Behind the Story: On the Block

The anthology, Hoboes, Hustlers, and Outlaws: Bad Boys and Macho Men is shipping! My newest novella, On the Block, appears within its pages. It’s a story set in 1979 about a twenty-one-year-old named Nicky, a street hustler from the armpit of Virginia, who’s trying to make a better life for himself, one trick at a time.

Today, I’d like to share a little about the story’s background.

My early sexuality blossomed in the nineteen-seventies in the little Southern city of Richmond, Virginia. It was a decade in which gay sex was still a criminal act. Being detected or caught destroyed families, careers, and lives. Even casting a stray, longing glance in the direction of an undercover cop could land a man in jail and his name in the newspapers.

The effects of Stonewall had not yet reached the South. My progressive parents had a number of friends who definitely were not straight, though no one would discuss or admit it. The confirmed bachelors who lived together in houses full of fussy antiques? Gay. The fashionable aging single men who ‘hadn’t yet settled down’ but would arrive to my folks’ dinner parties bearing a straw-wrapped bottle of red in one hand and in the other, several Blossom Dearie LPs? Incredibly gay. The burly female historian who shared an apartment and a pair of bulldogs with her ‘girl friend,’ who later sold me her gently-used Malibu as my first car? So gay. None of them identified as queer. They would have gone to their graves denying it.

Many did.

It was a decade in which men looking for sex with other men found themselves pushed to the margins; they were forced to seek each other in bars run by an unlawful element, or in parks closed after dark, or along dangerous city streets at night, where nice, normal people dared not venture. In these forbidden spaces, we all were outlaws. We consorted with other outlaws—criminals that the public viewed as menaces to society. If in these spaces we were arrested, or victimized, or beaten, or killed—well, criminals deserved what they got. Right?

Cruising these spaces was always dangerous. We always had to keep an eye and ear out for the approach of an outsider, or the gleam of a cop car in the distance. In the dark, more seasoned outlaws developed an almost supernatural ability to sense the the onset of trouble long before it arrived, so that we could warn our brothers and scamper to safety. It wasn’t an environment for the weak, the stupid, or the slow. Though we looked out for each other when and while we could, once those lights flashed and the sirens started to blare, it was every man for himself.

Most of those old cruising spots of mine still exist, forty-five years later. Open up Sniffies and you’ll see that Bryan Park is still one of Richmond’s most popular hookup spots, though its roads have been reconfigured and entryways changed since the days I would visit by dark. The walks by the James River where I accepted cash for quick trysts along the riverbanks—still active. Cruisers still haunt the shadier, more forested areas of both Maymont and Byrd Parks, where I used to wander provocatively after nightfall.

Despite an abundance of gay bars that certainly weren’t around during my teens and early twenties, despite the apps and the relative openness with which queer people circulate in my old hometown, men still hit up the traditional spots in the hope of finding random dick.

All the spots but one, that is: what used to be known as The Block. It’s the only of my old cruising locations that has its own Wikipedia page. It’s also the setting for my latest anthology story, On the Block, which you can order now at the link below.

The Block survived for forty years before me as a sometimes-migrating small section of Richmond’s downtown area known for male sex workers. In the late seventies, The Block had expanded. It started at the corner of the city’s then brand spanking new public library, two blocks west down Franklin Street to the YMCA, a block south to Main Street, then two blocks east back to the library. By day, the neighborhood was just a number of run-down, anonymous townhouses in an area of the city no one really visited.

After dark, though, the street transformed into the tiniest of gay villages. A handful of queer men rented rooms in the townhouses. Home from work, they’d open their windows and loudly blast disco hits on their turntables. Some hung cheerful holiday lights around their windows, or draped table lamps with scarves and fabric to bring color both to their habitats and to the street below. Men would perch their asses on the townhouse steps, both cruising and socializing in equal measure.

