Persian Gulf
Part 1

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This story is not illustrated

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I've visited Daniels Diary on many occasions and just wanted to tell you that that I get a great deal of pleasure from reading your stories. I find your relationship with the Captain to be something special - you must think a lot of him, and vice versa, and it's interesting that you base so many of your stories on his email. That got me to wondering if you'd ever visited Bahrain. Have you? I've never experienced anything like this place! Homosexuality is considered taboo in public but, behind closed doors, whoa! If you're ever in the area, let me know.

Best regards,
Mike
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Over the next few months, Mike and I had become quite friendly via email. He was some years younger than I, but we had a lot in common. Besides, the tales of his escapades with the boys of Bahrain had aroused my curiosity to the point where I needed to experience that part of the world for myself -- all for the sake of research, of course. Yeah, right.

From the airport, Mike drove me to his house located in a rather bohemian part of Manama, the capital city of the island of Bahrain, and referred to locally as "the left bank" of the Middle East. Its main claim to fame was its restaurants and bars which attracted regular weekend visits from Saudis and Kuwaitis who loved to party.

I couldn't believe the cars that graced the roads -- Ferraris, Rolls Royces, Cadillacs, Porsches, Corvettes, Mercedes, etc. Whoa! And there I was in the midst of all that overtly, flamboyant luxury -- the official record holder for the world's thinnest wallet.

Mike was late thirties, quite handsome and fit, with black, short-cropped hair. His clothing was casual but conservative. "Well, B, welcome to home sweet home."

It was a two-storey house with spacious interiors, lit by large areas of glass. Colorful Arabian scatter-rugs decorated the timber floors. The moment Mike offered me a beer, I made an instant bee-line for the outdoor barbecue and pool area, and began to roll a Dr. Pat with eager but fumbling hands.

"The boys like to smoke, too. But I don't usually let them smoke in the house. Nasty habit."

"I majored in it," I said as I exhaled a billowing cloud of blue/gray pollution. "Jeez! Twenty hours on a plane without a cigarette! I was tempted to ask if I could strap my seat to the fucking wing. Bit breezy, though."

"Wanna take a quick swim before we drive down to Safra to pick up the boys?"

"Is there any scotch in that pool water?" I was getting nervous about meeting those young Arabs. To exacerbate my anxiety, when I saw Mike strip and dive in, I was immediately plunged into a feeling of inferiority. How dare he be fit and tanned! It wasn't fair! "Have the boys read any of my stories?" I asked as he surfaced and flicked the water from his face.

"I've told them about them."

"Oh, so they understand that I'm a writer and not an Olympic gold-medalist."

"B," Mike laughed as he hauled himself out of the pool, "you'll be surprised when you meet these boys. They have great respect for their elders."

"They do?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

The small town of Safra was a twenty-minute drive away at the southern end of the inhabited part of Bahrain -- typically Middle Eastern in appearance with its white-washed, brick, cinder-block houses sprouting TV antennae that looked ridiculously out of character with the centuries-old, traditional streetscapes. Our meeting took place opposite a gas station where the boys were sitting at the kerb smoking cigarettes. Mike had previously explained that the boys didn't drive, so they needed to be fetched as well as returned. What I hadn't expected, though, was the way the lads were dressed in western clothing.

Hussein, Mahammed and Sammy sat in the rear seat of the rented Ford as we drove back to the district of Adliya, and Mike's house. There was a great deal of giggling and chatter as the boys talked with Mike, but I said very little. What the fuck was I gonna say, anyway? I wanna suck your cocks? I've already sucked all the cocks in Australia, guys, so I thought I'd make a quick trip to Bahrain for a bit of a nibble. Yeah, right. I was also desperate to look over my shoulder at them and savor their fresh, young faces, but I didn't have the nerve, and didn't wanna appear too curious or forward.

"B?" It was one of the teen voices in the back seat. "You are famous writer, correct?"

"Well, I dunno about famous. I just fiddle around with the alphabet a bit."

"Mike told us about your stories. Maybe you write also about us?"

"I'd say that's a distinct possibility." My answer provided me with an excuse to turn and face them. They were all wearing excited, beaming expressions, with Macleans so pearly white they could've made a fortune starring in TV ads. The very sight of their large, brown eyes and winning smiles got my heart racing and stomach churning. "Who asked the question?" Amazingly, my voice emerged without having involuntarily risen too many embarrassing octaves.

"I did. I'm Sammy."

I faced the road again. Whoa! I'd tried not to gawk too much when they'd first entered the car but, after having just seen them up close, I knew that I was gonna need something extra strong to settle my nerves once we'd reached Mike's house.

"Care for a drink, guys?"

"Scotch," one of the boys said.

"Yes!" I screeched, then cleared my throat. "Scotch! Mahammed said scotch. Is that right, Mahammed? Scotch? How about you, Sammy? And you Hussein? Scotch? The boys want scotch, Mike. That's what they said. I'll have one, too. Several, in fact. Large ones. Very!"

Mike chuckled to himself as he poured the drinks, then handed them around. He and the boys had theirs drowned in Coke. Mine was a triple neat. "A cigarette? Why, thank you, Sammy." The kid placed it between my lips and flicked the Bic while I studied his slender, brown fingers and neatly trimmed nails. Rarely before in my life had I been so glad to inhale two large lungfuls of smoke. At last, I was beginning to relax a little.

