Oversexed

I let out my breath in a dissatisfied hiss as Pete pulled out of me, went down on his back beside me in the bed, jerked the condom off his cock, and masturbated himself to a quick ejaculation. I turned onto my side, facing Pete, and finished myself with my hand after I'd watched the cream burble out of his cockhead. I'd still been grinding against him, taking him deep, still building up to my zone of Nirvana, when he'd left me.

I think he'd done it on purpose. He knew I needed a long buildup and wanted to luxuriate in the zone with my partner for a while before I came. The zone came faster the second and third times. I wanted it repeatedly. Pete could do that if he wanted to. He'd done that well enough for long enough that we'd melded enough that, though not married, we'd become one in everything else. We owned the house in Philadelphia together. We worked together—I in front of the camera and he behind it in TV commercials—we shared a closet. We even shared an underwear drawer—and the briefs in it. It made me feel extra sexy to wear Pete's briefs, feeling his intimacy close to my skin.

I lay there, on my side, toying with my cock, wishing I could lure Pete back into the bed, back inside me, so that he could complete me—would take me into the Nirvana zone and let me ride on the clouds as I rode his cock. But he was having nothing of that, pulling clothes out of closet and drawers and consulting on what I wanted to keep and what he could take. All the time he was talking—very reasonably, much too reasonably—about how to divide everything else, saying he'd enlist a Realtor to get the house sold and would send me half—when I could give him an address. Clearly he didn't want me to stay in the house or even discuss the possibility of the two of us keeping it, together. He clearly was finished with together.

I didn't give a shit about the clothes or the house or the dishes. I wanted him on top of me again, possessing me with his hard cock, pumping me interminably until I could reach the Nirvana zone, dancing me on the clouds, coming, and then, after a cuddle, being inside me again, riding me hard and long, coming together with me that time.

But that was the problem. He said I was exhausting him—that I couldn't get enough, often enough. Couples settled down, he said. They mellowed and other aspects of life together became as important, as meaningful, as the sex. He wanted a relationship that went beyond him keeping his cock hard for me as I luxuriated in the Nirvana zone.

We had merged in all ways except for cars. We didn't share cars. He had his Dodge Ram truck and me my Mustang convertible. If we'd come to share even that, maybe I wouldn't be standing at the upstairs bedroom window, still naked, still hopeful, and pulling on my cock, as I watched him drive away in his Dodge Ram.

* * * *

The season was over on the beach north of Ocean City and, save for a two-hour slice of time in the early afternoon, the wind was too raw to lay on the beach. Forget about going into the water. The ocean's resentment at the end of the beach season had been translated into angry surf. I had finally given into Pete's relentless e-mails to get out of the house, brought to the head by a signed sales contract, and had booked the cabin on the beach on impulse. It was clear that it was over with Pete. I hadn't had sex since he left me, hoping against hope that he'd be back, and I was crawling the walls.

I had decided to go cold turkey on sex, though. I had decided that it was me—that I was oversexed and had indulged to the point of not thinking of, caring about, the needs of my partner. Pete had been a good thing, compatible in every way, a good help-mate and capable of taking me to and holding me in the Nirvana zone long enough for me to melt. I clearly had taken advantage of that and not cultivated the needs he had. I decided that I needed to train myself to want and need less. Surely as I aged, my overweening need for prolonged sex—my satyriasis, the male version of nymphomania—would lessen and maybe even go away. Maybe I had just found Pete at the wrong time of my life. Maybe I needed to push myself to that time of life.

The cabin had no WiFi. I had purposely booked it for that reason—not just because it was tiny, unheated, and cheap for out-of-season beachfront. I was denying myself access to the Internet—to sex videos, dating services, and dirty stories. I also denied self-gratification to the extent I could. The nervous energy this gave me, though, was having me bouncing off the walls of the beach cottage.

I took to walking the beach in the morning and the afternoon and at twilight. In season, there would be eye candy to ogle and to flirt with and signal to. I knew all about identifying prospective tops and flirting and signaling. And, as a male model, I had no trouble being successful with that. But it was early October. The beach eye candy was long gone. At the most there were joggers, serious muscle builders, pounding up and down the surf line, taking advantage of the hard-packed sand that the surf was still saturating.