Then there were the hustlers. Summer nights, they’d prowl the streets in scores. Dozens of the most hardcore—or perhaps the hardest-pressed—would still turn out during the city’s mild winters. Down Franklin they would walk, then over to Main and back to the library, treading a rectangular circuit that all the while faced the streams of one-way traffic on those two streets. Every driver was a potential customer.

Who were these men behind the wheel? Mostly white guys from the wealthy West End of town or from out in the county. Some drove in from as far away as Ashland or Fredericksburg. Most sported wedding rings; many were professionals—lawyers, businessmen, physicians—with a little extra money to burn. Some would visit only every few months, when the itch for same-sex contact grew too unbearable. Others were such frequent and enthusiastic patrons that the hustlers would wave at their vehicles and shout their names, as if Norm walked into Cheers.

One of the more curious customs of The Block during my day is how the sex workers segregated themselves by skin color. White hustlers tended to walk the outer perimeter of the rectangle; Black men the inside. One could tell by which lane of the street a car drove what flavor a john, or customer, might prefer. The self-segregation didn’t extend to socializing. During the slower hours, men of both colors crossed over to laugh and joke, or to swap gossip and news about who’d moved on to a bigger city or who’d given up the business altogether, or who was out of commission for a couple of weeks after a visit to the free clinic. Once a pair of headlights pierced the dark, though, back they’d all scatter to their respective sides of the street.

I don’t recall the day I discovered The Block, but by around 1978, when I was fourteen, I was one of the white boys walking its circuits by cover of night. I’d tell my family after dinner I was heading to the downtown library with friends. If they assumed by the stack of books in my backpack that I’d be studying, well, that was my intent. I’d ditch the books in our back yard to be retrieved on my return, take the bus downtown from my leafy neighborhood, and walk The Block for a few hours until I arrived home by ten or ten-thirty with a pocketful of crumpled bills.

Hey, the library was always within sight, when I was stomping the pavement. And I did make new friends.

Afraid of attracting the wrong kind of attention at home, though, I never hit The Block more than once a week, and never stayed late. The action really picked up in the hours after midnight. Yet I was regular enough that I could expect to be greeted by guys from both sides of the street whenever I showed.

There was an essential difference between the other regulars and myself, though—and I’m not talking mere age. My teenaged sex work was an act of secret rebellion. I was the perfect little straight-A best little boy in the world who only took a stand for what he truly was in the city’s forbidden places, among my fellow outlaws. My family wasn’t wealthy and always seemed to be teetering on the brink of financial insecurity, god knows, but unlike every other man there, I didn’t have to support myself. For me, sex work wasn’t about making ends meet.

A lot of the men I knew during those years made their only money walking The Block. A few held down part-time or low-paying jobs during the day that The Block supplemented—there was one occasion when an older men from The Block’s inner circuit showed up as my substitute civics teacher, to our mutual surprise. Some sensed they were ill-suited to retail or office positions; hustling at night let them work when and how they pleased. Several talked big about earning just enough seed money to move on to a bigger city like D.C. or Philadelphia or NYC.

I don’t like generalizing about the sex workers I knew during that period of my life. Regardless of why these men sought or resorted to sex work, I was a mere dilettante. At the end of the night, I had a family who loved me and a warm home I could return to. I didn’t owe any bills. My earnings didn’t pay for groceries.

While my last anthologized story, Sleazy A, was a semi-autobiographical mashup of men I knew during my college years, On the Block is purely fictional, save for its setting. I didn’t base the big blond lunk Nicky (in the story, the poor guy aches to be known as ‘Snake Eyes’) on anyone in particular. I did know a muscly hustler on the edge of forty who always seemed to walk The Block in a tee with the sleeves ripped off, the better to display his bulging biceps; his hair was an amateurish bleached blond and he would bum cigarettes off the other working boys and mumble about how he was destined for better things. Perhaps if Nicky remained on The Block for another twenty years after this story, that’s who he might’ve turned into. I like to think he truly made something of himself in the end, though.

