The freeway was so dark on my return home from Ann Arbor Saturday night that I almost missed the turnoff to the rest stop. Only the blaze of its bright florescent lamps through the Plexiglass enclosure, greenish-yellow against the indigo midnight sky, tipped me to my destination.
My ass was still sore, quite frankly, after its poking by the steam room bear. In my post-coital moments in his hotel bathroom, I thought I’d wiped all the remnants of his attempts to fuck me from my ass. My hole, however, had been leaking lube during the return trip home. The long, solitary minutes and the prospect of more sex had flagged my curiosity once more.
Several cars were parked slantwise in the rest stop’s lot, when I pulled in. A head that was shrouded in the deep shadows of a suburban minivan turned to follow my path, as I stepped from my car and walked in the direction of the little shelter set back from the road. Most of the other cars were empty, which signaled to me that their occupants were probably within.
A trucker smoking a cigarette lounged against the outside door, his hand thrust deep into the pockets of his grimy, ragged denim jeans. Though his head was angled away from me, his eyes danced over my length, checking me out. I pretended not to notice, and pushed through.
A boy stood at the urinals just within the men’s room doorway, his skin the color and sheen of obsidian. His arms extended in long straight lines; his hands cupped around his genitals, which he’d pushed close to the porcelain of the waist-to-floor urinals. A latin man stood a urinal away from him. He had to have been around forty. His clothing was covered with dust, though in good shape. At my entry, he zipped up his grey jeans, stepped away from the urinal, and pulled his hoodie over his shaved head.
The men’s room has three stalls. The one closest to the door was occupied by a tall guy who was unbuckling his pants. He must’ve been at least six-six or six-seven, because for a guy to register as tall in my eyes, he has to be at least a good three inches over my own. He was bearded and white, the kind of guy I see at student concerts and swim meets, cheering on the spawn. He stared at me in the mirror as I traveled to the stall next to him.
No one was in the far stall to my left, when I sat down. The suburban dad’s foot immediately tapped at me when I dropped my pants. I tapped back. For a few moments we continued the ritual of tapping and bringing our feet closer. I sensed a shift in the shadows he was casting beneath the partition, and caught glimpse of ass from where I leaned over. When I moved my hand beneath the partition, he angled his body so that his backside connected with my fingers. I moved my hand further along the crack, between his legs, and found myself grasping his hard dick. The pre-cum oozing from its tip was cool and sticky against my skin.
He wanted to feel my dick. I obliged by letting him stroke it beneath the partition. We were interrupted fairly quickly, though, so I had to return to my seat on the toilet. Soon, though, when I didn’t hear anyone else in the restroom change position, I stood up to see who’d come in.
In the mirrors I could see the trucker I’d passed coming in was now standing next to the young black boy at the urinals. They were side by side looking both over their shoulders at the reflections of me and the married daddy in the stall next to mine, and at each other’s hard dicks. A third guy in a patterned woolen coat stood near them, stroking his meat through the fly of his baggy jeans. The latin guy had walked over to the sinks across from my stall. He unzipped the fly of his gray jeans and exposed his hard cock. The latin was only five-four or so, and his eight and a half inches looked obscenely monstrous on him. He had a circumcision scar a good three and a half inches behind his crown, which had to be the furthest back I’d ever seen, especially on a brown dick like his.
He nodded at me, as I watched him stroke. “Let me see yours,” he whispered.
The three men at the urinals had begun to stroke openly for each other. Next to me, I could see shadows of the tall dad’s hand flying back and forth over his meat. He was standing up and staring at the latin man, though his stall door remained closed. I felt bold enough to open my door and show off my dick to the latin. He immediately dived for it, taking it in his mouth and struggling to take it to the base. His hand went between my legs. One of his fingertips snaked its way into my still-sensitive asshole. “Fuck, papi,” he said, standing up and squeezing his dick so hard it should have popped. “You got load in there?” I didn’t answer. Instead I sat down on the toilet and took his meat in my mouth. It smelled slightly of a day’s piss, but I wanted to see how much of that monster I could take.
Before I got too far, though, we heard the sounds of the door opening outside. The latin leaped back and yanked up his pants. I closed my stall door and settle back onto the toilet. I heard the men at the urinals adjust themselves. Then, when once again no one made any quick exits, I stood up after a moment.
Two more guys had joined the already-busy men’s room. The latin had his pants unzipped again and was displaying his big dick to a kid with floppy hair pretending to wash his hands. A fourth man, tall and husky, had joined the guys at the urinals. Eight men, all hard and exposed, all jacking for each other.
