And, I had a proper, hard erection. Through looking at girls. Sexy girls. Beautiful girls. My grey, depressing confusion cloud descended again. “So where does that leave me,” I thought. God I was mixed up. I was aroused by girls and boys. Did I prefer girls or boys? Was I just a mass of raging hormones that became aroused at any hint of flesh, any hint of sexually overt behaviour? Did gender matter? What did matter? Did love matter? Did emotion matter? Or was it purely sex, the most basic of animal instincts?
A thud in the middle of my back from Big Joe sent the remains of my not so big breakfast onto my hand luggage where it was finally joined with the ketchup that had been promised to it earlier.
“Now then soft lad,” bellowed Big Joe. “Haven’t you eaten that plastic burger yet? Fuckin’ ‘ell. What’s it doing in your bag? You’re not taking it with you are you?”
And with that, Big Joe ended my inner philosophical musings. We were called for our flight that would take me to the seven days that would change my life. Forever.
The flight was uneventful. The four musketeers plugged in their earphones, leaned back in their seats and crashed out. John and I chatted for half an hour before he joined them in catching a few zeds. My mind was far too active to even think about getting some sleep. I read the in flight magazine. I plugged in my own ear phones. I took out my ear phones. I went to the toilet and got trapped in the aisle by the drinks trolley which was in front of the very shapely bottom of a female flight attendant. As I was ogling her peachy bum I began to wonder when they stopped being called stewards and stewardesses and became attendants and cabin crew. And then I started to think about dog turds. And human entrails. And vomit. Anything to prevent the further expansion of my dick which had obviously just received the pictures of said peachy bum, complete with panty line, that were being beamed to it live by the Mark 1 eyeball cam. I even thought of my mother. But strangely that seemed to involuntarily accelerate my penile expansion. Christ! What was happening to me? Thinking of my Mum made me hard? Or rather, harder. By the time I got back to my seat I had decided that I needed a therapist. Either that or a good hard fuck!
At long last we landed and, after an interminably hot, sweaty wait by the luggage carousels, we emerged into the beautifully hot, dry, Mediterranean sunshine. We quickly found our pre-booked, people carrier, airport transfer and within forty five minutes we were standing in the cool, air conditioned, spectacular atrium that housed the impressive reception area of what appeared to be a rather top notch hotel.
We stood still and looked around and up and at each other. Robbie broke the silence when he proclaimed, “Fuck up number 1. We’re in the wrong hotel. Same name but the pictures and the web link your Dad showed us, George, wasn’t for this bad boy.” We all nodded in agreement before Diego said, “Well if this isn’t our hotel, where, in the name of all that’s holy, is it?”.
I took the lead and ambled up to the receptionist, a stunning young Spanish senorita who managed to make her conservative corporate uniform look like the sexiest garments ever designed for the female form. I smiled my best, man of the world, seasoned traveller smile and she beamed at me expectantly. I glanced at her name badge and in high school Spanish greeted her with a cheery,
“Hola. Buenos Dia Pilar.” Pilar’s smile widened as she replied in perfect English,
“Good day, Sir. How may I help you?”
I asked if she held a reservation for three twin rooms in the name of DuBois — yes, that’s my surname — for seven days. Pilar busied herself at her computer. After no more than 15 seconds she looked up. Her smiled had been replaced by a confused frown. “Three rooms? Twin rooms? Dubois?” she queried. The lads, who had now joined me at the counter groaned in unison and Robbie murmured “Told you didn’t I. Never even heard of us.” Pilar overheard him and stated,
“This is contrary Senor. We have you on our computer as Dubois for seven days. You do not have twin rooms. I am sorry for you. You have three standard suites on the Panoramico. That is level eight. Senor Himes DuBois makes upgrade on Visa.”
“Himes?” whispered Big Joe, “Who the fuck is Himes? Is this a scam?”
“It’s my Dad you doughnut,” I whispered back. “She means James. ‘J’ is ‘H’ in Spanish.”
We completed the check in, picked up our key cards and Pilar arranged for porters to take our bags up to our suites as we feigned nonchalance. As if we’d spent all our holidays in suites on Panoramic Floors of classy hotels.
The suites were fantastic. Wide balconies or sun terraces as they were described in the blurb. Huge bathrooms or walk in wetrooms complete with hot tubs as they were described in the blurb. Fridge with ice maker and two spacious bedrooms complete with double beds or king size divans according to the blurb. This was incredible. I immediately texted my thanks to my Dad ‘Himes’. He replied almost immediately. Apparently all our parents had chipped in to upgrade the rooms as we had done so well with our studies. We were ecstatic. Jumping up and down, running in and out of each others suites, opening doors and cupboards and wardrobes, turning on power showers and bouncing on huge beds. This was going to be a great week.
After ten minutes of boyish excitement and as the porters deposited our suitcases, we bomb burst into our respective suites. Big Joe was sharing with Little Joe, Diego was with Robbie and John and I were sharing. In the silence that followed as we got our breath back I looked at John and he looked at me. His words of this morning [was it only this morning?] were echoing around my head;
“We’ve got plenty of time for this. All week in fact.”
My brain interpreted ‘this’ in the only way it could and in the only way I wanted to hear it and sent signals of confirmation through my nipples, across my stomach, around my bottom and straight to my cock, balls and sphincter. John pushed the door to our suite closed and walked towards me.
“Unfinished business, Georgie. Time to get unpacked,” he said smiling. I pulled on the draw string of my surfer shorts, fumbling with the knot.
“I mean unpack our suitcases dopey. God, you are a horny slut aren’t you?”
My brain now had a vital decision to make. It was being asked to pump blood to my cock to fuel my growing erection, to my heart as it was beating fit to burst, to itself so it could continue to keep me alive and to my face to ensure it blushed fiercely enough to match my embarrassment. There had to be a loser. My cock lost. As it deflated my face lit up like a distress beacon. As he sauntered past me John patted my bottom, leaned in close, licked my ear and whispered, “Soon, my naughty bitch, soon.”
We unpacked in double quick time and met the others back in reception. Then en masse we strode out to the pool area. The pool was fantastic. It was split level with the lower half being an ‘infinity pool’. The upper level was a large kidney shape with an island in the middle containing cascading water walls. If you swam through a gap at the far end it brought you to a swim up bar and beyond that was a large patio with pool and table tennis tables. On the left hand side of the pool was an area set back, shaded by an arbour that contained two massage beds. Trendy, house and trance music was playing over a loudspeaker system at a discrete sound level. There was plenty of activity in and around the pool and the age range of guests appeared not to venture below eighteen or creep much above forty five-ish. There wasn’t a kid in sight.