The surfer had always heard tales of the dunes around that beach, nervous stories by young, muscular men who, he thought, had no reason to be so terrified of a bunch of old faggots, fucking in the sand. They insisted, however, that any surfer who’d gone there had never returned, or if they had, they were always…different. No one would give him more details than that, and the surfer wasn’t about to pass up the amazing waves he’d glimpsed rolling up on that shore. If anything, the strange stories would keep people away–he wouldn’t have to worry about other people getting in his way. Besides, why not give the old faggots something nice to look at for a change?

He got to the beach, and sure enough, it was everything he’d expected. Clothing optional, a bunch of fat, old, overweight fags tanning and eyeing one another, slipping away into the dunes. What the surfer hadn’t expected was that no one was giving him a single look. They all seemed utterly uninterested in him and his muscular body., He wasn’t someone who was used to being ignored, and as much as he might hate fags, he also wasn’t someone who objected to their lust for him.

Instead, what he found, was that he was the one staring at them…admiring them. He gave up surfing early, and spent the day watching the old men masturbate, following them up into the dunes so he could watch them fuck, stroking his cock, wondering why none of them were interested in him at all.

Once he was back in town, he was appalled with what he’d been doing all day. Guys asked him how the surfing had been, if he’d seen anything, and he refused to talk about it, and told himself he wouldn’t be going back…but the next day he found himself needing to go, needing to watch them. All day he was there, and the next day too. Slowly, he noticed men started to take notice of him–just glances at first, but more and more, they were accepting him.

And why not accept him? He was a hot fucker in his 70′s, a bit of a gut sure, but he could get fatter, once he lost more of this muscle. His beard though, grayed and yellowed from the cigars he’d started smoking, his hair balding severely, but not far enough that he felt comfortable showing his crown off without a cap on. His cock had started shriveling, his balls too. He hoped they’d be puny, he…he didn’t need them anymore. His teeth were getting loose; soon he wouldn’t have to worry about grazing them against a cock, when a guy fucked his throat, and they all wanted to fuck his throat now, and he wanted as much cum as they would feed him. Soon, he was just another name in the tales whispered around the tables of surfers, and he’d forgotten all about his past–why else did he need, if he had the beach, and all the cum he’d ever wanted?

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