I watched for a moment or two, and then made a decision. Hot as it was in there, it was simply too busy at that point. When it comes to public sex, there’s a thin line between a hot group scene and a juicy headline news bust. I pulled up my pants and, ass still feeling like it was sloshing, exited the restroom and headed back to my car.
I wasn’t too surprised when the latin followed me back. He stood at the trash can and watched me get into my car, which I left unlocked. After a couple of moments, he walked over, opened the back door, and got inside. He got his pants open so quickly that I might’ve sworn they were fastened with velcro. His dick stuck straight up in the air, just as hard and insistent as it had been in the restroom. I turned around and angled my body between the front seats, so I could see and hold it.
“I wanna fuck you,” he whispered. When I shook my head, he added, “You all lubed up and ready, papi, I want that ass.”
“Not here,” I said. “Let me suck you.”
He thought about it a moment, then relinquished his hold on his dick. I craned my body into the back seat and went down on him, slurping on that amazing dick. From the corner of my eye I watched as he turned his head from side to side, keeping a careful eye on the comings and goings around us. I’d parked in the most distant reaches of the lot, though, so not much could have happened without warning.
It didn’t take him long until he was pumping out amazing quantities of pre-cum that lubricated my mouth. A salty patch of the stuff dribbled down the back of my throat. The man seized the back of my head and held it still as he thrust upward. His breath left a sheen of fog on the inside of my window, where he breathed. With a mighty grunt, he shot. His load wasn’t huge, but it was unusually sweet. Hands still clamped on the back of my neck, he waited until I swallowed and cleaned him off. Then, when I sat up, he nodded, zipped and fastened, and existed the car.
I watched as he walked back in the direction of the restroom, either to clean up or to play some more. Either way, I was done for the evening. I’d fucked, I’d been fucked a little, I’d played with strange dicks at a rest stop, I’d sucked dick in my car. That was enough for one Saturday evening, and so I drove off into the night, leaving the little oasis a receding spot of light in my rear-view mirror.
Showing posts with label 275. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 275. Show all posts
Friday, April 22, 2011
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Nighttime at the Rest Stop
When I step into the men’s room, Monday night, the familiar scent of urine and floor cleaner assaults my nostrils. I breath it in, letting it fill my lungs, and inflate my dick. I’m already half-hard by the time I’m unzipped, and pissing into the closely-spaced floor-to-waist urinal. Once I’m done, I shake, and stroke, and wait. It doesn’t take long until I hear the tentative creak of the door leading to the parking lot, and the sound of footsteps.
New York City had been buffeted with high winds earlier that afternoon. I’d spent most of my Valentine’s Day sitting in LaGuardia, which had shut down all but one runway. My flight had been delayed by about three hours. I spent most of the long day planted in my seat in a super-crowded waiting area, afraid that if I’d gotten up to piss or grab some food that I’d lose the rare commodity that was my chair. By the time I hit my car, it’s late at night. I’m tired. I’m hungry. Common sense tells me to drive on home.
My dick tell me to drive to the rest stop on the way home, and take a break.
When the man walks into the room on soft leather soles, I’m glad I listened to my dick. He’s a short fucker—maybe all of five-foot-six, thirty-five or so. Broad-shouldered and thick-chested in a way that’s like a former muscle stud gone slightly soft. There’s some narrowing between his chest and his round, bulging ass, but not much. He’s wearing a pressed cotton shirt printed with broad stripes in aquatic colors, and a pair of dress slacks fastened by a glinting monogrammed belt buckle. His shaved head is as shiny as his expensive shoes. He’s a businessman, cruising the rest stop at nine-thirty at night.
He stands at the furthest urinal from me and hauls out his dick. It sprays a thick stream of piss against the porcelain. When I glance over, casually working over my hard meat in the recess of the urinal, I can see his thick mushroom head, his hairy nuts. I want that dick in my mouth.
He flips his meat when he’s done, gives me a look, and walks over to the sinks to wash his hands. I stuff my hard dick into my pants, zip up, and follow him there. We look at each other in mirror as we clean up. Our eyes are locked, save for the moments when they dip down to look at our bulges. He stands at a hand dryer across from the toilet stalls; I lounge by the one at the room’s other side. We rub our hands together, over and over, as if we’re both plotting Machiavellian schemes.
Then his machine shuts off. Still staring at me, he walks over to the toilet stall and disappears inside. I hear the clink of his belt buckle as it slams against the tiles.
I wait until my hands are dry. Casually I stroll over. His toilet stall door is open. He’s sitting on the john, legs spread, little hand wrapped around his short, thick meat. He’s whipped his tie up and over one shoulder, to keep it out of the way. One of his knees is propping open the door. He looks back at me, spread his legs more widely, and nods.
I look toward the men’s room entrance, then step forward.
