There Ain’t No (Sex) Party Like a Gay Pool (Sex) Party

The only thing gays love more than wearing their skimpy Speedos? Taking them off.

Byline: Daniel Douglas

Photo of the author courtesy of the author

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Labor Day is such a bittersweet holiday, a farewell to the dog days of summer. Last September, I was fully in denial, not yet ready to pack it up and put it away. (“It” being my wet hot American dick.) And like a dog unwilling to leave the park on a warm day, I wouldn’t admit to myself that it was almost time to put a several-month pause on all the frolicking, licking, and humping.

Thankfully, a friend invited my husband Chris and me to a pool party in the suburbs. It was our one last chance to catch some sun, splash around, and show off the fast-fading tans we had accrued over the sunny months.

Leading up to the party, our host let us know that we were welcome to bring another guest, provided he was “hot” (a word with no clear working definition, but we understood the assignment). We knew exactly which friend to bring: Caleb, our ruggedly dapper, horse-hung, unassuming fuckbuddy of the summer. 

His features were masculine but soft, with a prominent nose and strong jaw offset by a set of dimples you could fall into. He was shorter than me and taller than Chris, with smooth brown skin and dark wavy hair. He had that irresistible surfing instructor vibe, who would separately seduce both a wife and husband on their honeymoon. But I wanted him to seduce me and Chris that afternoon together. We’d be a perfect threesome, given that I’m a strict top, my husband is a strict bottom, and Caleb is vers.

The four of us hopped in a car with our swim trunks, towels, sunblock, and booze. Once we were out of the city, the sense of freedom and escape was palpable. I could see it in Chris’ and Caleb’s eyes, too. We were ready to get wet and wild. We parked on the street and strolled confidently through our friend’s beautiful home to the main event: a backyard barbeque full of pool toys and boy toys.

My Ego would love to brag that we three were the hottest there, but my Id is happy to admit that hot guys were aplenty on this hot day. We cracked open our drinks, slathered on our SPF 15, and splashed around to cool ourselves down. Tantalizing tan lines, heavy bulges, and gravity-defying asses were on full display wherever we looked. 

An eventual orgy felt inevitable.

The next hour was a blur. Sun, pool water, and tequila have a way of making me brainless. Though my head was empty, my bladder was full. 

But there was an issue: My semi was getting bigger by the moment from all the boys brushing against, grabbing, and stroking my cock underwater. I wanted to fool around, but I NEEDED to piss.

I left the pool, my half-hard package as obvious as it could be without flopping all the way out. I passed my husband Chris, who was flirting with a striking gentleman from Eastern Europe: tattooed, pierced, burly, and buzzcut. Caleb was in his own corner, cornering his own conquest, but as I strutted past the porch, we all locked eyes. We all could feel it—the sexual tension in the air. 

In a matter of minutes, it would be ON.

I entered the house and was not the only pair of wet footprints on the floor. Outside the downstairs bathroom, a line of goosebumped and glistening guys went in two by two like animals on Noah’s Ark. Normally, I wouldn’t mind standing around and making small talk, but I was about to burst. Thankfully, a stout, stocky bear with a strong, bountiful body covered in fur joined the line. Like me, he was visibly impatient.

“They’re going in groups,” I muttered to the bear.

“You know, there’s a bathroom upstairs,” he whispered.

Up we went. There was no line—just a bear and a boy in a big, beautiful bathroom. (Normally, I don’t answer to “boy,” but something about this man made me feel especially boyish.)

This wouldn’t be my first time crossing streams. Still, it felt forbidden and thrilling. Maybe because we were in the “secret” bathroom, maybe because it was broad daylight, maybe because, in that moment, I was sunned, dumb, and full of, well, piss (but also cum).

We whipped them out right away, too tipsy to be pee-shy. Guys aren’t usually all that shocked to see how well-hung I am; I’m a big guy in general. But the short stack I was standing across the toilet from was packing HEAT. A thick, meaty hog hanging from a full bush, paired with large, low-hanging, hairy balls. My eyes widened and met his glance. He was used to shocking guys.

Photo of the author