I walked farther up the sand, giving the joggers their space, but staying within ogling distance of them.

It was late in the afternoon, within an hour of twilight. The beach seemed deserted, as did the houses—mostly '50s-style cottages, like mine, with the occasional more recent McMansion pushing in—lining the beach. I had never felt as alone—as jittery sexually—and was about to go inside, frustrated by the aloneness and contemplating going out to try to find a gay bar that hadn't closed for the season, while recognizing I wouldn't find one.

I saw him jogging up the beach from a great distance, moving quickly, legs pumping in his baggy athletic shorts, his torso covered with a loose hoodie. He was my age or a bit younger, obviously a bodybuilder, a serious muscle man. As he came closer I could see that he probably was a boxer too, his face showing the scars of combat. His arms were pumping and he was concentrating on his run. At first I thought he hadn't seen me at all—that he was completely absorbed in himself and his workout. But as he came closer, coming at me, we made eye contact and he smiled. I smiled back, and nodded. He continued on up the beach.

He was behind me now. I turned several times to watch him run, my cock hard from the need of someone being inside me and with him being more than satisfactory in my fantasies of being pumped. One of the times I looked around, I found that he had too. He knew I was here. He was interested in me. But he was behind me, still running, probably running out of my life.

But then I heard him coming up behind me, on his return up the beach. He was puffing but not straining, just setting a rhythm of breathing as he ran. Passing me, he turned and ran backward a couple of paces, smiling at me, his hand going to his basket, giving me both a signal and a question. I smiled back, my own hand instinctively going to my basket, signaling my own interest.

There, up ahead, as he continued to run, I saw him pull off his hoodie, showing a muscular, hairy chest, and stuffed the hoodie in the back waistband of his shorts. I pulled my own sweatshirt over my head, so that, as he ran back to me, he could see my model's body, my own trim but well-defined blond musculature. I pulled my shorts down so that he could see the curves at the top of my legs and below my hard belly, teasing him with what lay just a few inches below my low-rise waistband.

He took control, just as I wanted him to, as he reached me, taking a last look up and down the beach and then pulling my body into his, taking my mouth with his, stuffing his hand down my belly, under my waistband, and assuring himself that I was hard for him.

He fucked me, raw, belly down on a plastic garbage bin next to a deserted cottage just above the sand line from where our bodies had collided. There was little preliminary. He was close behind me, bent over me, one arm around my neck and the other around my waist, holding me in place, while he pumped me hard and fast with a cock that hadn't been all that long when I had it in my mouth, but was jaw-unhinging thick. I tried to fuck him back, attempting to move my pelvis to meet his thrusts, but he had no interest in that. He held me close, fucking me like a dog, all his own need and want.

He wasn't long enough to work me deep, as I preferred to build to the Nirvana zone, but he had me groaning from the thickness of him and the lack of preparation to open fully to him. And he was long enough to reach and work my prostate, which his bulb was rubbing vigorously. I was beginning to build, beginning to reach for Nirvana.

But then it was over. He had taken me quickly, deflating me when I felt him tense, release, filling me with his cum, coming within minutes, and then pulling out of me and holding me there only briefly, both of us panting, me panting—unsatisfied—harder than he was.

"Again, again," I mumbled, but he either didn't hear me or didn't care. He already was pulling off me, readjusting his clothes.

"My cottage is just up the beach. Come back there with me. Do me again," I murmured as I felt the tension leaving him, his grip on me lessening.

"It was good, but I don't think so," he answered. Then he pulled out of me, put his jock back in place, pulled his shorts up and his hoodie on, and was jogging back down to the surf to resume his run, uncaring that I was still draped over the garbage bin, unsatisfied.

So this was how Pete felt after I had used him and not given enough back, I thought. I trudged back to the beach cabin. Suddenly the walls were too close on all sides, the cottage was too cold, the future was too dreary—and there was no WiFi to give me any chance of pushing the encounter of reality to something more satisfying in fantasy.

