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.
Showing posts with label 95. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 95. Show all posts
Friday, May 25, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
Summer Teeth
It was the yellowest part of dusk, when the daylight was just beginning to drain from the sky, as if someone had turned off the faucet of sunlight and let only a little down the drain. Most of the cars around me hadn’t bothered to turn on their headlamps, when I pulled off the highway and into the familiar rest area less than an hour north of my dad’s house, in Virginia.
One of the advantages of my new location is that it cut roughly in half the time it took to drive to my dad’s place—from about fourteen to seven. Fourteen is hell. Seven, not so bad. By rights, I should’ve left New England in the morning and passed this particular public rest stop in the mid-afternoon. I started late, though. Very late. I’d been out late the night before, and had some piano duties in the morning, the Sunday I left. And then I’d had to get some allergy medicine. And then I’d had to stop and clean up a mess at home. And then the family had wanted me to get lunch with them. And then . . . and then . . . there’s always something, right?
I’d fucked in this rest stop before. I’ve stopped in late at night and picked up strange men from their cars, and gotten them to blow me. I’d gotten a few to climb into the back seat, away from the glare of the overhead lamps illuminating the parking lot, and sit on my cock. A couple of times I’d picked up truckers. One had hungrily sucked me off after midnight behind the building in a pool of shadow; the other had taken me back to his truck and let me fuck him in his cab, while he chewed on my nipples so vigorously I winced for a week whenever my shirt fabric would rub across them.
If it had been mid-afternoon when I’d reached this point, I would’ve driven on by. Nothing happens there during the day, that I’ve found. But since dusk was approaching, and the habit was strong, I pulled in. Inside the building, I usually cruise in the further-back of the two men’s rooms, the one that the truckers usually use. It’s a little less trafficked usually had fewer of the opposite sex passing by the door on the way to the women’s room.
The man was already standing at the urinal. He was tall, unshaven. Handsome, in his own way. Though he wore a young man’s ringer T-shirt, a much-worn pair of jeans, and a battered pair of cowboy boots, he had to have been in his fifties. His hair was gray and carefully trimmed; his forearms were tanned, lean, and firm. He stood with his left hand holding his dick, his right thumb hooked into the frayed fabric of his jeans pocket, his fingers pulling apart his fly. He was already looking back over his shoulder, casually, very casually, when I entered.
He paused for a moment at the sound of my footsteps before letting his gaze fall on me. Down. Up. Eye contact. Then casually, very casually, he turned his head away.
But not so much he couldn’t see what I was doing.
I stepped up to the urinal next to his. Men don’t do this, usually. Not when there are three or four empty urinals on either side of a guy. We space ourselves. We head to the urinal furthest away from the man already occupying a space. Even the most heedless of us leaves an empty urinal space between a man standing there and ourselves. Stepping up next to a man in an empty bathroom is deliberate. It’s provocative. It’s an act of intent.
And my dick was intending to get wet.
I started stroking it at the urinal. It didn’t take much to get hard. I’d already felt myself swelling at the sight of the handsome guy in the worn work clothes. I could see his left hand working his own dick, though he kept his hips close to the porcelain. Our eyes met over the little partition. He nodded. So did I.
I stepped back, allowing light to fall onto my stiff dick. He looked back at the doorway, then down at the rod pulsating in my fist. His jaw jutted out at the sight of it. “Fuck.” He mouthed the word, more than uttered it.
His turn. He stepped back to show me his meat. It was respectable—a good six inches, fat at the base where it was surrounded by pubes the color of pewter, and narrower at the head. “Nice,” I grunted.
“What’re you into?” he asked.
But then we were interrupted. We both turned back to the urinals and pretended we were attending to the business at hand, peeing the way no two men do in an empty restroom unless they happen to be blood relatives and/or handcuffed together. Someone had entered the open doorway and, with the sound of track suit fabric swishing as his thighs rubbed, managed to warn us of his approach. I didn’t look immediately, but could hear the intruder at the sinks, close to the doors. Swishing, and swishing, and swishing some more, with that annoying sound that shiny synthetic fabric makes when it passes over each other.
When I saw my new friend looking back over his shoulder, and not bothering to pretend to conceal it, I decided to turn my head as well. Was the guy cruising? No, he was not. He was studying himself in the mirror. Quite frankly, it looked as if he were trying to pop a zit on his upper lip.
The man was—how can I put it kindly?—dressed as if he were mentally challenged. I don’t think he was; there wasn’t anything about his posture or the way he moved that indicated so. But he did indeed wear a shiny, dirty, synthetic track suit and a nasty-ass T-shirt that at some point had probably been white, but was now a Jackson Pollock of snot trails, food stains, and general grunge. He had what my spouse archly calls ‘Summer Teeth.’ As in summer there, summer not.
There’s a character Matt Lucas plays in the British TV show Little Britain named Andy—pudgy, wheelchair-bound (allegedly), lard-pale, desperately unattractive, glasses thick as Coke bottles, of an age that could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty-nine. This guy had Andy’s general appearance and sad, bald dome and Benjamin Franklin haircut. He was rotund. He wore a headband, as if he’d been jogging. And after he’d finished examining his lip, he began undressing right there in the middle of the floor, in front of the sinks.
First he kicked off his shoes so that they went flying against the tiles beneath the sinks. Then he pulled up one foot and started to pull off his sock, while he hopped around on the other. He repeated the performance again, switching sides. Then off came the jacket of his track suit, and then his pants.
My would-be sex buddy and I were kind of gawking outright at this point. My dick had deflated not just at the guy’s entry, but at his prolonged wardrobe change, which wasn’t proceeding exactly swiftly. I think we were both hoping that the guy would just give it up and go away so that the two of us could make some arrangements, but by now he was stepping out of his pants and leaving them in a plastic puddle on the floor.
Off came his undershirt. It was one of those moments in which you want to exclaim “Whoa!” and avert your eyes at the sight of so much unsexy flesh, made even more pale and luminous by the harsh florescent lights. I think I winced. It was quite a sight. The guy slapped himself twice on the belly, looked at himself in the mirror (totally unconscious of the two of us the entire time, I might add), and then gathered up his clothing from where he’d shed it all over the floor and stuffed it into a paper supermarket bag. He put his socks on top, and then his shoes, and standing there in nothing but a pair of briefs with a yellowed front, kicked the bag to the wall.
Then, from a battered and beat-up flight bag, he pulled another outfit. Another track suit, to be exact. Another track suit that was exactly the same. I know what you people are thinking. “Oh, he was just changing into a fresh track suit, silly,” you’re going to tell me. “He’d been driving all day and wanted some fresh clothing.” But people, this was not a fresh track suit. The T-shirt he pulled on was just as disgusting as the first had been. Just as stained. It looked like it stank. The track suit was not only made of the exact same loud material, but had the same logos on it. It was even the same color. The athletic shoes he pulled out of the bag were just as battered and shot. The socks, just as yellow. If anything, the new identical track suit was in even worse condition than the other one, as it had been wadded up and shoved in its carrier with little regard.
I think the both of us were standing there with our jaws dropped. My buddy zipped up quickly, when the guy started hopping around the restroom floor to pull on his sock. “Good luck,” he murmured, with a pat on my back. I wanted to tell him to wait, that I’d walk out with him, but he was already on his way. I zipped, edged past the crazy fool with the Ben Franklin hair, and made my way out to the parking lot.
It doesn’t take much to spook a public encounter sometimes, and the gentleman in the track suit had managed to squelch this one. I saw my buddy taking strides with his long legs in the direction of a white van near where I’d parked. He didn’t linger, though, or make any advances to inviting me into the van. He pulled out, winked at me as he passed, and was on his way.
Damn you, Summer Teeth!
One of the advantages of my new location is that it cut roughly in half the time it took to drive to my dad’s place—from about fourteen to seven. Fourteen is hell. Seven, not so bad. By rights, I should’ve left New England in the morning and passed this particular public rest stop in the mid-afternoon. I started late, though. Very late. I’d been out late the night before, and had some piano duties in the morning, the Sunday I left. And then I’d had to get some allergy medicine. And then I’d had to stop and clean up a mess at home. And then the family had wanted me to get lunch with them. And then . . . and then . . . there’s always something, right?
I’d fucked in this rest stop before. I’ve stopped in late at night and picked up strange men from their cars, and gotten them to blow me. I’d gotten a few to climb into the back seat, away from the glare of the overhead lamps illuminating the parking lot, and sit on my cock. A couple of times I’d picked up truckers. One had hungrily sucked me off after midnight behind the building in a pool of shadow; the other had taken me back to his truck and let me fuck him in his cab, while he chewed on my nipples so vigorously I winced for a week whenever my shirt fabric would rub across them.
