Rootin' Down The Highway - 4. Orlando

Overnight I’d acquired a new nickname. Hans kept getting confused about which one of us was from which city in Australia so he modified our names. I became Sydney Wayne. After enjoying Friday night with our new South Florida friends, we hung out at Sebastian Street Beach again―the gay spot on Fort Lauderdale Beach―on Saturday. Not only were the two men sexy and hot in bed―Dave had a smile on his face all day―they were extremely nice guys. We met a ton of their friends while sunning ourselves on the warm sand. The beach was different from Bondi or Manly back home in Sydney; no rocks or surfers anywhere. The water was a shade of blue-green, almost entirely flat that day. The few ripples breaking on the shore seemed to shimmer as they reflected the bright.

A couple of guys had set up a cornholin’ game; the Aussie five ended up stuffing more of those little bean bags in the target’s holes then the five Americans we were playing against. The game had us all thirsty so we crossed Ocean Drive, ambled up to Casablanca Café, and the winners were treated to a couple of drinks by the losing team.

Hans and Laz took us on a pub crawl in the evening and insisted we spend the night with them again. After we closed down the last bar we were at, the seven of us strolled back to their house, stripped off as soon as we walked in, and jumped in the pool. The warm evening, the cool water, and the buzz from the many beers and tequila shots had us all acting as if we were teenagers. But boys will be boys, and we once again, ended up in bed, rootin’ our brains out. At least Marcus and I did with Hans. Not sure about Laz and our three other mates.

That morning we bought brunch for the Cuban stud and his Austrian boy at a great local joint called Rosie’s. As we said our goodbyes, we invited them to come visit us down under promising to keep in touch.

We were now in our motor home again on our way to Orlando. Buck, Dave, and Marcus were in the back, napping while Brett drove, and I sat up front with him. The guys on the bed were naked, while Brett and I wore no shoes and no shirts, just shorts. The weather was beautiful; our windows were open, and the captain chairs we sat on were extremely comfortable. What a way to travel.

“What you doing over there, Wayne?” Brett’s question made me look up from the laptop I’d been typing away on, and smile.

“Writing in my journal. I want to jot down everything about our weekend, while it’s still fresh on my mind.” I tried to do this every night, but the last two I’d been somewhat distracted.

“That damn journal! I half expected to see you get out of bed and start writing last night. What are you planning to do with all those notes?” Brett, like the other guys, thought it was funny I sat down to write most nights.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll write a story about our road trip, once we return to Oz?”

●

Parliament House was a gay resort located in a slightly run down section of Orlando. The structure, like the surrounding area, had seen better days. Yet, the entertainment complex was extremely popular with out of town visitors and locals, alike. The original motel, built on what was once a major tourist route, was slowly being refurbished. It boasted a restaurant, a theatre, an outdoor stage, a swimming pool, several stores, and half a dozen bars.

We arrived in Orlando Sunday afternoon; after our two nights with Laz and Hans, all we wanted to do was relax and get some much needed sleep. We parked our home on wheels beside the lake at the back of the property, locked it up, and shared the room provided by the resort. It was my turn to sleep with Buck and Brett; those two had made it clear they would share themselves, and their bed, but planned on sleeping together every night.

Monday we spent in the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World. Our first ride was Space Mountain, in Tomorrowland. There are bigger, faster, and supposedly better rollercoasters, but riding in the dark added a special thrill. We liked it so much, it was also the last ride we took in the evening before heading back to the hotel. In between, we hopscotched from land to land, sampling a bit of this and a bit of that. Our one big mistake was that silly little boat ride; we all ended up singing It’s A Small World After All for the next couple of days. Not that I’ll ever forget them, but I included the simple lyrics in my journal entry for the day.

On Tuesday we were at SeaWorld during the day and at Downtown Disney in the evening. At the marine park we bypassed almost all the rides, and watched the animals and the shows instead. I had read Kraken was consistently ranked one of the best rollercoasters in the world―what a bloody fantastic ride. After a bit of cleaning up, we hit up Disney’s nighttime entertainment complex. We had cocktails at Planet Hollywood, enjoying their large collection of movie memorabilia, and then dinner at House of Blues. No big shows on a Tuesday, but there was some live music from a guy playing an acoustic guitar, singing folk songs.

Wednesday we visited Universal Studios Island of Adventures. We were back on the rides, mostly themed after Marvel Comics superheroes. I found it ironic Disney owning Marvel and their main competitor paying them royalties to fatten their coffers. I found The Wizarding World of Harry Potter to be brilliant. We had lunch at the Hard Rock Café and dinner at Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville. The food and service at all the themed restaurants we ate at during our trip was good, but they were obviously designed with the tourist in mind. After a few of them, they all seemed the same. At all three parks the five of us acted as if we were teenaged boys: enjoying the rides, making fun of each other, and checking out the hot men. Buck and I did a bit of shopping at all three locations. Both of us needed pressies for kids back home.

On Thursday we drove to Cape Canaveral and toured the Kennedy Space Center. What a bloody fantastic time; one of only three places on Earth where humans have left the planet to travel into space.

●

“Are you playing balcony bingo again tonight, Buck? Is it true you’re trying to bed every guest in the place?” I asked our intrepid leader as we floated in the pool, sipping on some fruity, girly cocktail. Deceiving fucker, though, it packed a punch. I tried writing in my journal after having a couple of them the day before, and editor would have had a grand time with my musings and a red pencil.