I knew that an off-season cottage on the beach wasn't the answer.

* * * *

Trying to go cold turkey on satyriasis wasn't working. I hadn't suppressed any form of want or need; I'd just frustrated myself in the attempt at self-denial. I didn't know what to do, where to go, other than the cold cottage on the beach and the sense of loss and rejection. I went out on the beach the following day, at the same time, and the bodybuilder jogged by me again. I hadn't asked for or gotten a name from him. I'd introduced myself—Chris—to him and only gotten a grunt in return. Even then all he'd been interested in was the hookup, the fast fuck, and the quick "so long."

I stood, smiling, expectantly, willing to have no more than he'd given me before, willing to give up most of my own need just to have a dick inside me again. But, although he smiled, he jogged right on past me and didn't look back.

I returned to the cottage at a complete loss of what to do, where to go. Luckily, I had a letter waiting for me from the Realtor for Pete and my house. The house had sold quickly. I would be sent my share of the profit right after settlement. It was enough for me to hole up somewhere and reassess my life for several months.

I called Max at the modeling agency, saying I needed a sabbatical and then we discussed me being put on jobs where Pete wouldn't be behind the camera.

"Pete's already made that request," Max answered. "What's up with you guys? You seemed so good together."

My unreasonable demands were what was up with that, I thought, deflated that Pete had already requested the separation. How much blame did I need to have flung in my face. And why couldn't I do anything about who I was, what I wanted and needed? What was wrong with me and how could I fix it?

I guess I knew what was wrong with me—I was oversexed. I just didn't know how to fix it. Abstinence hadn't worked. Maybe controlled self-regulation would have to work. I decided to move on, to try something else.

The jogger was back the next day, waiting for me when I came out of the cottage. He pushed me back into the cottage and to the bed, giving me no more preliminary time or preparation than he had before. I opened my legs to him and took him inside me gladly, prepared to be satisfied for whatever I could get, feeling vindicated at least that he'd come back for more. He fucked me fast and hard, came, and then left. I lay on the bed, on my back, legs parted, and jacked myself off. This hadn't been anywhere close to the Nirvana zone. But it didn't really matter; I'd already decided to leave.

* * * *

I found a small stone house to rent on a remote hillside of an estate near Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania. I needed to have a retreat where I could hide when I needed to and have all to myself but that was within a reasonable drive of the big city. Philadelphia was a forty-five-minute drive northeast and Wilmington, Delaware, a half hour to the east. Less than an hour and a half would get me to the Baltimore inner harbor and two and a half hours to Washington, D.C. New York City wasn't an unreasonable distance away either.

The house was in a picturesque setting in a wealthy, rolling hills county of estates within a doable commute of cities. The particular estate I was on was owned by a New York ad agency CEO who commuted back to Chadds Ford on weekends and thus afforded me privacy. I knew her slightly, as I had done commercials for her agency. She was happy to rent me the cottage at a reasonable price and not ask me questions or intrude on my life. She knew I was gay.

The side of the estate my cottage was located on was abutted by the Brandywine Battlefield Park, which included walking trails I could use for exercise. The house itself was small and was built into the side of the hill. The entry was on the upper level, with a living room on one side and a dining room-kitchen combination on the other. On the walkout level below it, a larger room I used as an office and exercise area was under the living room, and a small bedroom, accommodating a double mattress and not much else and a bathroom and snug laundry room were under the dining room kitchen combination. I had rented it mainly because, unlike the beach cottage, it had reliable WiFi and because I could play music as loudly as I wanted to as I exercised hard and abused my body physically and sexually to work off my frustrations.

For the first three months, I was on the Internet constantly, running through the gay porn sites and getting myself off as frequently as possible, trying to take care of being oversexed on my own. I also played the gay dating sites hard too, being willing to drive to Philadelphia, Wilmington, Baltimore, or even New York or Washington, D.C., in search of a man who would stay inside me, hard, long enough to take me into the Nirvana zone and hold me until I melt—and then do it again.

