I took a vacation last winter. I told people that I was tired of the dick-deep snow and the yuppie skiers that infect the area every winter with their BMW and Volvo SUVs and shitty attitudes toward the locals. I didn’t tell them that I also wanted romance: A young boy lithe of body and slender of cock that I could call my own for a month in order to rekindle my flagging middle aged gay libido. I jacked off every night for a month perusing the various travel brochures before finally settling on Marudo.

Don’t look for Marudo on the map; it isn’t there. It is within the territorial waters of three Central American countries yet none claim it as their own. A hundred and fifty years ago it was an enclave of pirates and brigands, and after a multi-nation task force exterminated that menace it was planted with crops. The six initial landowners were gradually bought out by each other until the whole island became the private property of one family. Thirty years ago they finally figured out that there was more money in running a resort than there was in agriculture, and ten years ago they began to offer deluxe service to very exclusive customers. Reservations were made, money was paid, and on the seventh day of January the big bird flew me away.

I had visualized landing in a palm-ringed lagoon in a Grumman seaplane and being greeted by Ricardo and Tattoo, but it wasn’t anything like that. The ride from the mainland was in a boat so decrepit that must have been retired from the Mexican Navy. The island itself was equally unimpressive, at first glance anyway. The tennis courts were cracked and choked with weeds and the golf course looked like a motocross track. Not that I really gave a shit; as far as I’m concerned golf and tennis, like skiing, are pastimes for rich dumb assholes. A worn out van hauled me to the resort itself, which had all the exterior charm of a Nevada whorehouse or a Marine Corp barracks. A chain link fence surrounded the roughly painted three story boxy structure.

The bus driver secured the gate behind us then escorted me into the building. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The interior of the building was literally a tropical paradise. Birds fluttered about the forty-foot high central atrium oblivious to their potential for damaging the thick plush carpeting that covered the floor. Potted palm trees and a large fishpond graced the lobby, and the ganja-mellowed rhythms of Bob Marley played softly in the background. I was taken to the check in desk and shown to my room, then escorted to the recreation director’s office.

“All of our guests require escorts, Mr. Miller,” he began. “Tennis instructors, golf pros, or just plain companions to help them pass their time. We have a wide variety of companions available of all ages and of every persuasion, and their service is included as part of the basic daily rate. What is your preference?”

“Well, uh,” I flushed with embarrassment, no willing to open myself to this stranger.

“Perhaps you would like to view our selection,” he asked before pushing a button on the intercom. “Mary, would you send in some escorts, please?” A side door opened and twelve ladies, all of whom would qualify for centerfold status, entered the room. Blonde, brunette, Asian and Black. The youngest was the age and had the appearance of a high school cheerleader; another carried a riding crop and was plainly a domitrix. The director looked at my reaction to the parade before summoning the next group. They could have been mistaken for the Village People. Tall, short, smooth, hairy, muscular, effeminate; all body types and races were represented. They were all nice and back home I would have settled for any of them, but I hadn’t traveled all this way for plain vanilla. Again the director gauged my reaction, and again he brought in another group for my inspection.

I immediately became alert. This group was all comprised of young men, the oldest in his late teens or early twenties, and the youngest just barely pubescent. Noticing my erection, the director asked the boys to strip so I could see the whole product. The boys were all beautiful and it was difficult to make a choice. All were trim but slightly muscular without excess body fat, and all were beardless. Some were circumcised while some were intact, and some were generously endowed while others were of more modest proportions.

I finally settled on a boy who called himself Paul. He was one of the youngest of the group, possibly thirteen or fourteen years old. His dusky skin was smooth and free of blemishes and his body hair consisted only of a small patch surrounding his slender, circumcised cock and slightly large, low hanging balls. He was a little on the small side, not over five feet-five, and he had extraordinarily expressive eyes. Any teenybopper in her right mind would swoon over the lad, and my own heart raced at the possibilities that he possessed.

Paul was a little taste of heaven. His five-inch erection was so slender that it slid into my ass as easily as a doctor’s probing finger. His capacity to produce sperm was amazing, and being free from the contamination of tobacco or alcohol it tasted as sweet as honey. I could easily have survived and even possibly gained weight on a diet of only his daily production. He had an insatiable appetite for sex and could muster as many erections a day as was possible for me to absorb, and would willingly accept all of mine as well. He was an absolute maestro with his lips, and his tongue was so supple that he could easily take all of me into his mouth and still manage to lick my balls at the same time. I don’t think that there was ever a month in my life, even during my lusty youth, that I produced so much semen.

The month was soon over and it was time for me to return to the cold and the snow and the tourist assholes that wanted nothing from me but a quick suck. My reservation for next year had been placed and my bags were packed. I was in the small cubicle next to the recreation director’s office waiting for the doctor to come in and give me the mandatory departure physical. The interconnecting door was ajar and I could plainly see the guest the director was interviewing.

I consider myself bi-sexual, in that I like both men and boys, and this man was someone I could learn to like. He was tall, with bulging muscles barely contained by his tee shirt, and even though his pants were conservatively loose there was no mistaking the enormity of their contents.

“I came here to nut me a fag,” he told the director, “I want to cut the ball off a cocksuck’n buttfuck’n queer. I want to hang a child molester by his balls, maybe smash them with a couple of bricks, and then take this here Barlow knife and cut them off and stuff them right up his ass.”

The director of recreation opened a Rolodex on his desk and paged through it for a few minutes. “Your request is rather unusual and we have never facilitated a castration,” he finally said, “but I think we can accommodate you.” He then reached for the button on the intercom to summon Mary, his assistant. He hesitated for a moment and then pressed an adjoining button instead. Immediately the floor beneath me swung open and I dropped through the darkness into the basement.

I was out of the hospital and home a few weeks later, richer in one way but much, much poorer in another. It had been a hell of a vacation and a true a once in a lifetime experience.