On the Block examines what happens when a stranger inserts himself into The Block’s established ecosystem to push it off-balance. At no point in my youth did I ever run up against a magazine reporter trying to liven up his resume with a seedy expose of sex workers. Every time I exchanged sex for currency, however, I would have to confront the prejudices men held against working boys. Clients would assume I was trash, or dumb as a rock, or that I sucked dick for money because I’d run away, or dropped out of school, or because someone had coerced me into the life. Some johns had dreams of saving me; they’d condescendingly assure me I wasn’t like the other scum on the street and dream of a future in which they would leave their wives and families for a happily ever after with a teen boy.

Thankfully, I was a smart enough to kid to recognize the bullshit for what it was. I learned very quickly that these transactions were rarely as simple as they should have been. Outsiders—whether they’re clients, observers, or enforcers of law—tend to project all kinds of fictional narratives onto the men they hire. To the client, sex workers were rarely people in their own right. They were dimwits who required education, or victims who needed to be saved. They were lost souls to convert, or perverts and deviants to arrest. 

My experience with the men of The Block was pretty much the same as anywhere else I’ve been employed, though. There were certain individuals I was always glad to see and with whom I was friendly, and others I wish stayed in their offices or some other section of the street. Some talked off my ear; others kept to themselves. Some had grand ambitions of advancement or even fame. Most, however, just wanted to get through their work, collect their paycheck, and head home at the end of their shift.

On the Block was a blast to write. The story gave me an opportunity to revisit an old stomping ground through new eyes and to capture its quirks and little beauties as I remember it in the late seventies. As I said earlier, The Block is just about the only old cruising spot of mine that no longer exists; I didn’t know it as a teen, but it had already been in decline before my arrival. The gay bars that had once operated there were only a legend when I first came on the scene. During the eighties and the early years of the HIV/AIDS crisis, johns stopped driving downtown and the rent boys began to vanish. The area was dead when I returned to Richmond in 1985. Today, the townhouses have been converted into genteel law firms and financial advisories and homes, the streets thoroughly gentrified. The buildings are still there, but The Block as I knew it is gone.

That’s what happens far too often with gay history and culture, however. As we are erased, our traditions and lore can too easily vanish. If sex work was my teen rebellion—my way of being seen for what I was—then perhaps this act of pornography is an old man’s insistence that some memories should not be lost.

There is a sweet side to even the seamiest of stories. And men will do a hell of a lot for a little sweetness, as Nicky discovers in On the Block.

***

Order your copy of Hoboes, Hustlers, and Outlaws from Amazon 

Fauxhawk

I’m surprised by the fauxhawk covering the middle third of his skull. It’s a soft landing strip of copper-colored down, a number three buzz surrounded by pink skin on either side. When I step into his cabin and let the door slam shut behind me, this young man takes me into his arms and lays his head upon my chest as he hugs me tightly.

I haven’t met him before. We haven’t even communicated much. The most that’s passed between us were a couple of texts on Scruff, when our cruise ship made land at Puerto Rico and our phones began connecting to our home services again. You’re hot. Want to come fuck me at 3 pm? he’d asked.

You’re hot too. Sure, I’d said.

And now he’s cradling me like I’m his long-lost dad. Well, his long-lost dirty dad, at least. I’m both touched and aroused. My right hand holds him tight; my left hand strokes the racing stripe of hair. After a long minute, I lift up his chin and raise his mouth to mine. Our kiss is deep, and satisfying, and long.

He’s a handsome man. Early thirties. Deep blue eyes. Fair skin. Beefy, in a worked-out way. He maneuvers me down the short hallway and into his cabin with his arms still encircling my rib cage, our mouths fixed upon each other’s. We’re able to navigate the short distance by rocking stiff-legged from side to side, like two Ken dolls a child is pretending to make waltz. When he shoves me onto the mattress, I’m scarcely all the way down when he lunges on top of me, his arms planted above my head, his mouth still hungrily kissing mine.