His hands lunge for the snap of my jeans. He yanks down the denim and roughly tugs down my trunks. When my cock springs out, unleashed, his mouth envelops it. He’s hungry. He doesn’t give a shit who I am, or where I’m going. I’m some stranger in a rest stop with a big dick—a dick he wants. A dick he needs. He uses more teeth than I usually like, but from him it almost feels good. The gentle scraping gets me harder.
His eyes are closed as he sucks. Occasionally he’ll open them to look up at me, checking to see if I’m enjoying myself. Mostly, though, they’re shut tight. His face looks almost pained as he slurps up and down my shaft. It’s obviously how badly he’s wanted to suck.
Up and down his stubby shaft flies his fist. The two eggs below bounce up and down, flying furiously. The guy is seriously loving my dick. He gulps the shaft, then rubs his smooth face against it , eyes shut, mouth open and drooling.
There’s a sound outside. The door opens and shuts. I pull up my pants and prepare to bolt into the adjoining stall, but what I hear is the sound of tapping heels. He half-stands, fingers poised at the waistband of the pants around his ankles. But when we hear the women’s room door open, we relax. His eyes close again as he nurses at my dick.
My hand reaches for his ass. It’s a muscular, sexy round butt of a type I really like. When we connect, he turns around. He knows I want to see. He bends over the toilet, his hands on the wall. For the first time I notice the ring on his left hand. The tips of my fingers dip into his smooth, warm cleft. They nudge against his hole. My dick follows, nosing its way into the flesh and rubbing against the entrance. He groans, more loudly than he probably should for a public restroom. Somehow it only turns me on.
“You fuck bare?” he whispers.
I don’t reply. He already knows the answer. Instead I put a glob of spit on his hole and rub the head against the slickness, working it into the hole. He braces himself, and pushes back.
“I shouldn’t do it raw,” he whispers.
Again, I say nothing. I’m halfway in him now and not doing a damned thing save stand there. He’s the one backing up on it, taking the stranger’s raw dick more and more deeply into his most private place. He reaches the bottom of the shaft. There’s no more to take.
“Oh fuck,” he mutters. “Goddamn.” His breathing is shallow and labored. “You’re so big.”
When he starts to shake and shudder, I think it’s because he’s trying to deal with my length and girth. But no, he’s shooting. All over the toilet seat lands his seed. Onto the floor it spills as it flys from the tip of his dick. His wedding ring is covered with the stuff, a fact I note and find hot. Almost immediately my dick starts to slide from his hole as he pulls off me. It doesn’t matter. I’m shooting myself, onto his round butt, down his thighs. A hefty squirt lands into the wells of his pant legs, on the floor.
We can hear the tapping heels again as the stranger leaves the woman’s room. The noise brings us back to reality. I pull up my pants and button them before visiting the sinks again. He shuffles in the privacy of the stall for a moment before he emerges. His slacks have a large splotch of a wet stain in the back, where I shot. We watch each other as we wash up. When we leave, I’m walking ahead of him, but we exit at roughly the same time.
I watch him wander back to his SUV as I return to my own car. Our lights flick on in unison. He gives me a quick salute as he passes behind me on his way back to the freeway. A moment later, and he’s nothing more than a memory and a flash of lights across the horizon.
Then I’m off, back into the inky night, and homeward bound.
New York City had been buffeted with high winds earlier that afternoon. I’d spent most of my Valentine’s Day sitting in LaGuardia, which had shut down all but one runway. My flight had been delayed by about three hours. I spent most of the long day planted in my seat in a super-crowded waiting area, afraid that if I’d gotten up to piss or grab some food that I’d lose the rare commodity that was my chair. By the time I hit my car, it’s late at night. I’m tired. I’m hungry. Common sense tells me to drive on home.
My dick tell me to drive to the rest stop on the way home, and take a break.
When the man walks into the room on soft leather soles, I’m glad I listened to my dick. He’s a short fucker—maybe all of five-foot-six, thirty-five or so. Broad-shouldered and thick-chested in a way that’s like a former muscle stud gone slightly soft. There’s some narrowing between his chest and his round, bulging ass, but not much. He’s wearing a pressed cotton shirt printed with broad stripes in aquatic colors, and a pair of dress slacks fastened by a glinting monogrammed belt buckle. His shaved head is as shiny as his expensive shoes. He’s a businessman, cruising the rest stop at nine-thirty at night.
He stands at the furthest urinal from me and hauls out his dick. It sprays a thick stream of piss against the porcelain. When I glance over, casually working over my hard meat in the recess of the urinal, I can see his thick mushroom head, his hairy nuts. I want that dick in my mouth.