“Don’t be a wanker, Wayne. You’ve been walking around the place as much as I have. I’m just trying to bury the bishop in a few Americans. Brett was me every minute for the past two nights, ask him, he’ll tell you I’ve been turning down a hell of a lot more offers than I’ve accepted.” P-House had provided us with one room with two double beds; we’d each picked a night when the room was ours. We could sleep alone, invite other men to spend time in it with us, or share it with one or more of our mates. “Just doing my part for international relations.”

“Half your luck, mate. I saw a couple of the diplomats you and your boy were talking to last night!” When he didn’t object to Brett being referred to as his boy, I knew there was something going on there.

The two buildings with guest accommodations at the resort formed an L. There was a wide walkway fronting the rooms on each side, on both floors of the structures. Our lead singer had become a participant, in a favorite pastime of visiting guests, and local residents alike. A stroll on those walkways provided an opportunity to glance inside many of the rooms. The curtains on the large glass windows were left open for just that purpose. Sometimes the door had been left ajar by the room’s occupants. When the stroller and the person or persons in the room connected in some way, curtains would be drawn, doors would be closed, and the fun would begin. If an audience or additional participants were desired, the curtains or the door would remain open. Since one never knew what room number would come up, the pastime ended up with the Balcony Bingo moniker.

“Then I guess Dave’s doing his part to improve relations between Aussies and Americans, by letting as many of them as possible smash his back out!” Our keyboard player, and designated bottom boy, had spent time in and out of several rooms, sampling the guests. Then he used his night in the room to entertain Donna, a well-built sexy tranny who performed in the resort’s drag show. I’d left my laptop behind and had gone back to get it. I knocked on the door and walked in without waiting, as was the custom amongst us. I found our big, muscular, hairy keyboard player on his back, on the edge of the bed, legs drawn up and spread, while a big chocolate stick slid in and out of him. The dark monster was attached to a beautiful woman, with big tits and long hair. I’d walked in just in time; she was screaming she was coming, while Dave’s cock shot off like a cannon, spraying himself and the bed. He ended up with spoof all over his face. I was to find out later, while they cleaned up, her name was Donna, and she was originally from Puerto Rico.

“Fuck you, Wayne.” We were lying around the pool, and Dave threw a bottle of sunscreen at me after my comment.

“Wish you would, mate. Wish you would.”

●

The show last night had gone very well; the weather had been fantastic, and the crowd enthusiastic. We opened the show with Dave tinkling away at his keyboard, playing an instrumental version of “When You Wish Upon A Star”, as he hit the last note the rest of us came in. We wanted a hard hitting number as the real opener. Buck stepped up to the mike, and we were off. I don’t think we ever lost the crowd. Halfway through the first set, when Buck was to talk about the group as a whole and this being our first tour of America, he surprised us all with an impromptu proposition at the end of his chat.

“Mates,” he said turning to us. “It’s kinda warm, and I’m bloody sweating like a pig―and I ain’t even having sex!” The audience roared. “How ‘bout we take our shirts off and try to cool down a bit?”

We played the rest of the show wearing just shorts and thongs. Apparently the crowd approved; it garnered us plenty of indecent proposals between songs. Later on, while Dave was getting plowed by his tranny, we spread out through the property, did a lot of pash and dash, spent time in different rooms, and enjoyed ourselves with a bunch of the other guests. We were getting ready for our Saturday night show. Our last night in Orlando, and we would all be sharing the room once again.

“Brett, what time do you want to leave here tomorrow?” I asked Buck’s bestie right before we’d gone get ready for the performance. He’d taken his job as tour manager seriously; he had organized schedules, admission to attractions, and kept track of our finances. Most importantly, he limited himself to two cocktails if he was driving the next day.

“No later than ten, Wayne. We have a four hour drive; we can have a late lunch in Savannah and then do a bit of sightseeing. We’ll make it an early night, okay mates? We’ll do the show, come back to the room, fuck around with the twins, get rid of them by two or three, and then get some sleep.”

●

We’d gone on stage a bit before eleven, played for ninety minutes, and ended the show with the Harry Connick, Jr. version of “Bare Necessities”. Since we were playing to a crowd of mostly bears, in the virtual shadow of Mickey’s Empire, we felt it would go over well. It did, with the crowd clapping and singing along. While we packed up the equipment, with the help of some P-House staff, Brett sold our CDs from a table set up under a tent across the stage. Once everything was stored in the motor home, we returned to mingle with the crowd, pose for pictures, and sign autographs.

Jair and João Cardozo, barely legal identical twins from Bahia, Brazil, had flirted with Marcus, Dave and me on Friday night after the end of our show. Their smooth, light brown skin was quite a contrast to our hairy bodies. They ran their fingers through our chest fur, playfully twisted our nipples, and repeatedly told us they wished they could spend the night with us. Unfortunately, they had to get home since they had to be at work early on Saturday. They promised to return for our last concert.

“Buck, I’m going to get the twins and take them to our room. You go round up the other guys, and join us whenever you’re ready.”

“Sounds like a plan, Wayne. You get them warmed up for us.”

And that’s exactly what I did. Putting an arm around each of their waists, I steered them towards the lakeside of the resort and our room on the second floor. As soon as we closed the door, the two teens started shedding their clothes, without regard to the wide-open curtains or the show they were putting on for the men passing by. I quickly followed their example. Bugger me if we didn’t have a bloody crowd watching in no time at all. When Buck, Brett, and Marcus made it to the room, they found me spread out on one of the beds, with a twin between my legs and the other one nibbling on my chest. Our lead singer closed the curtains; they all dropped their clothes, and Marcus joined the Brazilian brothers and me on the bed. Brett and Buck stuck around for about fifteen minutes and then disappeared.