Rootin' Down The Highway - 3. South Florida

The Qantas flight from Sydney was a blast. I was happy I’d allowed Buck to talk me into the trip. I also allowed him to induct me in the International Mile High Club. Somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, soon after the pilot allowed us to take off our seatbelts, we walked towards the back of the plane together. The hunky steward caught us leaving the lavatory at the same time and winked at me. An hour later my pants were puddled on the floor, I was bent over at the waist, and my hands rested on the wall above the toilet once again. The friendly steward was renewing my membership. By the time we arrived in Los Angeles, all five of us were members; Buck and I had racked up multiple renewals―he took his turn at holding up the fuselage. My steward gave us all kiddie airline wings to pin on our chest. Wanker was a right friendly bloke.

“It’s kinda cool you arrive earlier than you left, when coming to America.” I was sipping a latte, sitting in Starbucks at the Los Angeles International Airport, waiting for our connecting flight to Miami. We had a couple of hours to kill, not enough to get out to visit the City of Angels, so I added a visit to LA to my bucket list.

“Too right, Brett!” replied Dave, our token Kiwi, the band’s keyboard player, and the youngest of the lot at twenty-three. He was also the tallest and most muscular one in our group, outweighing us by several kilos. The lad was downright shy, not very talkative most of the time.

“Too bad we lose an entire day on the return trip when we chase the sun.” That was typical of me; point out a positive and balance it out with a negative. I think it’s unrealistic to get all cheery about everything.

At LAX we switched to American Airlines for our flight to Miami. What a bloody letdown. Felt as if we were sardines in a can. Bunch of old women as flight attendants also. We’d gone through customs and immigration in California, so our arrival in Florida was hassle free. Most of our clothes had been shipped with the band’s equipment; there was no need to wait for luggage. Each one of us had a bag with what we would need for a day or two.

The cab dropped us off in front of our hotel in South Beach; half-naked men and women all over the place greeted us. Quite a few of those hotties would look us up and down, walk on by, then take a glance back over their shoulder, and smile. ‘Welcome to Miami, Brett!’ I thought to myself.

The small Art Deco hotel was beautiful. I’d read the popularity of the Miami Beach Art Deco District was due in large part to the old Miami Vice TV show. The producers would pay to have rundown buildings painted in bright pastels, using them as a backdrop for their weekly drama. The show was extremely popular in Great Britain and Germany; tourists from there began flocking to the city. Fashion photo shoots, commercials, music videos, and films quickly followed. The old boys were bought up by savvy investors; they spent money refurbishing them, and many became world famous boutique hotels. The rich and famous came and stayed. Second homes in the Miami area are supposedly common among the elite of Hollywood and New York.

The guy at the front desk smiled knowingly when checking us in. We’d reserved just one room with two double beds. Why waste money when no more than those two beds would be used? Dave was bunking in with Buck and me; we were both fond of wrapping ourselves around the big teddy bear while sleeping. Tomorrow we would pick up our motor home, retrieve the stuff shipped as cargo, and head up to Fort Lauderdale. Between today and Friday, we planned on lots of sex, sightseeing, and sunbathing. I wanted Cuban food; one day we’d have to go to Little Havana, for a little cultural exchange.

●

After picking up our road trip wheels on Monday morning, we headed to Calle Ocho―the heart of Cuban Miami. The section running through the middle of the Little Havana neighborhood was filled with restaurants offering all sorts of Latin American food and small shops, no national chains around the place. The concierge suggested we try Versailles. The interior décor of the restaurant was a nightmare. Must have been designed by either a straight man or a lesbian. Green, gilt, mirrors etched with prancing nymphs, and chartreuse vinyl. The Louis-the-whatever style which I’ve never understood how anyone could like. To each his own, just not in my house.

But the food? That was worth the eyesore. You’d have thought we were at a Chinese restaurant; each one of us ordered a dish, and we all shared. You haven’t lived until you’ve eaten black beans over white rice at a Cuban joint. And the mojitos were addictive. I had to limit myself since I was the designated driver while in town, as soon as I didn’t have to be behind the wheel, watch out.

●

“Would you look at that, mate? The guy’s bollocks are down to his knees! I think he’s a member of that group of happy dead people we saw when we crossed the dunes.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Marcus. They’re not down to his knees, and those people weren’t dead―although calling them that made me think of the Grateful Dead. They just looked as if they’re no longer alive. And don’t point! It’s not polite.” We were in the gay section at Haulover Beach, the nude sunning spot in the area, and there was a parade of old geezers. I guess five fit men, four of us furry, were a good sight to walk by. The lifeguard said during the week attendance was low and mostly tourists or retirees. The younger crowd came out on weekends.

“Oh, is Papa Brett going to teach us manners during this trip?”

“Not a magician, mate. The bunch of you are hopeless except for music and sex! Mind you, I’m not complaining.” Trying to fight jet lag, we’d decided to spend the afternoon at the beach, digesting our big meal and catching some Zs. It was hot on the sand, we were burning up, and it was time to jump into the ocean. Pretty damn cool to swim in the Atlantic for the first time. Definitely warmer water than I’d experienced last time I went swimming, in the Indian Ocean, back home.

●

Turned out Buck was wrong. Bill’s Filling Station wasn’t in Fort Lauderdale after all. It was located in Wilton Manors, a small city right next to Lauderdale minutes from the beach, and which we renamed Poofter Manors. Seems everyone we met was gay; the businesses were either gay owned or operated, and there were a dozen gay bars within walking distance of each other.