He flips his meat when he’s done, gives me a look, and walks over to the sinks to wash his hands. I stuff my hard dick into my pants, zip up, and follow him there. We look at each other in mirror as we clean up. Our eyes are locked, save for the moments when they dip down to look at our bulges. He stands at a hand dryer across from the toilet stalls; I lounge by the one at the room’s other side. We rub our hands together, over and over, as if we’re both plotting Machiavellian schemes.
Then his machine shuts off. Still staring at me, he walks over to the toilet stall and disappears inside. I hear the clink of his belt buckle as it slams against the tiles.
I wait until my hands are dry. Casually I stroll over. His toilet stall door is open. He’s sitting on the john, legs spread, little hand wrapped around his short, thick meat. He’s whipped his tie up and over one shoulder, to keep it out of the way. One of his knees is propping open the door. He looks back at me, spread his legs more widely, and nods.
I look toward the men’s room entrance, then step forward.
His hands lunge for the snap of my jeans. He yanks down the denim and roughly tugs down my trunks. When my cock springs out, unleashed, his mouth envelops it. He’s hungry. He doesn’t give a shit who I am, or where I’m going. I’m some stranger in a rest stop with a big dick—a dick he wants. A dick he needs. He uses more teeth than I usually like, but from him it almost feels good. The gentle scraping gets me harder.
His eyes are closed as he sucks. Occasionally he’ll open them to look up at me, checking to see if I’m enjoying myself. Mostly, though, they’re shut tight. His face looks almost pained as he slurps up and down my shaft. It’s obviously how badly he’s wanted to suck.
Up and down his stubby shaft flies his fist. The two eggs below bounce up and down, flying furiously. The guy is seriously loving my dick. He gulps the shaft, then rubs his smooth face against it , eyes shut, mouth open and drooling.
There’s a sound outside. The door opens and shuts. I pull up my pants and prepare to bolt into the adjoining stall, but what I hear is the sound of tapping heels. He half-stands, fingers poised at the waistband of the pants around his ankles. But when we hear the women’s room door open, we relax. His eyes close again as he nurses at my dick.
My hand reaches for his ass. It’s a muscular, sexy round butt of a type I really like. When we connect, he turns around. He knows I want to see. He bends over the toilet, his hands on the wall. For the first time I notice the ring on his left hand. The tips of my fingers dip into his smooth, warm cleft. They nudge against his hole. My dick follows, nosing its way into the flesh and rubbing against the entrance. He groans, more loudly than he probably should for a public restroom. Somehow it only turns me on.
“You fuck bare?” he whispers.
I don’t reply. He already knows the answer. Instead I put a glob of spit on his hole and rub the head against the slickness, working it into the hole. He braces himself, and pushes back.
“I shouldn’t do it raw,” he whispers.
Again, I say nothing. I’m halfway in him now and not doing a damned thing save stand there. He’s the one backing up on it, taking the stranger’s raw dick more and more deeply into his most private place. He reaches the bottom of the shaft. There’s no more to take.
“Oh fuck,” he mutters. “Goddamn.” His breathing is shallow and labored. “You’re so big.”
When he starts to shake and shudder, I think it’s because he’s trying to deal with my length and girth. But no, he’s shooting. All over the toilet seat lands his seed. Onto the floor it spills as it flys from the tip of his dick. His wedding ring is covered with the stuff, a fact I note and find hot. Almost immediately my dick starts to slide from his hole as he pulls off me. It doesn’t matter. I’m shooting myself, onto his round butt, down his thighs. A hefty squirt lands into the wells of his pant legs, on the floor.
We can hear the tapping heels again as the stranger leaves the woman’s room. The noise brings us back to reality. I pull up my pants and button them before visiting the sinks again. He shuffles in the privacy of the stall for a moment before he emerges. His slacks have a large splotch of a wet stain in the back, where I shot. We watch each other as we wash up. When we leave, I’m walking ahead of him, but we exit at roughly the same time.
I watch him wander back to his SUV as I return to my own car. Our lights flick on in unison. He gives me a quick salute as he passes behind me on his way back to the freeway. A moment later, and he’s nothing more than a memory and a flash of lights across the horizon.
Then I’m off, back into the inky night, and homeward bound.
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Rest Stop at Dusk
I had an hour to go on the road, back to the home I hadn’t seen all weekend. It was dusk at the rest area, and the cars were gathering. I stuck my hands deep into my pockets not so much to hide the erection growing there as to adjust it so that it would be more visible. Then I stepped out of the car and walked past the parked vehicles and the staring eyes within them.
My visiting family was supposed to fly back home on the first day of the year. On new year’s eve, however, I discovered that instead of merely driving to the airport the next morning, I’d be making a twelve-hour trip to drive the family all the way to the east coast, then return again on my own. The trip out was miserable. The journey back, however, didn’t wear me down as much as I thought I would. So when I passed the rest area where occasionally I’ve been known to spread a little seed, I decided to stop.