All the time I held the men at arms' length, not telling even the ones who wanted to continue in a relationship where I lived or how they could contact me. I even avoided telling them my true name if I could. I needed the retreat. I needed my isolated cottage in the woods. I was trying to come to grips with myself and lessen my need for constant, consuming sex.

I didn't find the man of my dreams from the Internet. No one who came even close to what I had had and had lost in Pete. I only found repeats of the bodybuilder who had used me and tossed me away on the beach north of Ocean City.

That is until the first warm day of the spring, when, just in shorts and running shoes, I took to the walking trails at the Brandywine Battlefield Park.

He was tall and muscular without being overbuilt. At first I thought he was black, but his skin was milk chocolate in hue and his facial features had only a hint of the Negroid. I marked him as Hispanic, possibly Cuban. He was probably over forty, but very well preserved. His hair was cropped close but was black and curly and he had one of those fastidiously kept five o'clock beard and mustache combinations. His eyes were blue, which was an inconsistent shock. An elaborate, colorful tattoo of a swirling pattern covered his left pec, ran over his shoulder, and went down below his bicep, emphasizing the hard bulge of both the breast and the bicep. His aureoles were prominent, thick, and black. The right one had a gold ring in it, as did both his ears and his navel. He jogged past me on the path in the park, his eyes taking me in as soon as he came up over the rise. His smile was instantaneous and easy, his teeth white and perfect. He, like me, was in low-rise silky shorts, cut high up the side, and running shoes.

He was there and gone in an instant, the pathway being hilly and the foliage close on both sides. I drew in my breath and didn't let it out until he was well past me. He had been gorgeous, and the presence had been so fleeting that I would have believed he had been a mirage—subject to the wishful thinking I was engaging in as I walked the path—if he hadn't left his musky scent in his wake.

I shook my head and continued on. The trails here were convoluted and folded back on each other. It was that fact that I latched onto when, not more ten minutes later, he approached me on the path again, once more coming toward me. The same smile on his face, but this time also a query in his eyes, signaling interest that I clearly recognized. One of his hands, with long, sensuous fingers, was spread out on his flat belly, the tips of the fingers running below his waistband in front. His eyes were boring into mine, but he didn't miss, I'm sure, when I palmed my belly in the same way. He slowed as he came upon me and smiled and inclined his head in the direction in which he was jogging, his rhythm that of a dancer's, covering the path lightly rather than in a trudge. His eyebrows went up in a query and an invitation. And then he was past me.

I felt myself panting, going hard. I stopped and turned. He already was over the rise in the path behind me, but almost involuntarily I started moving in the direction, the direction in which I had come from. In addition to the signaling, he obviously needed this statement of submission to him—reversing my direction and coming to him.

He had stopped not far down the path behind me and was half sitting, half leaning on a low-lying branch of a tree. His arms were spread, his hands grasping the tree limb on either side of him, but the waistband of his athletic shorts and his jock had been pulled down and were hooked under his balls. His cock, what looked to be nearly a thick foot long—a veritable black snake, blacker than the tone of his skin—was exposed and projecting directly out between his spread thighs. He was half hard, and he was smiling at me. His black, curly pubes were closely and neatly trimmed. His balls were huge and hairless, nearly as black as his cock.

I stopped in the middle of the path when he came into view, gasped, and heard a low, rattling sound come up from deep in my throat. I'm sure he heard it too. When he was sure I was there, motionless, and staring at him, he gave a low laugh. His eyes went to my crotch and he could see that I was hard as well. One of my hands had involuntarily snaked to below my waistband in front. There could be no question what either one of us wanted, was willing—anxious—to do.

"Come," he said in a low, rich baritone voice and stood and walked off into the woods beside the path. I followed him. He found a fir tree with thick, low-hanging branches and positioned himself much the same as he had just off the pathway.

Neither of us said anything. He just projected his pelvis toward me from where he was perched and put his hands on my head as I came to him, knelt between his thighs, and took his cock in my mouth. He used his hands to guide my head, forcing me to take him deep and releasing me when I started to gag, only to pull my throat back onto the cock as it got harder and harder.

This was going to be a rough fuck. That was fine with me.