Harry Chess, a member of the Silverfoxes Club E-mail List, recently contributed to a thread on chocolate: "...BTW, did you ever have chocolate in
southern Argentina? Just got back from there. The stuff is
magnificent."
The question popped open my memory chest and out spilled the following tale.
Harry, I assume you were at San Carlos de Bariloche, famous
for its Andean scenery, for its status as a portal to the Lake District
en route to Chile, for its reputation as the most important ski
center in the southern hemisphere (Cerro Catedral), and, of course,
for its CHOCOLATE and beer! Wow! All those beautiful German, Swiss
and North Italian-type men (the chief ethnics of the region, descended
from the families who immigrated from Europe and brought recipes
for processing chocolate and for brewing beer from the clear, mountain
water), yes, those beauties were my victims in my blooding days
in Argentina when I roamed wild and free plundering the bodies of
every sweetie I could get. Argentine men are HOT!
You were there in summer, but my favorite time was the high
ski season in July. I never went there to ski, but to spend
the days in comfort sitting in the comfortable lobby of the
Hotel Llao Llao
(pronounced "zhow-zhow" to rhyme with"now-now"). A national
monument in Argentina, the hotel, built in 1938 of logs and
stone, was considered one of the ten most beautiful
buildings in the world, resembling the venerable Ahwanee
Hotel in California's Yosemite Valley, but set on the shores
of a mountain lake reminiscent of Lake Tahoe on the border
between California and Nevada.
I generally waited for nightfall when the skiers swarmed in
from the Cerro
Catedral to revive themselves with steaming mugs of hot
chocolate. That's when this vampire cocksucker came to life.
There was nothing like strenuous skiing in the cold mountain
air before relaxing in front of the fire with a hot beverage to
bring out the horny in a man! I shifted here and there among the
shadows looking for the crotch bulges that told the tale of a sportsman
primed for the sport of love. My technique was to establish contact
with his eyes and then to drift close enough to strike up a conversation
in halting Spanish showing my intense effort to master the hearty
Argentine accent and colorful slang. I had discovered early in my
life in other countries that a foreigner could get away with saying
the most outrageous things while endearing himself to his native
audience with a screwed-up turn of phrase perhaps displaying ignorance,
but also displaying respect for local usage.
I never hesitated to get down to business fast, talking to
his face with shy but obvious glances of fascination at his
crotch. I was blessed with what they used to call a "baby
face" and always looked younger than I was. I picked my men
carefully and tried to bring out their fatherly side. Here I
was, this shy young American all alone in Argentina,
desperate for a friend. It worked wonders. The first sign
was when they would begin to address me as "che," an
Argentine term of affection made world-famous by the
Argentine revolutionary Ernesto "Che" Guevara's use of it as
a nickname in the early days of Fidel Castro's Cuban
revolution.
I remember this one fellow. He was gorgeous. I did not ask
his age, but he mentioned that he was of German extraction,
with a wife whose family had come from France in the 19th
century. He had half-grown children back in Belgrano, a
suburb of Buenos Aires where I had stayed with wealthy
friends. He told me he went to Bariloche every year alone to
ski and get away from his world. I read between his lines
very well. He wanted to play, but the cult of machismo
required him to emphasize his heterosexuality by talking
about his family. After ten minutes of conversation, he
invited me to his room to look at pictures of his children.
Ha! Now I knew he was mine!
Upstairs, he had a large room overlooking Lake Nahuel Huapi
and snow-covered mountains shimmering under the moon.
He snapped on the light when he entered ahead of me, but I
snapped it off and closed the door, leaning on it with one
hand stroking my stiff prick still hidden inside my fly. He
turned back to me and drew the right conclusion: I was not
there to look at pictures; I was there for him.
He hesitated, that old macho monster looming up in his eyes
trying to quell the excited palpitations of his heart. I had
met the monster before. I knew how to drive him away. I
dropped my trousers to the floor, took off my shirt and
stood there in my underwear. The monster retreated, replaced
by lust. The guy fell against me, pawing me and stripping me
'til I stood naked in his arms. He was still dressed in his
ski sweater and tight woolen pants. They scratched like
hell, but I helped him pull them away until finally his
silky dick rubbed against mine.