At this time of day, during the rush hour home and after dark, almost every car held a single man in the driver’s seat. Some fiddled with their phones. Some pretended to be listening to their stereos. A few made no pretense why they were there. Their meaty hands rubbed over the bulges in their slacks as they cocked their heads and stared at me through the windshields. A couple I found unattractive; I avoided their glances as I passed. One kid caught my eye, though—a young guy with a pencil-thin mustache whose black knitted wool hat made his head look like a bullet. He leaned forward onto the steering wheel of his old Mustang to stare at me as I walked by. I held his glance for as long as was comfortable before I passed by his car and strolled up the sidewalk to the restroom.
The restroom urinals are right inside the men’s room door at this particular location, and the door’s always propped open. Anyone could poke a head around the corner from the waiting room and spy men peeing, if they really cared to. The outer doors protest loudly when they’re pulled open, however, and at this time of day there was very little foot traffic inside. The only person occupying the entire restroom was an older guy examining himself in the mirrors over the sinks, further into the washroom’s interior.
He was in his late fifties or early sixties, this guy, with a long braid of a dirty silver color hanging from beneath a distressed suede hat. His shirt was faded denim. That of his jeans was even more faded and worn. The boots he wore were pointy and so beaten that it was impossible to tell what color they once had been. He looked a little like Willie Nelson, in fact, though not as lean or likely to ask my assistance for FarmAid. He looked at me in the mirror, measuring me.
I stood at the innermost of the urinals and unzipped. It only took a few seconds for Willie Nelson to join me. He stood at the urinal next to mine, the tip of his booted foot nearly touching my black Converse. I didn’t even bother to pretend I was trying to pee. There was no need. Willie unzipped and pulled out a dick that made my eyes boggle. Soft, it had to be a good seven inches, and thicker than mine is hard; as it began to stiffen, I knew I was in for one of those rare massive dick sightings.
The thing was about ten inches when it finally stopped swelling and growing. He pulled back the hood from his monster and pointed it at me, giving me a broad, toothy grin. I nodded back, displaying my meat, as my eyes detected traces of yellow in his mustache and beard.
The outer doors swung. Willie and I took our places in front of the urinals, pushing our hips close to thrust our hard-ons into the shadows. Again, there was no need. The guy who joined us was the kid from the car, the one who’d stared at me on my trip in. He was wearing the Michigan white boy’s equivalent of hip-hop clothing—baggy pants with the waist hanging at the base of the ass, puffy winter coat, new sneakers with blinding white laces.
And he stared at me like he wanted to eat me alive.
Willie Nelson stepped back and displayed his dick again. He wasn’t exactly an attractive guy, but you don’t see dicks like his all that often. The kid’s eyes flicked from his massive erection to mine, and back again. He took a place next to Willie, his thumbs hooked into his pants pockets, the tips of his fingers rubbing the hard bulge they shrouded.
“You ever put out in a rig before?” Willie Nelson asked me. His voice was gruff. When he exhaled the words, he smelled of cigarettes and loneliness.
I nodded. I’d been fucked in a truck in a rest area the day I got my driver’s license.
“I bet you’d look real pretty in mine,” he said. The kid reached out and tried to wrap his right hand around the trucker’s dick. The fingers barely touched the base of his palm. His other hand reached out for mine and closed around it. His skin was ice cold. I reached out and cupped the kid’s crotch. I could feel his dick just beneath the denim of his baggy jeans, hard as metal and warm to the touch.
The trucker thrust his hand down the back of my jeans. His fingers snaked down my crack, probing for my hole. I was still clean from the morning’s shower; I let him do what he wanted. “Pretty little pink butthole on you, I bet. You want that, boy? You want this monster up in there?”
It was mentally tempting. And at my age, I don’t get called ‘boy’ very often. But it’s been too long since I was fucked, and I wasn’t going to be able to climb back on that bicycle with the trucker’s length and girth.
So I said nothing. I didn’t really need to. The trucker was stroking himself faster and faster, talking dirty to get himself off. “Legs spread, presenting that ass to me . . . shit. I bet you know what the fuck you’re doing, too. You know how to get a man like me off, huh?” The kid’s eyes glittered as they darted from me to the trucker. He ground his dick against my hand, but made no move to haul it out. “Yeah, sluttin’ your hole out to me, you fuckin’ whore, taking it like a bitch while I seed your little pucker, boy. You like that? You want that?”
