Fucking in the Woods Using Only Spit, I Lived Out My Brokeback Mountain Fantasy in Croatia
The fleeting touches. The fear of getting caught. The spit and the pain.
Thanks to Grindr and, well, “gay rights,” sex is no longer a scarce commodity in the West. If you’re trying to get dicked down, you can send a pic of your hairy hole to 20 nearby men. At least one will be down to come over and breed it. If you’re lucky, you’ll catch the interest of five guys. Then, it’s a party.
The relative ease of getting loaded up has to be one of the best parts about being alive in 2023, considering everything else in the world is a dumpster fire.
But two years ago, when I was traveling with my mother and brother in Croatia, it wasn’t a piece of cake to hop online and get some cake. Despite being part of the EU, Croatia is not the most LGBTQ-friendly place. I’d go as far as to say it’s relatively antagonistic towards queer people, which is interesting, considering it’s a country that makes the majority of its revenue from tourism.
But there was no way I was going two weeks without sex. How else could I get through 14 days of traveling with my family?
Alas, Grindr was dead. So too, were the rest of the usual gay hookup apps. That is until we got to Hvar. Hvar is known as the party town of Croatia, but because of COVID, many venues were temporarily closed.
There, a very handsome local Croatian responded to my message on Grindr. He had a shaved head with some scruff on his face, big green eyes, full lips, and a juicy ass. He was also 6’3! Rarely do I find tall men with big booties; all the fat-assed men are on the shorter side. Don’t get me wrong, I love a pocket gay to throw around, but it’s nice to fuck someone my size once in a while.
He said there was a gay-friendly bar in town that all the locals frequent, and I should meet him there later. No set time. Just “after dinner.” How European!
(A young Boyslut in Hvar!)
After another meal of delicious seafood, my brother and I sauntered over. There were absolutely no discerning qualities of the bar indicating that this was where the closeted gays hang. None of the clientele was “visibly” queer. The bar wasn’t more “colorful,” and they were playing soccer (fútbol) on all the screens. It looked like every other bar nearby.
No matter, my brother and I started drinking and having a heart-to-heart, something we do when we travel together. I then got a tap on my shoulder. It was him! He was wearing white “flowy” apparel that epitomized chic European.
“I’m here with a friend. You and your brother should join us,” Ivan said. And so we did.
I pride myself on picking up on social cues effortlessly. I have a decent sense of whether someone is into me or not. With Ivan, I didn’t have to use my powers of deduction. He was clearly not interested.
No joke I made landed. I told myself it was because satire can be challenging to understand when you’re not fluent, but that was a lie. He understood. He just didn’t think I was funny and would eye-roll after each joke, one time saying, “Silly American.” Sir, I’m not a silly American; I’m a hilarious American.
While he wasn’t into me, his friend, a Serbian photographer, Bogdan, seemed like he was. He was classicly attractive—tall, dark, and handsome. He had a chiseled jawline with a black five o'clock shadow. But his looks weren’t even the best part. He had a thick British accent and would call me “chap,” which, for reasons unclear, made me wet. The best part: He enjoyed my humor, finding me “charming” and not “obnoxious.” Loved that for me!
When I asked Bogdan if there was anywhere we could go dancing, he told me about “Party Island.” Water taxis run there and back at the top and bottom of the hour, and it’s a short eight-minute sail. The moment you step off the boat, you pay some outrageously overpriced entrance fee and enter the outdoor rave that goes until sunrise.
Obviously, I wanted to go to the place nicknamed “Party Island.” When Ivan said he was too tired, I didn’t ask him twice. Instead, I asked if Bogdan would join my brother and me. He was game, and so we said our goodbyes to Ivan before boarding a boat to PI.
PI deserved its moniker because it was a massive outdoor rave playing EDM. If only I were 21, I would have been in heaven. I also would have been the average age of everyone else there, but that didn’t stop me from shaking my booty.
While waiting for a drink at the bar, a young British dude, maybe 20 years old, said, “Can I give you some advice?” I was drunk, so I indulged him with, “Sure.”
He said, “If you were 15% more chill, you could fuck every woman here.”
I laughed. “Ah, that’s assuming I want to fuck any woman here.” I looked over at Bogdan dancing a few feet away from us. “I already know who I’m fucking.” I then smiled and walked away.
We danced a little longer, and I desperately wanted to kiss Bogdan but could not. This was not a place where two men kissed in public. It’s not even a place two men dance in public, so we danced the way two platonic, straight friends might. We didn’t back our asses up, we didn’t grind, and we didn’t swivel our hips.
Yet, I was more aroused than I would have been even if we had touched. All of this elaborate foreplay was building anticipation. And I wasn’t even sure if we’d be able to have sex or where we’d be able to do it. This is in direct opposition to Grindr in New York, where I can always invite someone over for sex at any moment of the day.
The uncertainty of if we’d be able to have sex made me want him more. And the idea that we would fuck in a country where two men were not supposed to do it? That only made me hornier.
My brother asked if I wanted to head back with him, and I told him I would stay a little longer. He knew what that meant and told me to be safe.
Shortly after, Bogdan and I decided it was our time to leave. We couldn’t go back to my hotel. I was sharing a room with my brother. We couldn’t go back to his place; he had roommates. So to the woods, we went.
The moment we decided on where to go, I was erect. I liked the sneaking around in Hvar. I liked holding his hand until we’d see another person and then quickly release our grip. I relished in the scandal it would be if we were to get caught. A privilege, I know. Something I wouldn’t feel if I actually lived in a country where it was discouraged or illegal to be gay, but I do not, so I enjoyed our fleeting touches.
We walked up a hill, using our phone flashlights until we found a place out of view from the world. I pulled down my pants and bent over, hugging the tree in front of me.
I heard him make an exaggerated spit sound into his palm, and my hole twitched. I needed his dick but wasn’t sure if I’d be able to take it. He was thick, and I was tight. It had been a moment since I bottomed, and we all know spit isn’t lube. But at the moment, it was all we had. And honestly, I didn’t want lube. I wanted to live my Brokeback Mountain fantasy.
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