If it had been mid-afternoon when I’d reached this point, I would’ve driven on by. Nothing happens there during the day, that I’ve found. But since dusk was approaching, and the habit was strong, I pulled in. Inside the building, I usually cruise in the further-back of the two men’s rooms, the one that the truckers usually use. It’s a little less trafficked usually had fewer of the opposite sex passing by the door on the way to the women’s room.
The man was already standing at the urinal. He was tall, unshaven. Handsome, in his own way. Though he wore a young man’s ringer T-shirt, a much-worn pair of jeans, and a battered pair of cowboy boots, he had to have been in his fifties. His hair was gray and carefully trimmed; his forearms were tanned, lean, and firm. He stood with his left hand holding his dick, his right thumb hooked into the frayed fabric of his jeans pocket, his fingers pulling apart his fly. He was already looking back over his shoulder, casually, very casually, when I entered.
He paused for a moment at the sound of my footsteps before letting his gaze fall on me. Down. Up. Eye contact. Then casually, very casually, he turned his head away.
But not so much he couldn’t see what I was doing.
I stepped up to the urinal next to his. Men don’t do this, usually. Not when there are three or four empty urinals on either side of a guy. We space ourselves. We head to the urinal furthest away from the man already occupying a space. Even the most heedless of us leaves an empty urinal space between a man standing there and ourselves. Stepping up next to a man in an empty bathroom is deliberate. It’s provocative. It’s an act of intent.
And my dick was intending to get wet.
I started stroking it at the urinal. It didn’t take much to get hard. I’d already felt myself swelling at the sight of the handsome guy in the worn work clothes. I could see his left hand working his own dick, though he kept his hips close to the porcelain. Our eyes met over the little partition. He nodded. So did I.
I stepped back, allowing light to fall onto my stiff dick. He looked back at the doorway, then down at the rod pulsating in my fist. His jaw jutted out at the sight of it. “Fuck.” He mouthed the word, more than uttered it.
His turn. He stepped back to show me his meat. It was respectable—a good six inches, fat at the base where it was surrounded by pubes the color of pewter, and narrower at the head. “Nice,” I grunted.
“What’re you into?” he asked.
But then we were interrupted. We both turned back to the urinals and pretended we were attending to the business at hand, peeing the way no two men do in an empty restroom unless they happen to be blood relatives and/or handcuffed together. Someone had entered the open doorway and, with the sound of track suit fabric swishing as his thighs rubbed, managed to warn us of his approach. I didn’t look immediately, but could hear the intruder at the sinks, close to the doors. Swishing, and swishing, and swishing some more, with that annoying sound that shiny synthetic fabric makes when it passes over each other.
When I saw my new friend looking back over his shoulder, and not bothering to pretend to conceal it, I decided to turn my head as well. Was the guy cruising? No, he was not. He was studying himself in the mirror. Quite frankly, it looked as if he were trying to pop a zit on his upper lip.
The man was—how can I put it kindly?—dressed as if he were mentally challenged. I don’t think he was; there wasn’t anything about his posture or the way he moved that indicated so. But he did indeed wear a shiny, dirty, synthetic track suit and a nasty-ass T-shirt that at some point had probably been white, but was now a Jackson Pollock of snot trails, food stains, and general grunge. He had what my spouse archly calls ‘Summer Teeth.’ As in summer there, summer not.
There’s a character Matt Lucas plays in the British TV show Little Britain named Andy—pudgy, wheelchair-bound (allegedly), lard-pale, desperately unattractive, glasses thick as Coke bottles, of an age that could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty-nine. This guy had Andy’s general appearance and sad, bald dome and Benjamin Franklin haircut. He was rotund. He wore a headband, as if he’d been jogging. And after he’d finished examining his lip, he began undressing right there in the middle of the floor, in front of the sinks.
First he kicked off his shoes so that they went flying against the tiles beneath the sinks. Then he pulled up one foot and started to pull off his sock, while he hopped around on the other. He repeated the performance again, switching sides. Then off came the jacket of his track suit, and then his pants.
My would-be sex buddy and I were kind of gawking outright at this point. My dick had deflated not just at the guy’s entry, but at his prolonged wardrobe change, which wasn’t proceeding exactly swiftly. I think we were both hoping that the guy would just give it up and go away so that the two of us could make some arrangements, but by now he was stepping out of his pants and leaving them in a plastic puddle on the floor.
Off came his undershirt. It was one of those moments in which you want to exclaim “Whoa!” and avert your eyes at the sight of so much unsexy flesh, made even more pale and luminous by the harsh florescent lights. I think I winced. It was quite a sight. The guy slapped himself twice on the belly, looked at himself in the mirror (totally unconscious of the two of us the entire time, I might add), and then gathered up his clothing from where he’d shed it all over the floor and stuffed it into a paper supermarket bag. He put his socks on top, and then his shoes, and standing there in nothing but a pair of briefs with a yellowed front, kicked the bag to the wall.
Then, from a battered and beat-up flight bag, he pulled another outfit. Another track suit, to be exact. Another track suit that was exactly the same. I know what you people are thinking. “Oh, he was just changing into a fresh track suit, silly,” you’re going to tell me. “He’d been driving all day and wanted some fresh clothing.” But people, this was not a fresh track suit. The T-shirt he pulled on was just as disgusting as the first had been. Just as stained. It looked like it stank. The track suit was not only made of the exact same loud material, but had the same logos on it. It was even the same color. The athletic shoes he pulled out of the bag were just as battered and shot. The socks, just as yellow. If anything, the new identical track suit was in even worse condition than the other one, as it had been wadded up and shoved in its carrier with little regard.
I think the both of us were standing there with our jaws dropped. My buddy zipped up quickly, when the guy started hopping around the restroom floor to pull on his sock. “Good luck,” he murmured, with a pat on my back. I wanted to tell him to wait, that I’d walk out with him, but he was already on his way. I zipped, edged past the crazy fool with the Ben Franklin hair, and made my way out to the parking lot.
It doesn’t take much to spook a public encounter sometimes, and the gentleman in the track suit had managed to squelch this one. I saw my buddy taking strides with his long legs in the direction of a white van near where I’d parked. He didn’t linger, though, or make any advances to inviting me into the van. He pulled out, winked at me as he passed, and was on his way.
Damn you, Summer Teeth!
Monday, October 24, 2011
In the Leaves
It's a Thursday night, and I've got a few hours to myself. My duties for the day are done—I've dropped off the appropriate people to the appropriate places for the evening. The night's chilly, but the car is warm. I'm not ready to go home.
The rest stop is busy when I pull in. It's barely eight, and already the trucks are lining the entrance and exit ramps as their drivers break for the night. I can hear their motors idling as I drive by. The sound’s a giant, mechanical purr. The spaces nearest the McDonald's are filled with commuters and family cars.
But I'm heading to the back of the lot, where there are only three vehicles. They're dark on the inside, but there's just enough light streaming down from the lamps above to show me that one is empty, while the other two have solitary silhouettes within. I park between them, a few spots over from one, and across from the other.
To my left, the man in the cream sedan is pretending to sing along to music on his car radio. His lips are moving, anyway, but his head is turned in my direction. He nods. I nod back as I cut the ignition. The internal lights of my own car flick on—it's an automatic convenience, so that I can see the door latches. I'm aware that they give the men in both cars a clear look at me for a good fifteen seconds. Then they fade. I'm not going anywhere.
In the parking aisle facing mine, across from me and one space over, a white Ford truck has its nose pointed at the grille of my car. I can't see its occupant. The outline of him, dark against dark, gives the impression of maleness. My eyes read him as young—perhaps thirty or thirty-two. The truck itself is an older model. It's clean, and well-taken-care of, but it definitely was assembled a decade or more ago.
The man within is looking at me. I'm not even sure how I can tell. Watching him is like trying to track an invisible cloud against a midnight sky, when the only way of knowing of its presence is to observe what stars it obscures. Still, I can tell by the procession of his silhouettes that he's pointing his face in my direction. I tip my head, as if I'm trying to stare more intently at him—and I am. I rub my dick, and look down at it. He can't see my crotch, not from his angle. But he might be able to see the lift of my shoulder, the motion of my arm, the back-and-forth of my hand over the corduroy.
It might be working. He leans forward. His hands grasp the steering wheel. I look back and forth between the occupant of the truck, and the man in the cream-colored car. This might turn out to be one of those situations in which no one makes a move, and we all lose.
The truck's lights flick on, making me blink. He's started his ignition. When he backs out of his space, the lamp from above hits him for a moment, and I get an impression of short dark hair, a round face, clean, tight skin. He does seem like a younger guy, but it's an impression, a half-second's blur of the dark becoming light and then disappearing once again, and nothing more. I watch as the truck pulls out from its aisle and into the lane that leads past the McDonald's to the gas pumps and the exit lane. He's not leaving, though. He turns and pulls down the first aisle closest to the rest stop building, and proceeds all the way down to its furthest, and darkest, end. There he parks, and turns off his lights.
