Detour

I have a mild east/west dyslexia that gives my life a little frisson of panic from time to time. It happens particularly when I’m driving and getting onto an expressway or turnpike, and a sign looms before me, pointing in two directions. East? Or West? For some reason I have no problems with north or south. That one I can handle instinctively. For the east/west axis, however, I have to visualize a map in my head, visualize the compass on it, and then think to myself, west is to the left, east is to the right . . . Wait, which way do I want to go?

After several mental steps, I usually get the answer right. But unless I’ve already worked it out in my head before I need to, on the road there will be a moment when I’m required to make a snap decision, and the several seconds it takes to figure out the proper direction can lead to a little bit of panic. And there have been a couple of times in the past, I’m sorry to say, when I’ve got several miles in the wrong direction before realizing it.

That’s why I like to depend on GPS and turn-by-turn instructions, when I’m driving somewhere unfamiliar. It tends to do the thinking for me. The only problem is that sometimes it’ll putz out on my phone. When I was driving down to Richmond from the northeast, for example, I was passing over the George Washington Bridge when my GPS app suddenly announced, in its bland female voice, Guidance . . . Terminated. I tried switching over to Google Maps to get the route I was supposed to be taking, but in emergency situations, Google Maps likes to give me little comedy routes. Like, in that case, making a U-turn in the bridge’s truck lane, driving back into Manhattan, taking a right at Radio City Music Hall, circling around Central Park, detouring through Harlem, and then getting back on the George Washington Bridge again.

To which I was about to say “Fuck you, Google Maps!” when the voice announced, Guidance . . . Resumed, and I managed to stay on my route.

And then there was my trip home from Richmond. I left very late in the day, because I had to spend the morning waiting for my car’s repairs before I hit the freeway, and listen to my dad lecture me about how I’d been ripped off for the repair costs. (He had no proof, really—just a strong conviction that all repairs are rip-offs.) Plus, lunch. So although I’d originally intended to be on the road by eight, I really didn’t get out of Richmond until nearly three. And then I was sailing up I-95 toward DC, trying to remember which one of the beltways I was supposed to take, when my GPS announced, Guidance . . . Terminated.

I waited a minute. I flicked my fingertip against the phone. I did a Google Maps search and got back another comedy route that would’ve driven me up the Mall to the Washington Monument and eventually landed me on the Capitol steps. Then I turned off the GPS and said, “Fuck it. It’s just 95 all the way home. Right?”

Well, no.

I’ve only driven this route a couple of times, but apparently there’s a stretch of my route in which I am supposed to leave 95 and get on the New Jersey Turnpike. I didn’t know that. So there was a point in my trip in which I found myself calling my dad and saying, “Everything’s fine. Just entering Pennsylvania. Okay, I’ll be careful. Thanks again for having me!” and hanging up. Then a few minutes later I thought, You know, I don’t think I’m supposed to go THROUGH Pennsylvania on this route. Then a few minutes after that, I thought, Um, why am I seeing the skyscrapers of Philadelphia?

I-95, on the route back, goes right through downtown Philly. Which was an interesting trip, granted. The traffic was light. It was damned scenic, if you like bridges and ships from the Spanish-American war and industrial zones. But the entire time I was driving it, I kept alternating between absolute confidence that 95 would get me home, and absolute certainty that my directional dyslexia had made me do something very, very wrong.

And then, north of Philadelphia, 95 just kind of . . . petered out.

I drove along some connecting highway for a little bit. Then I stopped in the middle of Nowhere, New Jersey, at a tiny gas station. There was some kind of cheap apartment complex behind the station, and a little diner up the road, and then nothing but green fields and vast expanses of trees that almost made me believe New Jersey deserved the title of The Garden State. I worked out my route on the map, tanked up on gas, and then did what I always do when I’m taking a quick break in an unfamiliar place.

I fired up Grindr.

Almost immediately I had someone message me. The guy’s photo was blurry, and just of a skinny body, shot below the neck. He was completely smooth. I never see anyone this close, he said. Grindr said he was only 300 feet away.


What do you need? I asked him.


My ass fucked and bred. Now.

Well. After a tense hour at the wheel, I was ready for now.

He lived over in the apartment complex. I walked there. When he opened the door, he answered wearing only a towel. He was barely more than a boy; one of those young men who spend inordinate amounts of time on his hair. Making sure it lay perfectly on his forehead. Making sure every dark lock was coated with the maximum amount of product. Being careful to cover up his slightly-pimpled forehead by combing it forward carefully, then micro-arranging every hair. I suspected he was wearing mascara, too. The effect was very much like a junior Adam Lambert. “Hey,” he said. “I’ve got to be done by nine.”
I looked at the clock in the cramped hallway. I was going to be done well before nine. I didn’t say anything. I let him invite me in. He took me through the cluttered, messy living room and led me to the bedroom, where Lady Gaga was playing on the stereo. Then he stood nervously by the bed. “You hook up from Grindr often?” he asked.