The trucker used his free hand to squeeze his nipples through his shirt while he jacked himself rapidly, and then he jammed it back down my pants to connect with my hole again. My own dick was hard and wet at the tip, where a bead of precum had formed and attached itself to the kid’s wrist. The shiny filament connecting us glistened in the florescent light. The trucker’s head tilted back as he stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His finger shoved inside me slightly, but not very far. He grunted, and bucked.
When his load hit the back of the urinal, it did so with a hollow metallic collision, spraying out in one massive gush that immediately began to drip down the porcelain. A much smaller second dribble followed, barely making it out the tip. The pencil-mustached kid stared as if he couldn’t believe his eyes; almost immediately when it was done, he looked me in the eye, gave my dick one final squeeze, and scampered like a frightened bunny. Willie Nelson withdrew his hand from the back of my pants, zipped up looking vaguely embarrassed, and shuffled over to the sink to wash.
And I stuffed my erection down the right leg of my jeans, fastened and collected myself, and walked back to my car. Pair after pair of eyes followed me from the single men in their vehicles, parked in the shadows in the lot. I still felt them coming in my direction as I locked the doors and pulled out my phone.
I tapped out a text message to Spencer. I really need to engage in rambunctious sexual intercourse with you at your earliest opportunity, I wrote him.
You’re back in town? he wrote back immediately. What time? I told him to meet me at my place in ninety minutes.
And then I drove home with an erection that lasted until I saw him.
My visiting family was supposed to fly back home on the first day of the year. On new year’s eve, however, I discovered that instead of merely driving to the airport the next morning, I’d be making a twelve-hour trip to drive the family all the way to the east coast, then return again on my own. The trip out was miserable. The journey back, however, didn’t wear me down as much as I thought I would. So when I passed the rest area where occasionally I’ve been known to spread a little seed, I decided to stop.
At this time of day, during the rush hour home and after dark, almost every car held a single man in the driver’s seat. Some fiddled with their phones. Some pretended to be listening to their stereos. A few made no pretense why they were there. Their meaty hands rubbed over the bulges in their slacks as they cocked their heads and stared at me through the windshields. A couple I found unattractive; I avoided their glances as I passed. One kid caught my eye, though—a young guy with a pencil-thin mustache whose black knitted wool hat made his head look like a bullet. He leaned forward onto the steering wheel of his old Mustang to stare at me as I walked by. I held his glance for as long as was comfortable before I passed by his car and strolled up the sidewalk to the restroom.
The restroom urinals are right inside the men’s room door at this particular location, and the door’s always propped open. Anyone could poke a head around the corner from the waiting room and spy men peeing, if they really cared to. The outer doors protest loudly when they’re pulled open, however, and at this time of day there was very little foot traffic inside. The only person occupying the entire restroom was an older guy examining himself in the mirrors over the sinks, further into the washroom’s interior.
He was in his late fifties or early sixties, this guy, with a long braid of a dirty silver color hanging from beneath a distressed suede hat. His shirt was faded denim. That of his jeans was even more faded and worn. The boots he wore were pointy and so beaten that it was impossible to tell what color they once had been. He looked a little like Willie Nelson, in fact, though not as lean or likely to ask my assistance for FarmAid. He looked at me in the mirror, measuring me.
I stood at the innermost of the urinals and unzipped. It only took a few seconds for Willie Nelson to join me. He stood at the urinal next to mine, the tip of his booted foot nearly touching my black Converse. I didn’t even bother to pretend I was trying to pee. There was no need. Willie unzipped and pulled out a dick that made my eyes boggle. Soft, it had to be a good seven inches, and thicker than mine is hard; as it began to stiffen, I knew I was in for one of those rare massive dick sightings.
The thing was about ten inches when it finally stopped swelling and growing. He pulled back the hood from his monster and pointed it at me, giving me a broad, toothy grin. I nodded back, displaying my meat, as my eyes detected traces of yellow in his mustache and beard.
The outer doors swung. Willie and I took our places in front of the urinals, pushing our hips close to thrust our hard-ons into the shadows. Again, there was no need. The guy who joined us was the kid from the car, the one who’d stared at me on my trip in. He was wearing the Michigan white boy’s equivalent of hip-hop clothing—baggy pants with the waist hanging at the base of the ass, puffy winter coat, new sneakers with blinding white laces.
And he stared at me like he wanted to eat me alive.
Willie Nelson stepped back and displayed his dick again. He wasn’t exactly an attractive guy, but you don’t see dicks like his all that often. The kid’s eyes flicked from his massive erection to mine, and back again. He took a place next to Willie, his thumbs hooked into his pants pockets, the tips of his fingers rubbing the hard bulge they shrouded.
“You ever put out in a rig before?” Willie Nelson asked me. His voice was gruff. When he exhaled the words, he smelled of cigarettes and loneliness.