Okay. I wait a moment, and then, with my heart thumping, I follow.
I'm a little upset when I retrace the same route the truck's just taken, only to find him pulling out and past me in the opposite direction when I'm nearly at my goal. Did I mistake the cue? Was he trying to get away from me, and got pissed off when he saw me following? Did I imagine the entire thing altogether? I pull into the spot he's just vacated. I watch. He parks the truck into a space in the busy part of this aisle, and stops.
I'm confused. Then I notice that parked directly across from me is a stretch limousine. The driver's inside, talking on his cell phone, obviously killing time. Maybe the guy in my truck didn't like being so near a potential witness.
It looks like I'm right. The truck pulls out of its new space and heads back my way. It drives past, and pauses where the aisle merges into the lane that's supposed to be for trucks to take to the back lot. I turn on my ignition once more, and follow.
He takes me through the confusing maze of trucks snaked into their spaces. I wonder if he's looking for a space at the back of this lot, but no. We're heading to the exit. Past the idling haulers we both go, onto the ramp, merging with the highway traffic. The next exit is just ahead; his right blinker turns on.
A moment later, mine mirrors his.
I don't know this neighborhood. I'm following him off the highway, down the service drive that runs parallel. It's pitch-black here in spots. There are no streetlights. For the first time, I wonder if I'm crazy—crazy to be following a man I haven't even seen, crazy to be driving somewhere he could rob me, assault me. The dude could be just some guy who wanted to go home, who'd think I was stalking him when I got out of my car. This whole night could've been a crazy convergence of coincidence and mixed signals.
And yet I'm so sure of what I'm doing, of what all those cues meant. I know for a fact to what this is leading. I just know.
His left blinker is blinding, when it suddenly fills the windscreen in front of me. We both slow down, and make the turn onto a badly-paved road that leads to an industrial-looking building. Its parking lot is surrounded by a chain-link fence. The place looks like a factory. As we both slowly crawl across the asphalt, I can see that whatever it used to be has been converted into a well-known fitness club chain. Bright and safe as the interior of the building looks far away, the parking lot is as dark as the neighborhood around.
The driver pulls to a stop at the back of the lot. A tree-pruning company has parked its trucks there for the night. Next to them, the pickup truck looks totally in place. I pull my own black car a spot over, and turn off my lights.
I see his hand fumbling for the lock when I make my way from my car to his. I pull open the passenger door, and climb in.
"Hey," I say.
"Hola," he replies.
It's the first time I've gotten to see him. He's fucking beautiful. No, seriously, it's crazy how beautiful he is. The odds of me lucking out like this are infinitesimal. The boy's Latin, dark-haired. His features are fine, his body lean beneath baggy clothing. There's a trace of a mustache on his upper lip, a bit of scruff on his cheeks, but he's either too young or too naturally smooth to produce more. His eyes are looking at me hungrily. His hands are rubbing his crotch. He's much younger than thirty. At a glance, I'd guess no more than twenty-four or twenty-five, if that.
I reach out and rub between his legs. His hands rush to touch me. He knows just where to put his fingers. Under the cords I'm wearing my dick is stiff. I can tell my shorts are sticky from the prolonged build-up we've enjoyed, over the last twenty minutes. His face is close to mine; his breath smells of sweet lemon candy. When we kiss, he groans. His head tilts back. I can hear him murmuring something in Spanish into my ear as he leans over further to try to undo my pants. Frustrated, he pops open his own fly and pulls his white painters' pants to the ground, around his ankles. I can see about six inches of hooded meat standing at attention, rigid and pulsing with the quick beat of his heart.
He's a tiny man. His passenger seat is pulled up all the way, and the seat back is bolt upright. I'm all limbs and length. I can't undo my top button in this kind of space. "Does your seat. . . ?"
He already knows what I'm asking. His hand darts between my legs to the space between my feet, and the seat eases away from the dash. I find the seat back release and lower myself. Together we manage to get my pants down and my dick loose. Then his mouth is on my meat. He sucks like he's sucked dick all his life. He sucks like he's been denied, until now. I keep a look out into the dark parking lot, but no one is near. No one's even coming in or out of the gym right now. He cranes his neck and tries to position himself so that he's between my legs, but there's not enough room.
He comes up for air. "Do you fuck the ass?" He's got a heavy accent. There's a certain hesitance to his words as he speaks, as if there's a moment or two of lag between the thought in his mind and the words he's dredging up in a language that's not his own. When I nod, he says, "The truck." He nods at the landscaping trucks beside his own. "Go behind."
Then, in a shot, he's pulled up his pants and is out the driver's side door.
Hot dog, I think to myself.
One of the trucks carries equipment. The other is a limb shredder. There's a pile of leaves that's calf-deep behind them, and we're standing in it. They can't all be from the trees above—there are too many leaves left on the branches there. The smell of damp and autumn mold is rich and pungent. It lingers, like some kind of inescapable seasonal cologne. He drops his pants again and wraps his hand around his rock-hard dick. "Show me your body," I whisper.
Immediately he pulls up his shirt. In the darkness he's little more than a luminous pale curve, slender at the waist, full below it. His stomach was perfectly flat. His chest is beautiful and lightly muscular. I gape, unable to believe my good fortune. I simply don't have this kind of luck, this jackpot from a random draw.
"Turn around," I tell him, after he's fumbled with the button of my cords and loosed me from their bindings.
His ass is surprisingly hairy, considering how smooth the rest of his body is. I run my hands over the cheeks. He groans, and pushes them back to me. "You like the fuck?" he whispers.
I let my fingers probe into his hole. That's all the answer he needs. He groans, and whispers more words in Spanish. It's a clean-smelling hole, I quickly find out. I want it.
He backs up against me. My shaft is pillowed between his butt cheeks. The boy only comes up to my nipples, if that. His T-shirt is still bunched up around his armpits; I wrap my hands around his naked chest and hold him tight. He responds amorously, turning his head to kiss me. His teeth pull at my lower lip; he cries out as my cock head pushes against his hole. With no lube yet, there's a lot of resistance, but his hand grabs at the back of my head. His fingers entwine with my hair, tugging at it. When my hands move down to his cock, I can feel his balls retracting.
It's too late to stop what's happening. He comes violently. The leaves thrash at our feet as he jerks and shakes. He cries out, his moan muffled by the autumn blanket below us, and the still-heavy canopy of leafed branches above. The back of my fingers become sticky from one of the jets of semen erupting from his dick. He hasn't even finished shooting when he's whispering out, "Sorry! Sorry!" He seems to mean it. He didn't want it to end that quickly.
My hands quiet him. I hold him firmly, like an unsettled child. I pull out the tip of my dick from his hole and keep my left hand on the small of his back. A few strokes of my right hand is all it takes. My own orgasm is more silent. My breathing increases. I seem to heave and roll, like a ship on an unquiet sea. My load lands on his ass, on both cheeks. As the blood returns to my head, I rub my cock over the wetness.
We stand there for a moment in the leaves. My first thought, as the sexual haze fades, is of ticks.
He's already pulling up his pants, leaving my seed on his skin as he snaps the waistband of his shorts over his hips. Up come the baggy white trousers. He throws his arms around me in an unexpected gesture of affection and gratitude. Then he plants a hand on my chest, followed by a raised index finger, before he disappears.
I understand. He's telling me to wait a moment before I emerge from the shadows as well. When I finally do, I can see him in his truck, talking to someone on his phone. Its little lights are the pinpoint stars his silhouette obscures, as I glide silently back to my own car, doused in autumn's spicy perfume.
Then I drive home.
The rest stop is busy when I pull in. It's barely eight, and already the trucks are lining the entrance and exit ramps as their drivers break for the night. I can hear their motors idling as I drive by. The sound’s a giant, mechanical purr. The spaces nearest the McDonald's are filled with commuters and family cars.
But I'm heading to the back of the lot, where there are only three vehicles. They're dark on the inside, but there's just enough light streaming down from the lamps above to show me that one is empty, while the other two have solitary silhouettes within. I park between them, a few spots over from one, and across from the other.
To my left, the man in the cream sedan is pretending to sing along to music on his car radio. His lips are moving, anyway, but his head is turned in my direction. He nods. I nod back as I cut the ignition. The internal lights of my own car flick on—it's an automatic convenience, so that I can see the door latches. I'm aware that they give the men in both cars a clear look at me for a good fifteen seconds. Then they fade. I'm not going anywhere.