I was observing Hussein and Mahammed chatting with Mike when a pair of dark-brown, puppy-eyes and raised black eyebrows caught my attention. "Tell me about the kangaroos in Australia."

"Kangaroos? Well, Sammy, they hop a lot. Nobody's trained them to put one foot in front of the other yet, but they seem content to be bounding all over the place like wind-up toys."

"Like this?" Sammy rose from his chair, raised his forearms and bent his wrists forward to mimick a 'roo, then leapt about the room. Everybody immediately cracked up.

"Yeah, except not as…" I was gonna say cute, but restrained myself.

Sammy hopped back to his chair, which was alongside mine. "Not as what?"

I had no option but to be honest. His large, dark eyes would not allow me to lie or be evasive. Their heart-melting innocence and long, black lashes were too powerful to resist. He was searching the very depths of my soul. "Cute."

His reply was the most gorgeous and joyful grin I'd ever witnessed. "You really think I'm cute?

"Gimme another scotch."

I explained that I was jet-lagged as Mike and the boys took to the pool. The sight of those wet, golden-brown bodies splashing and wrestling was eye-popping. Even more eye-popping was the fact that they all had boners, about which they were not in the least self-conscious. Mike was also hard as he frolicked with the lads. I remembered what Mike had told me in his emails about the Arab attitude to gay sex which revolved largely around anal -- that is to say, they were the ones who fucked the westerners, not the other way around. If a boy's peer group were to discover that he'd been fucked, he would be considered inferior and fair game for rape. It was important for these teens to retain their masculinity and sense of dignity. Even sucking a westerner's dick was considered taboo. Nevertheless, I was enjoying the spectacle of the lads' slim, athletic bodies and the sound of their boyish laughter. Even Mike looked pretty cool. I figured one more scotch and I'd be all over him like a rash.

"B?"

I'd been sleeping in the guest room trying to shake off the jet-lag when I opened my eyes. "Sammy? What time is it?"

"Almost time for lunch. We are having a barbecue. Mike told me to wake you." His smiling, brown eyes were just foot or so from mine and, once again, searched my soul. "You have blue eyes. They look very wise. How do mine look to you?"

"Awesome, like two deep pools of melted chocolate that I could swim in."

"Are they cute?"

"Very."

And the rest of me?" He stood back, raised his arms and locked his fingers above his head. His perfect, blemish-free skin was still wet and shiny. Apart from the jet-black hair on his head, shaved short above his small ears, then blossoming into an endearing dishevelled mop, there was just a small bush of curlies above his boner.

"Doesn't that thing ever go down?"

He wiggled his narrow hips, causing his dick to bounce around and to slap his flat stomach. "Sometimes," he smiled, then turned to show me his ass before bending down and peering back at me through his legs. "Is my ass cute, too?"

Even my baggiest shorts couldn't hide the tell-tale bulge in the crotch as I approached the barbecue where Mike was grilling some steaks and pork sausages. I was no expert on the local culture, but the choice of food seemed somehow out of place -- especially given the sounds of Arabian music wafting from Mike's hi-fi.

"You seem a little puzzled," Mike observed. "Drinking whisky and eating pork are not the sorts of things the boys would like their peers to find out about. I guess the main reason Sammy, Hussein and Mahammed mix with westerners like us is because we don't normally associate with the other local boys."

"Why not?"

"Language and cultural barriers, I guess. This friendly gathering could never happen with the locals. What Mahammed and his friends do behind a westerner's closed doors would never be discussed outside these walls, except amongst themselves, of course."

Meantime, Sammy was holding my hand -- something which I enjoyed but, at the same time, seemed curious to say the least. Obviously, to him, it was a perfectly natural thing to do as he moved his body to the exotic and infectious rhythm of the music.

"I think Sammy's taken quite a shine to you, B," Mike laughed. "He's very affectionate. By the way, what do you think of Arabian pop music?"

"Surprisingly good! A little dramatic, maybe, but I like it."

"The boys are quite happy to embrace western culture, but they're still very much into their own pop songs. They love to sing along."

"B?" At about 5' 4", Sammy was several inches shorter than I. "Why are you not naked like the rest of us?" he continued as I glanced down at his adorable face.

"Naked??? I need another scotch."

Sammy let go my hand and proceeded to relieve me of my shorts and boxers while the entire contents of my glass slid down my throat. Mahammed and Hussein joined Sammy as the three inquisitive teens closely examined my pubes. "Red? Did you dye them?"

"Nope." I felt Sammy's fingers investigating my crotch, and standing every nerve in my body on end.

"The hair on your head is white. Did you dye that?"

"Nope."

"You have very pretty colors."

"Pretty?" I almost choked on my cigarette.

It was only when I needed to eat my steak and salad sandwich with both hands that Sammy would let go of one. Never in my life had I experienced such open, warm and unconditional affection from a stranger -- such an awesomely beautiful stranger. His child-like innocence melted me completely. Was I falling in love?

"What color is your cum?"

"Green."

"You are not telling me the truth," he giggled. "Can I see?"

Before I could answer, he stroked my boner and sent a bolt of lightning throughout my entire being. It took every ounce of my willpower to squeeze just two words out of my throat. "Maybe later."

Mike was cracking up something wicked -- I guessed he must've identified with my predicament. Meantime, Mahammed and Hussein looked somewhat bewildered. And Sammy? It was patently obvious that he'd not only searched the depths of my soul with his large, chocolate eyes, but had found it. The cute little SOB was reading me like a fucking book.

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