I nodded. I’d been fucked in a truck in a rest area the day I got my driver’s license.
“I bet you’d look real pretty in mine,” he said. The kid reached out and tried to wrap his right hand around the trucker’s dick. The fingers barely touched the base of his palm. His other hand reached out for mine and closed around it. His skin was ice cold. I reached out and cupped the kid’s crotch. I could feel his dick just beneath the denim of his baggy jeans, hard as metal and warm to the touch.
The trucker thrust his hand down the back of my jeans. His fingers snaked down my crack, probing for my hole. I was still clean from the morning’s shower; I let him do what he wanted. “Pretty little pink butthole on you, I bet. You want that, boy? You want this monster up in there?”
It was mentally tempting. And at my age, I don’t get called ‘boy’ very often. But it’s been too long since I was fucked, and I wasn’t going to be able to climb back on that bicycle with the trucker’s length and girth.
So I said nothing. I didn’t really need to. The trucker was stroking himself faster and faster, talking dirty to get himself off. “Legs spread, presenting that ass to me . . . shit. I bet you know what the fuck you’re doing, too. You know how to get a man like me off, huh?” The kid’s eyes glittered as they darted from me to the trucker. He ground his dick against my hand, but made no move to haul it out. “Yeah, sluttin’ your hole out to me, you fuckin’ whore, taking it like a bitch while I seed your little pucker, boy. You like that? You want that?”
The trucker used his free hand to squeeze his nipples through his shirt while he jacked himself rapidly, and then he jammed it back down my pants to connect with my hole again. My own dick was hard and wet at the tip, where a bead of precum had formed and attached itself to the kid’s wrist. The shiny filament connecting us glistened in the florescent light. The trucker’s head tilted back as he stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His finger shoved inside me slightly, but not very far. He grunted, and bucked.
When his load hit the back of the urinal, it did so with a hollow metallic collision, spraying out in one massive gush that immediately began to drip down the porcelain. A much smaller second dribble followed, barely making it out the tip. The pencil-mustached kid stared as if he couldn’t believe his eyes; almost immediately when it was done, he looked me in the eye, gave my dick one final squeeze, and scampered like a frightened bunny. Willie Nelson withdrew his hand from the back of my pants, zipped up looking vaguely embarrassed, and shuffled over to the sink to wash.
And I stuffed my erection down the right leg of my jeans, fastened and collected myself, and walked back to my car. Pair after pair of eyes followed me from the single men in their vehicles, parked in the shadows in the lot. I still felt them coming in my direction as I locked the doors and pulled out my phone.
I tapped out a text message to Spencer. I really need to engage in rambunctious sexual intercourse with you at your earliest opportunity, I wrote him.
You’re back in town? he wrote back immediately. What time? I told him to meet me at my place in ninety minutes.
And then I drove home with an erection that lasted until I saw him.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Helmet Head
The spouse had a flight out of town today. On the way home I hit the 275 rest stop—it’s the one benefit of having to drive out to that side of town.
I pulled the car to the lot’s far end, as I always do when I cruise there. Usually I sit outside and stroke while I cruise the men in the other cars, but nobody was in their vehicle today. I thought there might be action going on indoors, but when I went into the men’s room, the only person coming out was a scary-looking custodian. I pissed, washed my hands, and got ready to leave.
Then a cruiser walked in while I dried off. I could tell he was a cruiser by the way he stood at the urinals—off to the side, body askew, his core swiveled slightly to the right. His hand moved back and forth like he was shaking off the last drops, but I knew better. The guy was hot. Maybe mid-thirties, shaggy brown hair, scruff on his face. Lean body. Nice Banana Republic clothes.
I stepped up to the urinal, unzipped, and hauled out my dick. We stared at each other openly. He had one of those tools with a monster helmet, an enormous head that looked like it would split holes wide open. His eyebrows rose at the size of mine. “Nice,” he whispered.
“You too,” I whispered back. “Beautiful.” Then I reached out and stroked his. I had a good handful before I heard the squeak of the outside door. We separated. Another man walked in—tall, stocky, gray hair, though he couldn’t have been more than forty-one or forty-two. He looked over his shoulder at us as he headed for the stalls, then stopped once he reached the doors there. Then he fondled his package. It was safe to play.
My buddy showed me his hard dick again. “You married?” he whispered, nodding at my wedding ring. I nodded back. In the mirror, I could see the gray-haired guy playing with himself as he looked at me. “You wanna . . . ?” He reached in front of himself, mimed holding someone’s head in front of his dick, and thrust back and forth into the air. He really dug in with his hips while he did it, and pursed his lips in sexual heat.