In the parking aisle facing mine, across from me and one space over, a white Ford truck has its nose pointed at the grille of my car. I can't see its occupant. The outline of him, dark against dark, gives the impression of maleness. My eyes read him as young—perhaps thirty or thirty-two. The truck itself is an older model. It's clean, and well-taken-care of, but it definitely was assembled a decade or more ago.
The man within is looking at me. I'm not even sure how I can tell. Watching him is like trying to track an invisible cloud against a midnight sky, when the only way of knowing of its presence is to observe what stars it obscures. Still, I can tell by the procession of his silhouettes that he's pointing his face in my direction. I tip my head, as if I'm trying to stare more intently at him—and I am. I rub my dick, and look down at it. He can't see my crotch, not from his angle. But he might be able to see the lift of my shoulder, the motion of my arm, the back-and-forth of my hand over the corduroy.
It might be working. He leans forward. His hands grasp the steering wheel. I look back and forth between the occupant of the truck, and the man in the cream-colored car. This might turn out to be one of those situations in which no one makes a move, and we all lose.
The truck's lights flick on, making me blink. He's started his ignition. When he backs out of his space, the lamp from above hits him for a moment, and I get an impression of short dark hair, a round face, clean, tight skin. He does seem like a younger guy, but it's an impression, a half-second's blur of the dark becoming light and then disappearing once again, and nothing more. I watch as the truck pulls out from its aisle and into the lane that leads past the McDonald's to the gas pumps and the exit lane. He's not leaving, though. He turns and pulls down the first aisle closest to the rest stop building, and proceeds all the way down to its furthest, and darkest, end. There he parks, and turns off his lights.
Okay. I wait a moment, and then, with my heart thumping, I follow.
I'm a little upset when I retrace the same route the truck's just taken, only to find him pulling out and past me in the opposite direction when I'm nearly at my goal. Did I mistake the cue? Was he trying to get away from me, and got pissed off when he saw me following? Did I imagine the entire thing altogether? I pull into the spot he's just vacated. I watch. He parks the truck into a space in the busy part of this aisle, and stops.
I'm confused. Then I notice that parked directly across from me is a stretch limousine. The driver's inside, talking on his cell phone, obviously killing time. Maybe the guy in my truck didn't like being so near a potential witness.
It looks like I'm right. The truck pulls out of its new space and heads back my way. It drives past, and pauses where the aisle merges into the lane that's supposed to be for trucks to take to the back lot. I turn on my ignition once more, and follow.
He takes me through the confusing maze of trucks snaked into their spaces. I wonder if he's looking for a space at the back of this lot, but no. We're heading to the exit. Past the idling haulers we both go, onto the ramp, merging with the highway traffic. The next exit is just ahead; his right blinker turns on.
A moment later, mine mirrors his.
I don't know this neighborhood. I'm following him off the highway, down the service drive that runs parallel. It's pitch-black here in spots. There are no streetlights. For the first time, I wonder if I'm crazy—crazy to be following a man I haven't even seen, crazy to be driving somewhere he could rob me, assault me. The dude could be just some guy who wanted to go home, who'd think I was stalking him when I got out of my car. This whole night could've been a crazy convergence of coincidence and mixed signals.
And yet I'm so sure of what I'm doing, of what all those cues meant. I know for a fact to what this is leading. I just know.
His left blinker is blinding, when it suddenly fills the windscreen in front of me. We both slow down, and make the turn onto a badly-paved road that leads to an industrial-looking building. Its parking lot is surrounded by a chain-link fence. The place looks like a factory. As we both slowly crawl across the asphalt, I can see that whatever it used to be has been converted into a well-known fitness club chain. Bright and safe as the interior of the building looks far away, the parking lot is as dark as the neighborhood around.
The driver pulls to a stop at the back of the lot. A tree-pruning company has parked its trucks there for the night. Next to them, the pickup truck looks totally in place. I pull my own black car a spot over, and turn off my lights.
I see his hand fumbling for the lock when I make my way from my car to his. I pull open the passenger door, and climb in.
"Hey," I say.
"Hola," he replies.
It's the first time I've gotten to see him. He's fucking beautiful. No, seriously, it's crazy how beautiful he is. The odds of me lucking out like this are infinitesimal. The boy's Latin, dark-haired. His features are fine, his body lean beneath baggy clothing. There's a trace of a mustache on his upper lip, a bit of scruff on his cheeks, but he's either too young or too naturally smooth to produce more. His eyes are looking at me hungrily. His hands are rubbing his crotch. He's much younger than thirty. At a glance, I'd guess no more than twenty-four or twenty-five, if that.
I reach out and rub between his legs. His hands rush to touch me. He knows just where to put his fingers. Under the cords I'm wearing my dick is stiff. I can tell my shorts are sticky from the prolonged build-up we've enjoyed, over the last twenty minutes. His face is close to mine; his breath smells of sweet lemon candy. When we kiss, he groans. His head tilts back. I can hear him murmuring something in Spanish into my ear as he leans over further to try to undo my pants. Frustrated, he pops open his own fly and pulls his white painters' pants to the ground, around his ankles. I can see about six inches of hooded meat standing at attention, rigid and pulsing with the quick beat of his heart.
He's a tiny man. His passenger seat is pulled up all the way, and the seat back is bolt upright. I'm all limbs and length. I can't undo my top button in this kind of space. "Does your seat. . . ?"
He already knows what I'm asking. His hand darts between my legs to the space between my feet, and the seat eases away from the dash. I find the seat back release and lower myself. Together we manage to get my pants down and my dick loose. Then his mouth is on my meat. He sucks like he's sucked dick all his life. He sucks like he's been denied, until now. I keep a look out into the dark parking lot, but no one is near. No one's even coming in or out of the gym right now. He cranes his neck and tries to position himself so that he's between my legs, but there's not enough room.
He comes up for air. "Do you fuck the ass?" He's got a heavy accent. There's a certain hesitance to his words as he speaks, as if there's a moment or two of lag between the thought in his mind and the words he's dredging up in a language that's not his own. When I nod, he says, "The truck." He nods at the landscaping trucks beside his own. "Go behind."
Then, in a shot, he's pulled up his pants and is out the driver's side door.
Hot dog, I think to myself.
One of the trucks carries equipment. The other is a limb shredder. There's a pile of leaves that's calf-deep behind them, and we're standing in it. They can't all be from the trees above—there are too many leaves left on the branches there. The smell of damp and autumn mold is rich and pungent. It lingers, like some kind of inescapable seasonal cologne. He drops his pants again and wraps his hand around his rock-hard dick. "Show me your body," I whisper.
Immediately he pulls up his shirt. In the darkness he's little more than a luminous pale curve, slender at the waist, full below it. His stomach was perfectly flat. His chest is beautiful and lightly muscular. I gape, unable to believe my good fortune. I simply don't have this kind of luck, this jackpot from a random draw.
"Turn around," I tell him, after he's fumbled with the button of my cords and loosed me from their bindings.
His ass is surprisingly hairy, considering how smooth the rest of his body is. I run my hands over the cheeks. He groans, and pushes them back to me. "You like the fuck?" he whispers.
I let my fingers probe into his hole. That's all the answer he needs. He groans, and whispers more words in Spanish. It's a clean-smelling hole, I quickly find out. I want it.
He backs up against me. My shaft is pillowed between his butt cheeks. The boy only comes up to my nipples, if that. His T-shirt is still bunched up around his armpits; I wrap my hands around his naked chest and hold him tight. He responds amorously, turning his head to kiss me. His teeth pull at my lower lip; he cries out as my cock head pushes against his hole. With no lube yet, there's a lot of resistance, but his hand grabs at the back of my head. His fingers entwine with my hair, tugging at it. When my hands move down to his cock, I can feel his balls retracting.
It's too late to stop what's happening. He comes violently. The leaves thrash at our feet as he jerks and shakes. He cries out, his moan muffled by the autumn blanket below us, and the still-heavy canopy of leafed branches above. The back of my fingers become sticky from one of the jets of semen erupting from his dick. He hasn't even finished shooting when he's whispering out, "Sorry! Sorry!" He seems to mean it. He didn't want it to end that quickly.
My hands quiet him. I hold him firmly, like an unsettled child. I pull out the tip of my dick from his hole and keep my left hand on the small of his back. A few strokes of my right hand is all it takes. My own orgasm is more silent. My breathing increases. I seem to heave and roll, like a ship on an unquiet sea. My load lands on his ass, on both cheeks. As the blood returns to my head, I rub my cock over the wetness.
We stand there for a moment in the leaves. My first thought, as the sexual haze fades, is of ticks.
He's already pulling up his pants, leaving my seed on his skin as he snaps the waistband of his shorts over his hips. Up come the baggy white trousers. He throws his arms around me in an unexpected gesture of affection and gratitude. Then he plants a hand on my chest, followed by a raised index finger, before he disappears.
