There are certain trade-offs I've made in living here. For example, it used to be in Michigan that the cruisy rest area I'd visit was thirty-five miles away and in the middle of nowhere, as I noted yesterday, while the new cruisy rest stop is only three short miles from my doorstep. The exchange I seem to have made for that particular convenience is that Trader Joe's is now a good four miles away, when it used to be four short blocks. And anyone who knows me can tell you, as much as I like my anonymous sex, I like Trader Joe's even more. (If you want me to prove it, start naming your favorite products there and see how many exclamation points I start using in my replies.)
Of course, the good thing is that the rest stop is on the way home from Trader Joe's. So Sunday night, the day after my encounter with Timmy, I decided to stop back through. It was dusk, and I still hadn't gotten off for several days—Timmy hadn't done it for me, poor guy—and I had some time to kill. So I pulled off the exit, parked in the last row of the car lot, and turned off the ignition.
It was a little earlier than it had been the night before. The only other car at the lot's rear was an older-model Saab several spots away, but it looked to me as if the guy inside were eating a dinner from McDonald's. I got out of my car, locked it with the remote, and walked toward the rest stop itself. A handsome bald man stared me down from his car as I passed. I thought he was following me for a moment, but when I looked over my shoulder as I hit the pavement, he'd only ventured as far as the wastebasket and already was on the way back.
The cruising site I'd read said that the men's room of the rest stop was quite active late at night. That might have been the case. When I walked in, there were three men at the urinals and it was pretty plain that one of them was cruising everyone. He wasn't subtle about it, either. He stood at a center urinal and stared at me as I entered, his eyes bulging and hungry. I didn't find him attractive in the least. When I stood at the urinal closest to the door, and furthest away from him, he turned his head to stare at a young Asian kid who'd followed me in. The boy didn't seem all that pleased by the attention, either. He hunkered as close to the urinal as he could without actually cleaning it with his basketball shorts, then gave up. We both met at the sinks at the same time.
I wasn't going to stick around. Bright lights, a busy restroom, and a cruiser who didn't know how to keep it discreet are always a bad combination.
The bald guy was pulling out of the lot when I passed his truck on the way out. His head turned as I passed, and we nodded at each other. I memorized his face for future reference.
A new car had joined mine at the back of the lot. Back in Detroit my friends used to play a game at the bar on the interactive HDTVs there, in which the screen would display one scant corner of a car, current or classic, and bargoers were supposed to punch in from multiple-choice answers which car it happened to be. I was, let's be honest, rotten at that particular game. The people who'd grown up in the city could see nothing more than the curve of a front grille and instantly say, "1964 Chevrolet Malibu SS!" or "2009 Aston Martin Vantage!' without even taking much of a pause in their conversation.
The closest my answer would've been was, "Red car!"
But even I could spot and identify a Mustang GT in a dark parking lot. It was a new model, too—either this year's or the last. It was shiny. The interior was decked out; the console looked like that of a spaceship. I could smell the new car scent. The top was down, and the owner was staring at me over his shoulder as I returned to my own vehicle. Once I'd closed the door behind me and rolled down the window, he stepped out and pretended to be stretching, his eyes on me the entire time.
Over the top of my cell phone I checked him out. He was droopy-eyed and paunchy, and though he looked old I knew he probably didn't have that many years on me, if any. His clothes were that L.L. Bean-brand aging preppy style that so many men have adopted in this state—pastel polo shirt, white pants, a worn cloth belt with yellow duckies on it weighed down by his beer belly. I didn't find him wildly attractive. But he didn't repel me, as had the guy in the restroom. He was just obviously one of those guys from the area who was flush with money, like so many, but needed a dick to suck.
I nodded at him twice, when he nodded at me, and finally set the cell phone down. He walked over.
"What's up?" he asked. I shrugged. "Just hanging around, huh?" he asked.
"Something like that." I let my hand casually rest on my crotch, where my thumb ran up and down the fabric over my dick.
He nodded with appreciation. "Saw you walking across the parking lot. I liked your look."
"Thanks," I said. My dick was hardening.
"I mean, I really liked your look."
"You're really looking good. Handsome guy." There were only so many times I was going to thank him, so I just smiled. "What you got in your pants?"
"Eight inches," I told him.
"You like to get that sucked?" I told him that oh yeah, I did. He licked his lips. "You like to fuck with it? I love to get fucked. A whole lot. I need it bad." I told him that I did. "Eight inches, huh?"
To prove it, I unzipped. I pulled down the elastic of my trunks, and hooked them under my balls. My dick was fat in my right fist. He watched as I stroked it, slowly and lasciviously, in the half-light of the McDonald's across the lot.
"Fuck," he said at last. "I want it."
"Here?" I asked. "Or you know someplace to go?"
"There's a hotel off the next exit," he said. "We could go there, get naked, and you could fuck the living shit out of me with that thing. I want it up my hole."
"I like the sound of that," I started to say.
But he was still talking. "I don't know how much the rooms are, but it should only run you sixty bucks."
That sentence stopped me dead in my tracks. "Excuse me?"
"I mean, don't know. I've never been there. But how much could it be?"
"You expect me to pay?" I don't know why the notion was so alien to me, but it struck me as horribly rude somehow. I mean, if he'd suggested splitting it, I would've considered it. But after all, the hotel had been his suggestion. And he was the one telling me what he wanted from me. Who suggests going to a hotel and then says, Oh yeah, by the way, your treat? Especially when he's driving a freakin' late model decked out Mustang GT Convertible?
"Well I can't be paying," he said, as if it were obvious. "I can't have that shit showing up on my credit card."
I stared at him for a moment. "Well okay then," I said, pulling up the elastic of my shorts and buttoning my pants again. "Let me just think about that."
"You know where to find me, slugger," said the charmer, with a smile.
I went back to checking my email on my phone, then when it was plain that no one else was going to come along in the next few short minutes, I started the car and left for home, balls still full.
Another night, maybe.