Wanna know what goes down at Tropical Fruits, the legendary New Year party on the New South Wales central coast? My raunchy read reveals it all.

First published in DNA Magazine Australia #218, this is an extended excerpt of my article (suitable for mature readers only). For the full article simply head over to DNA’s website and order yourself a copy.

Enjoy …

Confessions of a Party Boy

We all have firsts.

First jobs, first pets and first homes. First dates and first boyfriends. First kisses, times, loves. But, whatever the first, that rush of something new and exhilarating is undeniable.

Nothing like popping a cherry.

For me, one particularly sumptuous pop, was venturing to Tropical Fruits a couple years back, Lismore’s New Year’s festival out of the city but filled with sights and sounds more mesmerising than any I’d see on a regular day down Oxford Street.

I’d contemplated going for years, but didn’t have a tent nor the means to drive up. That fateful year, however, a friend had a spare seat in his car and I bit the bullet.

Over four nights I savoured many firsts, like the joy of a job well done: setting up camp under the blazing NSW sun, sweaty and exhausted from a ten-hour drive from Sydney. Drinking by firelight, mingling under a dazzling star show far from ugly light pollution. Not to mention a head-swimming spin on an open-air dancefloor as fireworks ignited the sky into a kaleidoscopic explosion of colour and sound and scent, fabulously ushering in another year.

But, funnily enough, it’s not those moments that linger in my heart and head like a delicious smoke I still yearn to breathe. They’re fantastic memories, sure, but it was what happened on the first night. A night I’ve fantasised over ever since, longing to be back at Fruits.

It began with a smile.

A smile across the campsite from a short but handsome man who was, as I would later learn, eight years more than my twenty-four. Great body, tanned and muscular with a casual but effortless style. Short shorts showing off hairy legs and a tight singlet clinging to a flawless build like a layer of cotton skin.

Wide, curving pecs and thick, sun-kissed biceps and tris. Strong hands. Glistening eyes noticeably blue in the immaculate light of early evening. A fixed stare filled with a hunger I recognised anywhere. A heavy slab of meat softly bulging behind his zipper.

My kind of guy.

Short enough to fuck stupid. Take back to my tent, peel down his shorts and go to town. And there was certainly no reason I didn’t want him to do the same to me.

The night is young.

Which was the problem: the night hadn’t started. I’d come to Fruits to make friends and run naked through fields. Take shrooms and explore my mind, not just my body. I wanted to dip my toes before dropping my pants. Stretch my legs before stretching holes.

Though this guy was hot, and the urge to fall to my knees to suck out his load was pulling at my cock like a muscle boy after a hit of poppers, I had plenty of time. Plenty of time to turn my attention to the drink in hand, the bag of Nimbin weed in my pocket and the other friendly faces.

So, I rolled a fat one, and, by the time I looked up, he was gone.

Oh well.

Smoking and passing the doobie, I introduced myself to the other campers in my immediate vicinity: fifteen or twenty tents, including mine, erected in a circle to form a small gathering area among the overall campsite of similar, makeshift communities stretching off in all directions.

A throng of welcoming faces and bubbling, euphoric energy, men and women of all shapes and sizes were stood, sat, dancing and drinking, meeting, greeting and marvelling. Hundreds, if not thousands of regular people as far as the eye could see, now free to be anyone and anything they wanted.

It wasn’t until, hours later when the sun was long gone, replaced by a layer of ominous cloud, and the annual Shirley Temple tent (erected by fifteen or so drag queens from Brisbane) was in full swing, was I ready.

Ready to hunt.

Scanning the area, as expected, I discovered that the short guy was nowhere to be seen. No matter: past the undulating crowd, I spotted someone. Squatted by an ice box and making a drink was a man in shorts, thongs and a singlet, with shoulders so broad I could swing from them.

Alone.

‘Hi,’ I said.

Without a word he turned and stood, drink, complete with pink cocktail umbrella, in hand.

Fuck.

He was huge. Big and toned with piercing eyes a colour I couldn’t make out. But they were eyes above a smile that somehow reached inside, lifting my spirits higher. A smile attached to a face I craved to sit on, grinding my hole against his stubble until the sun rose.