I understand. He's telling me to wait a moment before I emerge from the shadows as well. When I finally do, I can see him in his truck, talking to someone on his phone. Its little lights are the pinpoint stars his silhouette obscures, as I glide silently back to my own car, doused in autumn's spicy perfume.
Then I drive home.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Subterranean
It's after ten at night, and in a room that feels more subterranean than it should, the florescent bulbs give off a glow that's harsh and unforgiving. I know if I look in one of the mold-eroded mirrors hanging over the dirty sinks by the door, the blue-white light will make every mottle of my face into a crater. It's silent. Every shuffle I make with my boots, every clink of my belt buckle against the porcelain urinal at the restroom's far end resounds like an echo chamber.
This dank rest stop men's room feels more underground than most because it's at the lower point of a building built on a grade. Upstairs there's a restaurant and light and soft music playing over the loudspeakers. Down here is silence, and dark, and a flickering bulb over the entrance. Trees overhang the separate entrance, making it seem even gloomier, more remote. Out in the hallway beyond the restroom threshold, beyond the turn in the room that renders me invisible to anyone outside, I hear the sounds of opening doors, of footsteps, of voices, and then the distinct sound of my privacy evaporating as someone joins me in the room.
My dick is hard in my hand. It has been for three or four minutes as I masturbate into the urinal, waiting to see who might show up. I stand close to the grimy porcelain, though, hands cupped around my meat so that it looks like I'm peeing. He comes in, and, after a moment's hesitation, stands at the urinal next to me. There are four urinals total. I've chosen the next-to-last, number three, at the room's far end. The laws of the men's room dictate that he choose number one, to give himself the maximum space possible from a stranger. But he chooses number two, and gives me a sidelong glance as he sidles up.
I take a look. He's beautiful. His hair is a deep brown, carefully cut close to his head. His eyes are the color of coffee and cream. He has one of those triangular faces with a broad brows, distinct cheekbones that make his mouth and chin appear smaller than they actually are. On his skinny frame, it's a look that really suits him. His skin is perfectly smooth, and in this light, so pale it's like snow.
He hasn't unzipped his distressed jeans. His hand toys with his zipper as if he's thinking about it, but in reality he's just looking at me. He knows why I'm there. I back away an inch from the urinal, and allow my own hands to unfurl from the angry flesh they conceal. His eyes drop to that pillar of pulsing blood and nerves and desire. His pretty lips part unconsciously.
I pull all the way back this time, so he can see the entire length of it. He's a little shocked at the sight, I can tell. Maybe he hasn't seen anything so big before. His own fingers still trail over his zipper, as if he knows he should go through the motions and pretend to urinate. Yet he can't. He's fixated at the sight of my dick.
There's no one disturbing the near-silence of the room. The only sound I hear is the slightest wetness as I stroke for him and my dick's slit separates with a sticky pop of precum. Then he sighs, and it renders the quiet like a weapon. His eyes flick to mine, asking for permission to look. I nod. It's okay, the gesture says. Look all you want. Touch.
He understands the permission for what it is, and stares. I can see the lump in his neck bob up and down with every deep gulp, every swallow. He's forgotten about his own zipper, now. His hands hang at his sides, quiet and unmoving. I show him every inch of my meat—the red, swollen head, the long shaft, the balls with their light, short coat of blond fur. He wants to see it all.
He wants more, I can tell, even if he's not sure what. I step forward, bringing myself closer. Then I reach out and put my hand on the back of his head. I've wanted to touch that hair since I saw it; in this harsh light it gleams, and leaves him with a halo that my fingers destroy as they work through the thick locks. He resists when I begin to pull him down toward a dick that's already pointing directly at those thin, sexy lips. It's not a serious resistance, though. It's the sort of token resistance that men exert when they know they're about to do what they shouldn't, so they can think well of themselves after. I know exactly what it is, and am not in the least worried by it.
Then it happens. Just as he's close enough to my dick that I can feel the hot breath from his open mouth on the crown, there are footsteps in the hall. A woman calls a name in through the men's room door, wondering if its owner is the hell done yet.
He backs off immediately, the spell broken. My fingers slip out of his hair as he breaks away. He shouts out a stammered response, telling the woman he's almost done. It's too high, too shrill. I can hear the sexual tension in those brief words, even if the woman can't. Across the room, he make noises with the sinks, with the towel dispenser, All the time he's staring at me, his lean body pointed to me. He balls up the towels in his hands and pauses, looking first in my eyes and then at the dick that I'm still displaying for him. Then with a basketball-practice wrist, he tosses the wad into the waste bin.
He's gone, but not before he looks me in the eyes again. I see regret there, and yearning.
He'll be thinking about me later, I know. In the dark, in the quiet of the night, with his hand under the cover. He'll be thinking about me, all right.
This dank rest stop men's room feels more underground than most because it's at the lower point of a building built on a grade. Upstairs there's a restaurant and light and soft music playing over the loudspeakers. Down here is silence, and dark, and a flickering bulb over the entrance. Trees overhang the separate entrance, making it seem even gloomier, more remote. Out in the hallway beyond the restroom threshold, beyond the turn in the room that renders me invisible to anyone outside, I hear the sounds of opening doors, of footsteps, of voices, and then the distinct sound of my privacy evaporating as someone joins me in the room.
My dick is hard in my hand. It has been for three or four minutes as I masturbate into the urinal, waiting to see who might show up. I stand close to the grimy porcelain, though, hands cupped around my meat so that it looks like I'm peeing. He comes in, and, after a moment's hesitation, stands at the urinal next to me. There are four urinals total. I've chosen the next-to-last, number three, at the room's far end. The laws of the men's room dictate that he choose number one, to give himself the maximum space possible from a stranger. But he chooses number two, and gives me a sidelong glance as he sidles up.
I take a look. He's beautiful. His hair is a deep brown, carefully cut close to his head. His eyes are the color of coffee and cream. He has one of those triangular faces with a broad brows, distinct cheekbones that make his mouth and chin appear smaller than they actually are. On his skinny frame, it's a look that really suits him. His skin is perfectly smooth, and in this light, so pale it's like snow.
He hasn't unzipped his distressed jeans. His hand toys with his zipper as if he's thinking about it, but in reality he's just looking at me. He knows why I'm there. I back away an inch from the urinal, and allow my own hands to unfurl from the angry flesh they conceal. His eyes drop to that pillar of pulsing blood and nerves and desire. His pretty lips part unconsciously.
I pull all the way back this time, so he can see the entire length of it. He's a little shocked at the sight, I can tell. Maybe he hasn't seen anything so big before. His own fingers still trail over his zipper, as if he knows he should go through the motions and pretend to urinate. Yet he can't. He's fixated at the sight of my dick.
There's no one disturbing the near-silence of the room. The only sound I hear is the slightest wetness as I stroke for him and my dick's slit separates with a sticky pop of precum. Then he sighs, and it renders the quiet like a weapon. His eyes flick to mine, asking for permission to look. I nod. It's okay, the gesture says. Look all you want. Touch.
He understands the permission for what it is, and stares. I can see the lump in his neck bob up and down with every deep gulp, every swallow. He's forgotten about his own zipper, now. His hands hang at his sides, quiet and unmoving. I show him every inch of my meat—the red, swollen head, the long shaft, the balls with their light, short coat of blond fur. He wants to see it all.
He wants more, I can tell, even if he's not sure what. I step forward, bringing myself closer. Then I reach out and put my hand on the back of his head. I've wanted to touch that hair since I saw it; in this harsh light it gleams, and leaves him with a halo that my fingers destroy as they work through the thick locks. He resists when I begin to pull him down toward a dick that's already pointing directly at those thin, sexy lips. It's not a serious resistance, though. It's the sort of token resistance that men exert when they know they're about to do what they shouldn't, so they can think well of themselves after. I know exactly what it is, and am not in the least worried by it.
Then it happens. Just as he's close enough to my dick that I can feel the hot breath from his open mouth on the crown, there are footsteps in the hall. A woman calls a name in through the men's room door, wondering if its owner is the hell done yet.
He backs off immediately, the spell broken. My fingers slip out of his hair as he breaks away. He shouts out a stammered response, telling the woman he's almost done. It's too high, too shrill. I can hear the sexual tension in those brief words, even if the woman can't. Across the room, he make noises with the sinks, with the towel dispenser, All the time he's staring at me, his lean body pointed to me. He balls up the towels in his hands and pauses, looking first in my eyes and then at the dick that I'm still displaying for him. Then with a basketball-practice wrist, he tosses the wad into the waste bin.
He's gone, but not before he looks me in the eyes again. I see regret there, and yearning.