I shrugged,and ran my hands over his body. I wasn’t there for the scintillating conversation. His skin was almost electric at my touch. He sighed and twitched with every new inch of skin I encountered.

“This is my first time,” he said.

“Your first time from Grindr?” I wanted to know. “Or your first time ever?”

“From Grindr,” he said. My hand cupped his ass. His eyes half-closed and he let out a little hiss. “I’ve done—ah! Ah!—I’ve had sex lots of times.”

Typically my experience has been that guys who express the amount of sex they’ve had sex lots of times usually haven’t, not by my yardstick. I didn’t challenge him. Instead, I turned him around, pushed him over the bed, and bent down to eat out his hole. It tasted sweet, and clean. He fell forward onto the mattress with both hands, and grunted.

The kid was smooth all over save for a small growth of pubes. With the towel gone, he managed to look somehow even more naked than naked. His dick was small and erect, its head sheathed by a thick overhang of foreskin. I peeled it back as I stroked him. His knees parted, and then he collapsed until he was on all fours on the mattress of his twin bed.

That had been easy.

I wasn’t wearing a belt. All I had to do was tug at the button of my jeans and they flew open. Still chewing away at his little hole, I unzipped and got them down around my ankles. This boy was gasping and clutching at the dirty sheets like a drama queen. Every time I shoved my tongue up his hole, he let out a yell that the neighbors could’ve heard.

What was he going to do when I shoved my dick in? I had to find out.

We weren’t spending time on preliminaries. No kissing. No lovemaking. No extensive foreplay. He’d placed an order for a top who’d fuck his ass, and that’s exactly what I was doing. I pulled my T-shirt up in the front and yoked it around the back of my neck, so that most of my chest was free and naked. Then I spat on my dick, stood, and rubbed it on that pretty little hole.

“Ho-ho-ho-hold on,” he stuttered, putting the brakes on. “Is it going to hurt?”

“Up to you,” I told him. “You want it to hurt?”

He wheeled around to look at my angry red cock. “Fuck, that’s big.”

“Yeah,” I said, not denying it. Then, before he could back out of the arrangement, “You wanted to get fucked and bred. You’re going to get fucked and bred, son.”

“I don’t know if I can take it without lube,” he said.

I stared at him like he was some kind of moron. “If you want lube, you better give me lube.”

The only lube he had was some bottle of cheap stuff that anyone can buy at Walgreen’s. I slapped some of it on. It was going stick to me all day, I knew, but the look of fear in his eyes seemed a little assuaged when I liberally shoved two slick fingers of it up his hole.

No, this wasn’t a virgin’s hole, or even a near-virgin’s hole. This guy had been fucked before, and often. My dick grew harder as I slapped the remnants of the cheap lube on it, and aimed for home again. I could tell he was about to throw up some other protest to stall the fuck, so I shoved in, and replaced the protests with a yell.

I wanted to know how he was going to respond when I went in. I knew now. He yelled, and yelled loud. It wasn’t one those wracking cries of pain, but a deep outpouring of need and recognition. I was the key to some lock that had remained rusty and shut for god knows how long. His back arched; his head pointed up and his eyes stared sightless at the ceiling. His entire body shook and quivered; his ass clamped down on my meat. He wouldn’t have let go of me if my dick had suddenly sported spikes.

It was the epitome of a hot, quick fuck. His dong flapped back and forth, stiff and useless, as my hips slapped against his ass. He wanted his hole used. I used it. I fucked in and out without mercy, without dropping the tempo, without really bothering to investigate whether or not he was enjoying it. I didn’t need to ask. I could tell. The little fucker hadn’t been topped like that in a long, long time, if ever.

At some point he crossed his forearms and rested his head against them, low against the mattress. Every time I thrust inside him, he let out a little grunt. “Oh god,” he kept saying, over and over. “Oh god. Oh god. Ohgodohgod.”

I slapped his ass so hard it left the angry red mark of my hand behind. His head swung up. His eyes were wide open, shocked at the violence of it. Good. I didn’t want him to enjoy this too much.

“I’m gonna breed you,” I warned him, shortly before I let loose the tension engirding my cock. His butt thrust back at the moment I came, engulfing it with hot, slick ass. He took every drop inside, and squeezed my dick for the remnants. When I stopped moving, his hands groped for his own dick. I let him jack himself off with my meat and my load inside him. He came quickly, and with a tiny load…four or five little pinpoints of cum on the mattress.

Then I pulled out, and pulled up my pants, and rinsed off in the bedroom.


When you coming back? he messaged me again, over Grindr, when I was nearing the George Washington Bridge and finally feeling like I knew the way home.

Short answer? Probably never. But it surely was nice, on a strange road where I didn’t really know where I was, to meet up with as pleasant and unexpected a detour.