‘Hi,’ he said, his accent irrefutably American but the timbre low and enchanting.

‘Can I tempt you?’ I said, offering him a half-smoked joint smouldering between my fingers.

His smile unwavering, he eyed the burning stick. Hesitated. Then he said, ‘There are many ways you could tempt me. Sure. Swap?’

Passing him the joint with my most mischievous smile, and taking his drink, I locked my stare on his. In the moody light of hanging torches and flickering flames, I glimpsed their colour. Green.

‘I’m Jack,’ I said, taking a sip.

Gin and tonic with a slice of lime. Perfectly mixed.

‘Damon,’ he said, before taking a hit, blowing out a silver cloud and passing me the joint in exchange for his drink.

‘Not usually a smoker?’ I said, breathing in my own cloud of sticky, sweet THC.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘You hesitated.’

‘I’m wary,’ he said, smiling shyly. ‘It makes me talk nonsense. Then I get paranoid about the garbage I’m spouting.’

Laughing, I touched his arm. Holding my fingers against his warm, smooth hardness I took a second pull and held up the joint. He hesitated again.

‘Want to know a secret?’ I said.

‘Sure.’

‘Don’t care. Say what the fuck you want. If anyone thinks you’re chatting shit you’ve got your excuse between your fingers.’

Smiling his smile, he stared. Intense, like he was reading my mind. If I hadn’t had spent the last four hours getting high and drunk, he would have made me squirm. He took the joint.

‘Here by yourself?’ Damon said, before another, longer drag.

‘No. Well, sort of. I shared a ride with a few mates but two of them rented a house. Camping’s not their thing. My other mate, my tent buddy, is here somewhere. Where, I have no idea, but I’m sure he’ll crawl home by sun up. You?’

‘No, I’m here with–’

Thunder. Low and booming it electrified the air. Whoops and excited cries fired from the masses as thick, heavy raindrops slow and steady and refreshing began to fall.

Watching the sky, I stuck out my tongue and, like chilled kisses, the tumbling water sent shivers down my spine. When I looked back at Damon he wasn’t alone. The handsome, short guy from before was talking to him, shooting me looks.

‘Oh hey,’ I said.

‘Hi again,’ he said, his accent crisp and clear and British.

‘You two know each other?’ Damon said.

‘Kind of,’ I said. ‘He was giving me the eye earlier.’

‘I’m only human,’ Shorty said.

‘Questionable,’ Damon said.

‘Bitch.’

‘So how do you know each other?’ I said, fat rain still falling; wet earth and grass scenting the humid air.

‘This is my husband,’ Damon said. ‘Ryan, meet Jack. Jack, Ryan.’

‘Husband?’ I said.

Then three things happened. One: they smiled that smile every gay guy knows. Two: lighting flashed overhead as thunder roared simultaneously like a beast from above. Three: the heavens opened.

‘Quickly,’ Damon said, grabbing my hand, pulling me five strides to the right and down inside a two-man tent: Ryan following.

Then we were kissing. Three panting bodies entwined in delectably cramped darkness. For how long, I don’t know, but as the rain pummeled on the waterproof plastic and four hands explored my body, pulling off my clothes until I was naked, I lost myself in their taste and heat and smell.

In the black I abandoned myself to the rhythm of new hands and new tongues. Sixteen new fingers, four thumbs and four new arms and legs. Two new cocks, hard and thick and long, pushing against me from behind flimsy, stretching clothing.

Then a hand, kind but firm, turned me, pushing me onto my stomach on top of an inflatable mattress. One set of fingertips traced the ridges of muscle down my back and another pulled a zipper in the darkness.

A warm, cum-enriched cloud of crotch filled my nostrils as my arse cheeks were pulled apart. Then, as Damon’s hot tongue pushed against my hole, my synapses flaring and fizzing, flooding my body with dopamine like the gushing rain drenching the earth around us, Ryan filled my mouth.

He was huge. So big my jaw ached immediately.

But I love a challenge.

Want to know what happens next? Find the rest of my short story in DNA Magazine issue 218, available here.