He'll be thinking about me later, I know. In the dark, in the quiet of the night, with his hand under the cover. He'll be thinking about me, all right.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Timmy
In Michigan, the old rest stop I used to visit was on a distant stretch of freeway, some thirty-five miles away from my home. It was a tiny hut with restrooms and a vending machine. At night or before dawn when it was cruisiest, it was a tiny oasis of light in a vast dome of darkness, far enough from the safety of home to be something reached for only on occasion, or when opportunity drew me to that area of the city.
The cruisy rest stop here is maybe three miles from home, on a noisy stretch of I-95. It has its own McDonald's, an ice cream store, a gift shop, and a pizza counter. It's bright, colorful, and brazen. Sometimes at night, dozens upon dozens of trucks park there to sleep overnight. When I drive back from the bar, sometimes the big tractor-trailers will be lined up on the highway's shoulder for hundreds of feet before and after the exit, their generators lighting up the cabs. The rear parking lot will be clogged, the McDonald's bright and glaring. But the car lot is usually quiet, and empty.
I'd known about this particular rest stop for months, but I'd never visited; it seemed too easy, too accessible. I'd read about it on one of the cruising sites and heard about it from a reader who'd visited it on his trips through the area. Saturday night, though, I had nothing better to do, and had to visit the supermarket anyway. So I stopped.
The truck half of the parking lot wasn't full when I pulled off the exit at seven-thirty. The car lot was even more empty. As suggested by the cruising site, I pulled to the last line of parking spaces for cars, the furthest away from the McDonald's, the closest to the exit. At the Michigan rest stop, the men cruising for sex tended to stay in their cars and park in the spots far away from the facilities themselves—this place sounded as if it operated on a similar policy.
I didn't have to wait long. Within two minutes of turning off my ignition, a truck pulled up to the right of me. An older guy sat in the driver's seat. He was bearded, and gray; his face was lean and handsome. He nodded at me, as if greeting a fellow wayfarer in passing. I slowly nodded back. My hand drifted to my crotch, where my cock hardened.
His neck craned as he looked over and into my car. Through my shorts I outlined the long, long bulge stretching up from between my legs in the direction of my left hipbone. His eyes flicked to mine, and then back down to my crotch. He licked his lips, but I could tell it was more subconscious reaction than a come-on. Finally he looked in my eyes again, and let loose with a genuine grin. He had to have been at least sixty, but as I said, he was a handsome man—a leaner Sean Connery, back in his Indiana Jones days, perhaps. I worry that mentioning he had a mischievous twinkle in his eye would make him sound too much like Santa Claus, but there it is.
I got out of the car, locked it, and stretched my legs. And by stretched my legs, I mean I walked around the car and peeked in his window. "How’s it going?" I asked.
"Great," he said, smiling back. He looked as if he wanted to ruffle my head. "What do you need tonight?"
"A little fun," I replied.
"You like to get sucked?" he asked. I nodded. "You like to fuck?" he asked, hopeful. I nodded again. "Look, I live right off the next exit," he told me. "Quiet place. Just you and me. Want to go?"
Of course I did.
His home was one of those older houses in the area built shortly after the last world war, a rambling old Cape Cod with creaky floors and the original kitchen. It smelled like an old schoolhouse—of dry rot and years and years of dust. The kitchen table was crowded with old radios from the nineteen-fifties and sixties; one whole wall had been ripped of its plaster and exposed, as if under renovation. "Let's go upstairs," he suggested, nervously, once I'd pulled the back door shut behind me.
He led me through the living room, where on the coffee table, chairs, and sofa were piled high boxes and boxes. Most of them, I noticed, were of old Barbies. Oh great, I thought to myself. I've picked up a Barbie queen. Because I have known many gay men who are avid and unapologetic collectors of the dolls and every iteration of their clothing and special releases. These boxes were as old as my childhood, though. I could tell by the lettering. There were other dolls as well, out of their boxes and stacked haphazardly on top of each other.
We'd reached the top of the stairs and the bedroom door when suddenly my host turned around. "Hang on," he said, sidling past. "Go on in and get comfortable."
I went into the bedroom and removed my shoes and my shorts, and hopped up onto the bed. The bedroom was in similar disarray. One of the closets lay open, its contents of clothing and old suitcases vomited all over one side of the room. I didn't really pay them much attention, though, as I listened to the man turn on his stereo downstairs. From below came the dulcet tones of Richard Marx. From Richard Marx's first album, in fact, which I easily recognized from too many repetitions at one of my fuckbuddies' apartments when I was working on a masters degree, lo these many years ago. A moment later, my host reappeared in the doorway. He leaned against it, looking sexy. "I thought it might enhance the mood," he stated, and then he began a slow strip-tease, beginning with his shirt.
I haven't made love to Richard Marx since about 1988, and the mood his voice created was really one more of wanting to pop the collar of my polo shirt and going all Miami Vice with a sleazy sports coat with the sleeves hoisted up to my elbows, but I didn't crack a grin. "Looked like you were a big boy when you were showing off in the parking lot," he said. I nodded, and fondled the bulge that was growing again in my shorts. "You go to that rest stop often?"
"My first time," I said. I was suddenly aware of how lame that sounded. "Really. My first time. I just moved here a couple of months ago."
"Definitely not your first time doing this though," he said, leaning down as he switched off the light. His beard raked against the inside of my legs. I gasped to feel his mouth on my meat, through the fabric of my shorts. "Oh yeah. Definitely not."
I let him pull off my underwear and push up my T-shirt. His lips and tongue nudged against my nuts, making me sigh. Slowly he sucked my cock—the way I like it, too, as if he was there for the sucking, not in order to make me nut as quickly as possible. His head moved up and down the shaft slowly, sensuously. Occasionally he hummed and grunted to himself, or he would take a break to breath. During these times he would lift my legs and rub his hands over them, letting their fur riffle across his skin as his fingers moved. Then he would return to my dick again, and my balls, and the insides of my legs, pleasuring himself even as he pleasured me.
"I never took a dick as big as yours," he said, finally, looking up at me through the light spilling in from the hallway. "I swear it. But I'd like to try. Would that be okay with you?"
"Yeah," I whispered. "That'd be fine."
I don't know if he was lying or not about his experience, but entering him was fairly easy. His hole glided open with a great deal of pressure and a moderate amount of lube. I paused twice to let him accommodate my size, and then on the third attempt managed to drive the rest home. He knew automatically when I'd reached bottom, and panted and gasped with the effort of it. "Drop it in Timmy," he panted out. The words sounded strained, as if they came from someplace deep inside where they'd not been aired for a long time. "Come on, sailor," he growled, beginning to slam back on my meat when I fucked him a little harder. "Knock up Timmy's cunt. Drop them seeds in Timmy. Knock him up!"
I admit I blinked a few times. I assumed he was Timmy.
"Knock it up!" he barked. "Timmy needs that seed!" His riding became more aggressive; he almost knocked me backwards. I had to push his entire body forward and kneel on the bed in order to keep up with his bucking. "Drop that load in Timmy. Give it to me! Give it!"
I hadn't been fucking more than two or three minutes when, amidst these cries and demands, Timmy's body started to buckle and shake. My dick popped out when he came, squeezed out when he clamped down hard with his ass muscles. I saw his hand clutch for his dick, though I was pretty sure he hadn't been stroking it while I was in there. A single shot of semen flew out of the tip and onto the bedspread as he yelled and shook with a violent orgasm.
I stood there for a moment while he buried his head in the sheets, still groaning. Then once he was silent, I asked quietly, "Where's your bathroom?"
He came into the bathroom and sat on the tub to watch me wash up in his sink. "Did you come?" I told him I hadn't. "Sorry . . . did you want to come?"
"I'm good," I told him, with a smile.
"I meant it when I said I haven't had a dick your size ever," he said. I was washing the dick off at the time, using soap and a lot of hot water. He stared at it. "I haven't even had anyone back here in a long time. Four years." When I turned in search of a hand towel, I realized he wasn't looking at my dick so much, as into space. There was a vacant expression on his face. Abstracted. Very far away. "Four years ago was when my wife died," he said. "She was a very sick woman. I nursed her for a long time, but in the end, there really wasn't anything to be done. You know?"
I stood there with the towel in my hand, naked from the waist down, leaning against the cold porcelain of the sink, while Richard Marx still played downstairs. "I'm sorry," I said.
"Yeah. Well." His lips disappeared as he sucked them in to moisten them up. "It's taken me this long to start to get over it. You don't ever want to lose anyone that close to you. Not after years and years. It's like losing his huge . . . chunk of yourself." His hand reached up and clutched each other, shaking. "I hope it never happens to you."
"Me too," I said. I folded the towel and left it on the sink, then walked back into the bedroom, hoping it didn't seem as if I was trying to avoid his talking.