Deep murmurs rumbled up from his belly while he kissed and
licked me from top to bottom there in the doorway. "Que
pecado! What a sin! You are young enough to be my son! God
will punish me for this, but I can't help it! Pity me! Pity
me! I must have you, or I shall die! How can I confess such
a sin? The priest will have me walk to Lujan a hundred
times!" (The Basilica of Lujan was a shrine of penance about
40 miles from Buenos Aires.)
His self-recrimination seemed only to sharpen his lust.
Later in life, I would become more familiar with this
affliction common to the devout -- sexually enflaming
themselves with conscious violations of their religious
tenets. He fairly devoured me, even sucking my toes and
turning me around for a deep-tongue rim. Fortunately, I was
a fastidious young man and even then took daily low enemas
to keep myself cleansed. (Low enemas were a habit I had
picked up from reading Mahatma Gandhi and which served
nicely for a gay man of sexually versatile orientation.)
Having had enough of his initial ministrations, I pushed him
toward the bed and laid him out on in his back with his legs
bent at the knees and his feet touching the floor. I wedged
myself between them while kneeling on the floor and scarfed
his cock and balls until he tore at my hair. Pulling his
hands away from my head, I held him by the wrists with my
knees on either side of his hips on the bed and lowered
myself onto his thick, uncut tool and let him rub the length
of it between the bubbly cheeks of my buns, flexing my
muscles to grasp his member tightly with them and slowly
jerk him off. The dry fucking drove him mad. He begged me to
let him inside.
I rolled over on my back and offered him my mouth. He
crouched over my face with my head elevated on two pillows
and rammed his peter between my jaws. It was too thick, with
a jagged foreskin dangling at the end. I couldn't keep my
teeth far enough apart to take it at that angle. It hurt him
and nearly made him soft.
I then rolled over again and rose up on my knees and leaned
back on my haunches to spread my butt cheeks wide. It was
the only way I could handle the thick ones. He entered me
heavily greased with Vaseline and plunged it in to the hilt.
I let out a yell, but that didn't stop him, He was off and
running like a freight train up my ass, humping his way to
glory.
"God forgive me! It is too good! God will strike me dead!
Such pleasure! My darling! My darling! My love! Oh! Oh!" He
punctuated his verbal ramblings with snorts. His passion
infected me, too, and we rode the high wind as I jerked
myself off with the hand not used to brace me on the bed. It
went on forever. "Do it! Do it!" I cried. "Fuck me! Together
let us die!" My asshole was so slippery and hot inside that
it felt like the friction was about to set us on fire.
It was wonderful when he came. I thought he would go right
through me, firing cannonballs of hot semen deeper than any
I had ever felt. We finished with half my body on the floor,
shoved from the middle of the bed, and him hanging over me
panting and crying: "O, Dios, mi corazon! Mi corazon! Oh,
God, my heart! My heart!"
And then he coughed and rolled off the bed and crashed to
the
floor.
I thought the poor guy was dead. He was absolutely silent.
Literally, not a breath. Too exhausted to panic, I wondered vaguely
how I might tell this tale to the Gestapo-style Argentinean police,
and then, in a monumental display of denial, half on and half off
the bed, I simply fell asleep!
I was laid out on the quilted counterpane on the bed when I
awoke. He was forcing bittersweet chocolate pastilles into
my mouth. "These will make you feel better," he said. "In
Argentina, we believe the Marquis de Sade was right. He
insisted that chocolate is a powerful stimulant, an
aphrodisiac. He gave pastilles like these to his guests at a
ball in the 18th century. Some of them were so stimulated,
they had him arrested when the ball was over! They are the
specialty of a French chocolatier here in Bariloche. I buy
them every year. It is the only way I can get my wife to
give me sex at home! Eat. Eat more. I have already eaten a
dozen. Then we will make love
again. You are worth walking to Lujan a thousand times!"
Perhaps the Marquis de Sade knew whereof he spoke. The
chocolate
worked. The argentinian and I screwed the night away after I
recovered my senses. I have tried it since, but I have come
to the conclusion in my old age
that the real aphrodisiac that night was the stimulus of my
youthful libido and the passion of my hot Argentine lover.
THE END
