok?

--Yes! Fine! Ok, back to pareu lesson.

He took his time showing me how to tie on a pareu several different
ways. Short for informal times like beach and school; long for dinner
or sometimes for travel. There were a couple of decorative knots he
used that left flashy long ribbons of material hanging at front or
side. I tried each example and when he was through he would strip his
off and start anew. When he finished with my lessons he asked if
there was anything else I wanted him to show me.

--Yes there is something more but it can wait until we fly the kite
in the morning.

--Ok sir. Perhaps you sit with me at dinner and tell my father about
kite. I wait for you.

The boy was native, spoke at least two languages maybe three, had
better manners and sense of self than most of the American kids I
knew, and all without the benefit of American TV and SAT scores.

With the addition of a shirt I would be dressed for dinner so I tied
my hair back and found a nice purple silk shirt. The boy and his
father were waiting as he'd said and we were seated at a table with
two couples. Everyone had stories to tell and of course the grownups
were more interested in grownup things than they were in kites so
little was said about that much to the lad's dismay. His father was
the gardener for the club and he brought his son along from time to
time to help out. He was at first a little embarrassed that his son
had found me in such a compromised condition but I dispelled any
notion that I was upset or that the boy might have been intruding. He
was a welcome find in such a far away place; I looked forward to
seeing more of him in the days remaining before I left.

He was sitting on the edge of my bed when I woke, playing with a
string, making figures.

--Father say No Problem to do whatever you like. I am yours for this
day. Now you got to pee. I can tell. Then we fly kite.

There was not much wind when I finished with my toilet and dressed.
The boy was still playing with his string so I got out mine and we
traded figures whilst I waited for the dining room to open for
breakfast.

On the beach we left our pareus tied in a tree so his father might be
able to find us and let out the kite. The wind was off shore but the
lagoon was shallow enough to walk nearly all the way to the reef so I
was not concerned about loosing the kite. We walked along in the sun
looking for shark's teeth and talking about his school and my work
and what was the same and what was different between our countries.

Somewhere along the beach we tied off the kite and swam in the warm
lagoon. When we came out of the water the boy found a fresh coconut
and smashed it open and we ate a little. From that point it was time
to cook the other side of me so we started back, swimming at times or
walking. The next day I was going on an excursion to a bird sanctuary
an hour away by fast boat, I asked him if he would be my guest.

Once again he was sitting on the side of my bed when I woke. I was
dimly aware of him coming in but then dozed off again to a pleasant
dream of times long past when I often traveled with my own catamite.
A boy's fingers twirled in my pubic hair, a boy's hand stroked me
hard. Just short of orgasm I moved and opened my eyes to catch the
flash of his retreating hand. He looked embarrassed.

With pointing and motions to fill in for the words he did not have in
English he tried to explain how he woke up.

--Sometimes when I get that I do like this and it feels good. Do you
do that too?

--Yes and sometimes when you do like this first then it feels even
better. But best of all is when you and a friend do it to each other.

But there was not time then as Le Truck would come before we had a
chance to. Maybe later I told him, now we must go. The excursion boat
was a well-appointed catamaran and the group numbered about forty
people, mostly tourists. Lunch was to be provided by the guides.

An hour later the catamaran had brought us through a gap in the outer
reef around a group of four small islands; we transferred, six at a
time, by an inflatable craft, through an inner reef into the lagoon
and then walked through knee deep water the last few yards to a white
coral beach. When the group was assembled we moved in two parts along
the beach for most of a mile around the island to a point marked by a
wrecked ship, and from there walked through the lagoon again to the
second island. The water was refreshing, about waist deep on me and
not more than a half mile to the island.

This was, maybe still is, Marlon Brando's Private Bird Sanctuary
Island. There were three major colonies: boobies, red footed and
masked; noddies of a couple of kinds; terns: sooty, fairy, capped. My
young friend hadn't been here before and was even more fascinated
than I. A few birds were sitting on eggs and we saw two with
hatchlings. After walking around to all the colonies we traveled by
outrigger canoe to a third island for lunch and swimming, and more
birds. It was neat riding on the outriggers of the canoe. Right at
the picnic place were two nests of frigate birds. In the shallow
lagoon the water was comfortably cool and there were all sorts of
fishes. We saw a large ray and some sea cucumbers and schools of
small fish about the colour of the water with black fin tips that
were voracious omnivores.

After a couple hours of leisure lunch and swimming the boy and I left
the group to walk around this smallest of the islands we'd been on so
far. The island was roughly triangular, two short sides and a longer
one, of narrow white coral beach surrounding a dense man high thicket
of something that looked like rhododendron. There were a few palm
trees, coconut palms that is, and a scattering of other trees. We
went all the way round once then turned and went back, chatting as
best we could about the facts of life. The second time round, on the
far side from where everyone else was laying about sleeping off
lunch, we took off our pareus to swim for a while then built a
castle on the beach. Coral does not build as well as sand and our
efforts shifted to burying him in the coral.

We eventually left our pareus behind and swam across the narrows to
the fourth island in the group. This was a large island, its rocky
centre rising at least thirty metres above the sea. There was a trail
which we followed to the summit and there, lying on the smooth
volcanic flow we played with each other.

This lad was a work of art and a marvel of surprises. We lay side by
side and explored each other with our fingers. His little whizzle, no
more than three fingers long detumescent was nearly two hands long
and sinuous when erect. This was definitely a virgin boy I had in my
hands and I was as excited as he. Too bad his first cum was wasted on
his belly but I was sure I'd get to suck him later. I spread his cum
around on his belly and chest and touched some to his forehead, nose
and lips with a ritualistic flourish. Then it was my turn for his
hand job. While he stroked me I talked about other ways boys did it
with each other and thought about what his head would look like with
me plugged into his mouth.

After swimming back to our pareus I sat on the beach and called him
to stand in front of me. He asked if I wanted to suck him like I'd
told him about on the mountain. My answer was to pull him close and
take him in. His softness grew hard in my mouth; an exquisite feeling
I'd not experienced in many years. The ocean on his skin when I
tongued his balls was a delightful new taste for me. He grew excited
and put a leg over my shoulder, pulled me by the hair tight against
his crotch. His cum was thick and creamy boyish, delivered with
youthful force and a shriek of delight.

We swam again and dressed and walked back to the boat.

                                -30-