"All this was hers," he said, gesturing to the piles of clothing and suitcases on the room's far side. I saw now that there indeed women's things. "And the dolls downstairs. She collected. Hoarded," he said, with an unexpected flash of humor. "Same thing, for her. I finally got a professional organizer in this month to help me get rid of all this stuff on eBay, see if it's worth anything. See?" He showed me the open closet, in which hung a neat row of men's pants and shirts. "I'm carving out a space for myself here, little by little. Getting my life back. Carving out a space for myself. In my own home."
At that moment, it seemed like the saddest image in the entire world. I said so.
"Oh." He cleared his throat. "It's not so bad. Today a closet. Tomorrow a corner, then another corner. Pretty soon an entire room." The man swallowed so deeply I could see his Adam's apple bob. "It'll come," he said. There was hope in his voice that hardened into resolution. "It'll come."
I believed him.
This is what I've learned after enjoying sex with strangers for the better part of my life, now: every man has a story to tell about himself. He might utter it in those quiet moments when the heaving and panting has ceased. He might speak it wordlessly, through the way his eyes keep resolutely shut and through the language of his body, or it may come through in his dirty talk, or the shy reserve that keeps him from removing his clothes. Listening to those stories honors them. Those stories are what connect us; they're the words we whisper in the dark when we think no one's whispering, but when we hope we're being heard.
But it takes getting out from behind the computer, or from behind the desk or the cash register or the gloryhole or from in front of the television to hear them. It takes a resolve to stop looking at the world from behind the blinds, getting out there, opening up, and listening.
The cruisy rest stop here is maybe three miles from home, on a noisy stretch of I-95. It has its own McDonald's, an ice cream store, a gift shop, and a pizza counter. It's bright, colorful, and brazen. Sometimes at night, dozens upon dozens of trucks park there to sleep overnight. When I drive back from the bar, sometimes the big tractor-trailers will be lined up on the highway's shoulder for hundreds of feet before and after the exit, their generators lighting up the cabs. The rear parking lot will be clogged, the McDonald's bright and glaring. But the car lot is usually quiet, and empty.
I'd known about this particular rest stop for months, but I'd never visited; it seemed too easy, too accessible. I'd read about it on one of the cruising sites and heard about it from a reader who'd visited it on his trips through the area. Saturday night, though, I had nothing better to do, and had to visit the supermarket anyway. So I stopped.
The truck half of the parking lot wasn't full when I pulled off the exit at seven-thirty. The car lot was even more empty. As suggested by the cruising site, I pulled to the last line of parking spaces for cars, the furthest away from the McDonald's, the closest to the exit. At the Michigan rest stop, the men cruising for sex tended to stay in their cars and park in the spots far away from the facilities themselves—this place sounded as if it operated on a similar policy.
I didn't have to wait long. Within two minutes of turning off my ignition, a truck pulled up to the right of me. An older guy sat in the driver's seat. He was bearded, and gray; his face was lean and handsome. He nodded at me, as if greeting a fellow wayfarer in passing. I slowly nodded back. My hand drifted to my crotch, where my cock hardened.
His neck craned as he looked over and into my car. Through my shorts I outlined the long, long bulge stretching up from between my legs in the direction of my left hipbone. His eyes flicked to mine, and then back down to my crotch. He licked his lips, but I could tell it was more subconscious reaction than a come-on. Finally he looked in my eyes again, and let loose with a genuine grin. He had to have been at least sixty, but as I said, he was a handsome man—a leaner Sean Connery, back in his Indiana Jones days, perhaps. I worry that mentioning he had a mischievous twinkle in his eye would make him sound too much like Santa Claus, but there it is.
I got out of the car, locked it, and stretched my legs. And by stretched my legs, I mean I walked around the car and peeked in his window. "How’s it going?" I asked.
"Great," he said, smiling back. He looked as if he wanted to ruffle my head. "What do you need tonight?"
"A little fun," I replied.
"You like to get sucked?" he asked. I nodded. "You like to fuck?" he asked, hopeful. I nodded again. "Look, I live right off the next exit," he told me. "Quiet place. Just you and me. Want to go?"
Of course I did.
His home was one of those older houses in the area built shortly after the last world war, a rambling old Cape Cod with creaky floors and the original kitchen. It smelled like an old schoolhouse—of dry rot and years and years of dust. The kitchen table was crowded with old radios from the nineteen-fifties and sixties; one whole wall had been ripped of its plaster and exposed, as if under renovation. "Let's go upstairs," he suggested, nervously, once I'd pulled the back door shut behind me.
He led me through the living room, where on the coffee table, chairs, and sofa were piled high boxes and boxes. Most of them, I noticed, were of old Barbies. Oh great, I thought to myself. I've picked up a Barbie queen. Because I have known many gay men who are avid and unapologetic collectors of the dolls and every iteration of their clothing and special releases. These boxes were as old as my childhood, though. I could tell by the lettering. There were other dolls as well, out of their boxes and stacked haphazardly on top of each other.
We'd reached the top of the stairs and the bedroom door when suddenly my host turned around. "Hang on," he said, sidling past. "Go on in and get comfortable."
I went into the bedroom and removed my shoes and my shorts, and hopped up onto the bed. The bedroom was in similar disarray. One of the closets lay open, its contents of clothing and old suitcases vomited all over one side of the room. I didn't really pay them much attention, though, as I listened to the man turn on his stereo downstairs. From below came the dulcet tones of Richard Marx. From Richard Marx's first album, in fact, which I easily recognized from too many repetitions at one of my fuckbuddies' apartments when I was working on a masters degree, lo these many years ago. A moment later, my host reappeared in the doorway. He leaned against it, looking sexy. "I thought it might enhance the mood," he stated, and then he began a slow strip-tease, beginning with his shirt.
I haven't made love to Richard Marx since about 1988, and the mood his voice created was really one more of wanting to pop the collar of my polo shirt and going all Miami Vice with a sleazy sports coat with the sleeves hoisted up to my elbows, but I didn't crack a grin. "Looked like you were a big boy when you were showing off in the parking lot," he said. I nodded, and fondled the bulge that was growing again in my shorts. "You go to that rest stop often?"
"My first time," I said. I was suddenly aware of how lame that sounded. "Really. My first time. I just moved here a couple of months ago."
"Definitely not your first time doing this though," he said, leaning down as he switched off the light. His beard raked against the inside of my legs. I gasped to feel his mouth on my meat, through the fabric of my shorts. "Oh yeah. Definitely not."
I let him pull off my underwear and push up my T-shirt. His lips and tongue nudged against my nuts, making me sigh. Slowly he sucked my cock—the way I like it, too, as if he was there for the sucking, not in order to make me nut as quickly as possible. His head moved up and down the shaft slowly, sensuously. Occasionally he hummed and grunted to himself, or he would take a break to breath. During these times he would lift my legs and rub his hands over them, letting their fur riffle across his skin as his fingers moved. Then he would return to my dick again, and my balls, and the insides of my legs, pleasuring himself even as he pleasured me.
"I never took a dick as big as yours," he said, finally, looking up at me through the light spilling in from the hallway. "I swear it. But I'd like to try. Would that be okay with you?"
"Yeah," I whispered. "That'd be fine."
I don't know if he was lying or not about his experience, but entering him was fairly easy. His hole glided open with a great deal of pressure and a moderate amount of lube. I paused twice to let him accommodate my size, and then on the third attempt managed to drive the rest home. He knew automatically when I'd reached bottom, and panted and gasped with the effort of it. "Drop it in Timmy," he panted out. The words sounded strained, as if they came from someplace deep inside where they'd not been aired for a long time. "Come on, sailor," he growled, beginning to slam back on my meat when I fucked him a little harder. "Knock up Timmy's cunt. Drop them seeds in Timmy. Knock him up!"
I admit I blinked a few times. I assumed he was Timmy.
"Knock it up!" he barked. "Timmy needs that seed!" His riding became more aggressive; he almost knocked me backwards. I had to push his entire body forward and kneel on the bed in order to keep up with his bucking. "Drop that load in Timmy. Give it to me! Give it!"
I hadn't been fucking more than two or three minutes when, amidst these cries and demands, Timmy's body started to buckle and shake. My dick popped out when he came, squeezed out when he clamped down hard with his ass muscles. I saw his hand clutch for his dick, though I was pretty sure he hadn't been stroking it while I was in there. A single shot of semen flew out of the tip and onto the bedspread as he yelled and shook with a violent orgasm.
I stood there for a moment while he buried his head in the sheets, still groaning. Then once he was silent, I asked quietly, "Where's your bathroom?"
He came into the bathroom and sat on the tub to watch me wash up in his sink. "Did you come?" I told him I hadn't. "Sorry . . . did you want to come?"
"I'm good," I told him, with a smile.