On Fridays, the bar hosted a special night named GROWL! An evening for bears, cubs, otters and hunters. I stood by the front side of the small, darkened stage as the guys took their places. Buck quietly counted to three, the lights went on, and the band started off with “Miami”, by Bob Segar and the Silver Bullet Band. My boys are very smart; they knew the opening number would grab the audience’s attention. That it did.

At the end of the first set, the boy got a round of thunderous applause. They hid in the back area where I met them. When the second set began, I’d be setting up our merchandise table. An hour after the first set ended, my four mates took the stage again. Buck put down his guitar and asked the crowd to quiet down, so he could introduce the band.

“Hey, mates, thanks for the reception. This is our first visit to America, and we’re glad it started in South Florida. We’ve been to Haulover Beach and seen all the nekkid people, and we’ve been to Sebastian Street Beach and seen all the gay boys. But this is where the boys are, the real hot ones at least.” My boy is so full of shit! But boy can he play an audience. “I’m Buck, I’m from Perth, Western Australia. My mate Brett, who I’ll introduce in a minute, made a comment about our first swim in the Atlantic Ocean. Since Perth is on the shores of the Indian Ocean and Sydney’s on the Pacific, that’s three of the world’s big seas we’ve all dipped our wick in.” He had to wait until the laughing and whistling stopped before carrying on.

“On bass guitar, from Melbourne―the Australian one, not the one a few miles north of Wilton Manors―Marcus Mazza!” Marc took his bow after playing a short riff. “On drums, from Sydney, is our senior citizen, Wayne Marcus!” Wayne performed some magic with his drumsticks before placing his mouth next to the mike in front of him.

“Hey, tattoo boy. What’s this senior citizen crap? I’m not even fifty yet!”

“Whatever old man. On keyboard is our token Kiwi. That’s somebody from New Zealand for those of you on your sixth cocktail… Dave Winston!” He pointed his finger at the keyboard player and made a motion and sound imitating a gun shot.

“Hey! Don’t shoot me; I’m only the piano player.” Dave’s quip brought a few chuckles. “And now, last but by no means least, our tour manager, Brett Harrison. Brett’s the gorgeous man standing in front of the stage looking embarrassed. Hands off the stud unless it’s to give him money. Brett’s staffing our little merchandise display where you can purchase our CDs, our USA Tour t-shirt, or a group picture of the band we’d all love to autograph. Enough talking, let’s have some more music.”

They played the second bare-chested, to an audience paying rapt attention, and finished up with Bette Midler’s “Only in Miami”. They left the stage to thundering applause and a cacophony of wolf whistles and obscene sexual comments. The band was a hit with the crowd at Bill’s. I was swamped with guys wanting to purchase the band’s discs, shirts, and photos. I was even asked to sign some, even though I wasn’t part of the group shot!

●

"So, Hans, where you from, mate?" Wayne's gaze kept wandering from the beefy man's legs, to his torso, and back again. It was all muscle as far as one could see.

"I'm from Fucking, Austria." Hans was an inch or so shorter than me, outweighed me by ten kilos, and his body fat percentage had to be in the low single digits. Short brown hair, a scruffy face, and a bright smile completed the package. The colorful ink decorating his chest and arms resembled Buck a few years back, prior to the completion of his sleeves. Since then my mate had also decorated his chest and the sides of his torso.

"’Struth, and you end up in Florida with a Cuban stud as your lover? Where in Austria?" asked Wayne. The five of us, Hans, and his Cuban lover, were about the last guys left in the bar who could speak coherently. Damn Americans are a bunch of lightweights when it comes to drinking.

"Told ya guys, I’m from Fucking, Austria. It’s my little town near the German border. I love the place." It was near closing time, and the lovers had invited us to spend the night with them. We’d already found out Laz was strictly a top; Dave’s eyes were shining with excitement at the news. Their house was a ten minute walk away, and we were finishing our drinks before heading over there.

“It might be a little town, but they sure as hell grow ‘em big. Mate, you’re huge.” Wayne actually licked his lips as he ran a finger over his prospective playmate’s muscular chest.

“Danke. I hope you don’t mind I’m not big elsewhere.”

“Nah, mate. You’re a bloody bottom; who cares about the size of your bratwurst?”

 ●

We’d walked the few blocks from the bar to the house, with Lazaro in between me and Buck, his arms around our shoulders. The man was taller than both of us, well-muscled, with his torso inked in what appeared to be a haphazard way. It resembled an incomplete canvas. His darker skin revealed some sort of African ancestry, something not uncommon in Cuba, where the Spaniards had used slaves to replace the decimated native population. All seven of us had removed our shirts upon leaving the bar. The slight breeze felt wonderful, caressing our skin in the warm South Florida evening.

Our host couple was entirely smooth―Hans naturally, Laz through waxing―creating an interesting contrast to me and the Furballs’ hairy bodies. While Dave, Buck and I had automatically drifted towards the dark skinned Latin, the other two guys had the Austrian surrounded.

The same arrangement continued once in their home. We stripped soon after walking in and went skinny dipping in the swimming pool. Hans kept Wayne and Marcus occupied while Laz stuck with the rest of us. At some point we three climbed out to the deck, dried ourselves with some oversized towels the guys had laid out for us to use, and headed towards their bedroom. Not sure where Hans dragged Wayne and Marcus to, didn’t see them again until the following morning.

Laz, exclusively a top, took turns with me and Buck but spent most of his time pounding Dave, while tattoo man and I cuddled and watched. Not sure what that was all about. I think Buck was trying to keep our host from getting on top of me again. He’d been starting to act somewhat possessive of me since I’d agreed to come on this trip, back in December. We heard no complaints from Dave about having to satisfy the Latin man’s libido.