“Fuck yeah,” I said, getting ready to kneel on the ground and slurp on it.
The door opened again. Back to safety positions.
When it was clear, the gray-haired guy came over to stand between us. When he reached for the other guy, helmet-head shied away. He only wanted me. I let the gray-haired guy play with me, though. He jerked my dick in helmet-head’s direction, showing it off to him. Helmet-head hissed in appreciation. “You want some. . . ?” The guy was a master of mime. He pretended to grab invisible hips and pull them in. His dick arced up and in, up and in, over and over. “You wanna get fucked?” he asked, just in case I didn’t get it. “Or fuck me? What do you want, married stud?”
“I wanna fuck you,” I whispered back. My dick was dripping now.
“You wanna fuck me?”
“Fuck yeah.”
He turned around and began to pull down his pants, right there in the middle of the men’s room. Then we heard the door open again. The gray-haired guy scooted out as the custodian and a trucker came into the room. The custodian had a mop and bucket and didn’t look like he was going anywhere. Helmet-head zipped up and washed his hands; I followed him. We stood side by side at the driers. Protected by the wall, he pulled out his still-hard curved meat one last time and let the hot air blow on it while I watched. I just grinned, laughed, and walked out of the room.
I was kind of hoping he’d follow me to his car, but instead he left the restrooms and went back to his sedan. As he drove out of the parking lot, he gave me a peace sign.
I wanted to hang around and cruise longer, but the custodian clocked me. Besides, I have the scruffy kid coming over tonight, and I can take out my frustration on his hole.
I pulled the car to the lot’s far end, as I always do when I cruise there. Usually I sit outside and stroke while I cruise the men in the other cars, but nobody was in their vehicle today. I thought there might be action going on indoors, but when I went into the men’s room, the only person coming out was a scary-looking custodian. I pissed, washed my hands, and got ready to leave.
Then a cruiser walked in while I dried off. I could tell he was a cruiser by the way he stood at the urinals—off to the side, body askew, his core swiveled slightly to the right. His hand moved back and forth like he was shaking off the last drops, but I knew better. The guy was hot. Maybe mid-thirties, shaggy brown hair, scruff on his face. Lean body. Nice Banana Republic clothes.
I stepped up to the urinal, unzipped, and hauled out my dick. We stared at each other openly. He had one of those tools with a monster helmet, an enormous head that looked like it would split holes wide open. His eyebrows rose at the size of mine. “Nice,” he whispered.
“You too,” I whispered back. “Beautiful.” Then I reached out and stroked his. I had a good handful before I heard the squeak of the outside door. We separated. Another man walked in—tall, stocky, gray hair, though he couldn’t have been more than forty-one or forty-two. He looked over his shoulder at us as he headed for the stalls, then stopped once he reached the doors there. Then he fondled his package. It was safe to play.
My buddy showed me his hard dick again. “You married?” he whispered, nodding at my wedding ring. I nodded back. In the mirror, I could see the gray-haired guy playing with himself as he looked at me. “You wanna . . . ?” He reached in front of himself, mimed holding someone’s head in front of his dick, and thrust back and forth into the air. He really dug in with his hips while he did it, and pursed his lips in sexual heat.
“Fuck yeah,” I said, getting ready to kneel on the ground and slurp on it.
The door opened again. Back to safety positions.
When it was clear, the gray-haired guy came over to stand between us. When he reached for the other guy, helmet-head shied away. He only wanted me. I let the gray-haired guy play with me, though. He jerked my dick in helmet-head’s direction, showing it off to him. Helmet-head hissed in appreciation. “You want some. . . ?” The guy was a master of mime. He pretended to grab invisible hips and pull them in. His dick arced up and in, up and in, over and over. “You wanna get fucked?” he asked, just in case I didn’t get it. “Or fuck me? What do you want, married stud?”
“I wanna fuck you,” I whispered back. My dick was dripping now.
“You wanna fuck me?”
“Fuck yeah.”
He turned around and began to pull down his pants, right there in the middle of the men’s room. Then we heard the door open again. The gray-haired guy scooted out as the custodian and a trucker came into the room. The custodian had a mop and bucket and didn’t look like he was going anywhere. Helmet-head zipped up and washed his hands; I followed him. We stood side by side at the driers. Protected by the wall, he pulled out his still-hard curved meat one last time and let the hot air blow on it while I watched. I just grinned, laughed, and walked out of the room.
I was kind of hoping he’d follow me to his car, but instead he left the restrooms and went back to his sedan. As he drove out of the parking lot, he gave me a peace sign.
I wanted to hang around and cruise longer, but the custodian clocked me. Besides, I have the scruffy kid coming over tonight, and I can take out my frustration on his hole.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)