"I meant it when I said I haven't had a dick your size ever," he said. I was washing the dick off at the time, using soap and a lot of hot water. He stared at it. "I haven't even had anyone back here in a long time. Four years." When I turned in search of a hand towel, I realized he wasn't looking at my dick so much, as into space. There was a vacant expression on his face. Abstracted. Very far away. "Four years ago was when my wife died," he said. "She was a very sick woman. I nursed her for a long time, but in the end, there really wasn't anything to be done. You know?"
I stood there with the towel in my hand, naked from the waist down, leaning against the cold porcelain of the sink, while Richard Marx still played downstairs. "I'm sorry," I said.
"Yeah. Well." His lips disappeared as he sucked them in to moisten them up. "It's taken me this long to start to get over it. You don't ever want to lose anyone that close to you. Not after years and years. It's like losing his huge . . . chunk of yourself." His hand reached up and clutched each other, shaking. "I hope it never happens to you."
"Me too," I said. I folded the towel and left it on the sink, then walked back into the bedroom, hoping it didn't seem as if I was trying to avoid his talking.
"All this was hers," he said, gesturing to the piles of clothing and suitcases on the room's far side. I saw now that there indeed women's things. "And the dolls downstairs. She collected. Hoarded," he said, with an unexpected flash of humor. "Same thing, for her. I finally got a professional organizer in this month to help me get rid of all this stuff on eBay, see if it's worth anything. See?" He showed me the open closet, in which hung a neat row of men's pants and shirts. "I'm carving out a space for myself here, little by little. Getting my life back. Carving out a space for myself. In my own home."
At that moment, it seemed like the saddest image in the entire world. I said so.
"Oh." He cleared his throat. "It's not so bad. Today a closet. Tomorrow a corner, then another corner. Pretty soon an entire room." The man swallowed so deeply I could see his Adam's apple bob. "It'll come," he said. There was hope in his voice that hardened into resolution. "It'll come."
I believed him.
This is what I've learned after enjoying sex with strangers for the better part of my life, now: every man has a story to tell about himself. He might utter it in those quiet moments when the heaving and panting has ceased. He might speak it wordlessly, through the way his eyes keep resolutely shut and through the language of his body, or it may come through in his dirty talk, or the shy reserve that keeps him from removing his clothes. Listening to those stories honors them. Those stories are what connect us; they're the words we whisper in the dark when we think no one's whispering, but when we hope we're being heard.
But it takes getting out from behind the computer, or from behind the desk or the cash register or the gloryhole or from in front of the television to hear them. It takes a resolve to stop looking at the world from behind the blinds, getting out there, opening up, and listening.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Park and Ride
I knew the place lay nearby when I saw the exit sign loom overhead, poking through the archway of greenery covering the parkway. I nudged my car into the right lane, pulled off, and into the southernmost of the two lots.
Park and Ride, read the sign. It was a place where commuters met to carpool into New York City, thirty miles away. In the twilight, many cars were still parked along the several rows, empty of occupants. Expensive cars. I nudged my domestic model among the BMWs and Mercedes and the sporty little Italian coupes, looking for signs of life.
I found some at the lot’s far end. One man in his fifties stood near a tiny wooded area—little more than scrub and a few tree trunks, really. He wore a collared business shirt still crisp after a day’s work, its powder-blue sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His maroon tie hung loose from his neck, his top button was unbuttoned. He took a long drag on the remnants of a cigarette, let the smoke billow casually from between his lips, then dropped the butt onto a parking bumper. He ground it into dust with his leather soles. The guy wasn’t hideous, by any means, but he wasn’t attractive, either. His lips pursed out too much, and age had left layers of wrinkles around his eyes, making them look like the deep knots on some ancient, mythical tree. Natty as he was, he looked as if he smelled of old tobacco. I turned my head from him and parked my car a little down the way, between a Volvo two spaces away on the left, and a BMW three slots further on the right.
The web site hadn’t specified any particular protocol for cruising here, though it had recommended against going into the woods to carry out my business. I figured the cruising here would work like the rest stop parking area back in Michigan, during the dark hours. I turned off the car, let the radio play at a low volume, and began rubbing at my crotch in order to get a bulge rising down there.
In the BMW to my right sat a surprisingly young guy, no more than twenty-one or twenty-two. He had the large, broad features and the wide-brushed eyebrows of a middle eastern man; the skin on his jaw, though smooth, seemed as if it might sprout into ten o’clock shadow at any moment. He looked my way in a not-looking kind of way; his eyes danced over and past mine, only locking into my gaze on the return trip. He nodded slightly.
I nodded back, as the bulge in my shorts grew from forced to genuine.
The Volvo had someone sitting in it as well, a handsome guy in his forties sporting a precision haircut and a wedding ring. He, too, wore a crisp business shirt and a tie. I could see his jacket slung over the passenger seat. He pretended to be looking at his phone, but his glance was fixed on the man in the woods. Only occasionally did he divert his attention my way, and then only to see if I was remaining in my car, or what my intentions might be.
The businessman in the woods wasn’t very patient—or subtle. Another cigarette already smoldering between his fingers, he used one hand to cup his generous package, squeezing it for anyone who could see. His neck craned over the parking lot. Like him, I turned my head to discern which other cars might have men in them. There were several, all parked in our general vicinity. I could make out shadows of other heads turning, silhouettes of figures waiting in the twilight for something to happen.
I didn’t do anything that night; I didn’t get out of my car and insinuate myself into someone else’s vehicle with a smile and a false excuse of needing directions. I didn’t wander into the woods, or take a stroll to see what eyes followed me. I sat in the car, and watched for twenty minutes, getting the lay of the land. And then I drove away, leaving behind the expensive vehicles and the desperate businessman still patrolling, Cerebus-like, the entrance to the woods.
Park and Ride. I parked. Maybe soon I’ll take a ride.
Park and Ride, read the sign. It was a place where commuters met to carpool into New York City, thirty miles away. In the twilight, many cars were still parked along the several rows, empty of occupants. Expensive cars. I nudged my domestic model among the BMWs and Mercedes and the sporty little Italian coupes, looking for signs of life.
I found some at the lot’s far end. One man in his fifties stood near a tiny wooded area—little more than scrub and a few tree trunks, really. He wore a collared business shirt still crisp after a day’s work, its powder-blue sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His maroon tie hung loose from his neck, his top button was unbuttoned. He took a long drag on the remnants of a cigarette, let the smoke billow casually from between his lips, then dropped the butt onto a parking bumper. He ground it into dust with his leather soles. The guy wasn’t hideous, by any means, but he wasn’t attractive, either. His lips pursed out too much, and age had left layers of wrinkles around his eyes, making them look like the deep knots on some ancient, mythical tree. Natty as he was, he looked as if he smelled of old tobacco. I turned my head from him and parked my car a little down the way, between a Volvo two spaces away on the left, and a BMW three slots further on the right.
The web site hadn’t specified any particular protocol for cruising here, though it had recommended against going into the woods to carry out my business. I figured the cruising here would work like the rest stop parking area back in Michigan, during the dark hours. I turned off the car, let the radio play at a low volume, and began rubbing at my crotch in order to get a bulge rising down there.
In the BMW to my right sat a surprisingly young guy, no more than twenty-one or twenty-two. He had the large, broad features and the wide-brushed eyebrows of a middle eastern man; the skin on his jaw, though smooth, seemed as if it might sprout into ten o’clock shadow at any moment. He looked my way in a not-looking kind of way; his eyes danced over and past mine, only locking into my gaze on the return trip. He nodded slightly.
I nodded back, as the bulge in my shorts grew from forced to genuine.
The Volvo had someone sitting in it as well, a handsome guy in his forties sporting a precision haircut and a wedding ring. He, too, wore a crisp business shirt and a tie. I could see his jacket slung over the passenger seat. He pretended to be looking at his phone, but his glance was fixed on the man in the woods. Only occasionally did he divert his attention my way, and then only to see if I was remaining in my car, or what my intentions might be.
The businessman in the woods wasn’t very patient—or subtle. Another cigarette already smoldering between his fingers, he used one hand to cup his generous package, squeezing it for anyone who could see. His neck craned over the parking lot. Like him, I turned my head to discern which other cars might have men in them. There were several, all parked in our general vicinity. I could make out shadows of other heads turning, silhouettes of figures waiting in the twilight for something to happen.
I didn’t do anything that night; I didn’t get out of my car and insinuate myself into someone else’s vehicle with a smile and a false excuse of needing directions. I didn’t wander into the woods, or take a stroll to see what eyes followed me. I sat in the car, and watched for twenty minutes, getting the lay of the land. And then I drove away, leaving behind the expensive vehicles and the desperate businessman still patrolling, Cerebus-like, the entrance to the woods.
Park and Ride. I parked. Maybe soon I’ll take a ride.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)