Have I neglected to mention he’d greeted me wearing only a Nasty Pig jock? Well, I’ve been so consumed by his kissing that I scarcely noticed myself, until now. He’s one of those men with a naturally-smooth body—or at least, I’m not detecting any shaving stubble. My hands wander from his firm pectorals down to his glutes. His ass is spectacularly round and full. I can feel the hardness of his cock, and the heat of it, as he grinds into my pelvic bone. My own dick is just as rigid, though it lies at an angle almost perpendicular to his. The weight of him, his rhythmic thrusting, his insistent pressure…it’s all working to make me desire him as much as he obviously desires me.

He rolls over and thrusts his hands beneath a pillow over his head. “Take off your clothes,” he begs.
What can I do but obey? My flip-flops hadn’t even made it as far as the bed. The only other things I’m wearing are a pair of sweat shorts that I wriggle out of and let fly off my foot across the room, and a tee that I rip off and throw onto the cabin floor. I roll on top of him and press myself against the man, skin against skin. We kiss again, my tongue deeply plundering his mouth. He grunts with pleasure. His legs lift; my erection batters against his crack as I mock-thrust against him. Without warning, he employs his weight to once again flip me onto my back.

“I need that cock,” he announces, and I watch as he shimmies himself down between my legs. His arms, which had been off to the sides, quickly bury themselves beneath my butt. His mouth opens to engulf me.

But as he swiftly and expertly swallows my cock, part of my brain distances itself from the proceedings. Usually I pride myself on remaining totally in the sexual moment. But there’s enough of a disconnect that my brain suddenly switches off of erotic autopilot—for I pride myself as well for being a good observer. And didn’t I observe, in that last swift motion, that this man was missing one of his hands?

It’s impossible to tell now; both his forearms are buried beneath my backside. Mentally I review every grappling position in which the two of us had so far engaged. He’d flung his arms around me when I’d entered; he’d kept his hands out of view and over my head when I’d been on the mattress. When he’d been on his back, they’d artfully been covered by a pillow. Only in that moment when he’d gone down between my legs had I noticed that he was missing his right hand at the wrist. Nowhere in his Scruff profile had he mentioned such a thing.

Nor was I really certain, honestly, that he needed to. Why did it have to be a big deal? Some gay men have occupied so much of their lifespans and their mental real estate attempting to seem normal, to fit in, to blend when they should pop, that any deviance to their agenda of homogeneity sends them into a tizzy. The wrong look, the wrong weight, a selfie taken at Wendy’s instead of the gym—I could well imagine how freaked out a shallow man might be about an absent body part.

Did my fauxhawked friend hope that I simply wouldn’t notice? Was he so practiced and expert at concealment that he’d gotten away with his partners not noticing before? In no way does he need any of my pity. Yet pity isn’t what I’m feeling for him. Not for his injury, not for his lack, at least. I feel angry that someone, sometime, had embarrassed him about himself. I feel dismay that he has the compulsion to hide.

Honestly, though, I’m not able to formulate much of a coherent response in the moment, because the fucker’s mouth is making my dick feel so damned good.

“Let me eat your hole,” I suggest.

In a flash he maneuvers himself into a kneeling position, keeping me firmly on his left side so that I can’t see his right arm as it swings swiftly into place beneath the pillow. I kneel behind him, planting my lips onto the smooth pucker he presents. It relaxes and blossoms on my tongue as I lap at it. “You like that,” I state, and am rewarded an answer in groans.

I drag the unused pillow beneath his hips and rim him for several minutes, giving him pleasure just as he’d given it to me moments before. I’m rough and relentless at times as I gnaw at this private place with vigor, or abrade it with my short beard. At other points I’m romantic, making out with the hole to let it know how very badly I desire it. The pink tip of his cock, angled down and to the side, peeks out of the stretchy fabric of his jock. Its slit glistens with sticky fluid.

At last I rise and plant my knees between his. I raise my palm and spit in it, then smooth the slickness over my meat. His hips rise in anticipation; when I begin to slide inside his warm chute, he murmurs obscenities into the pillow. “Just enjoy it,” I whisper.

“I am,” he promises. “Oh god, I really am.”

I’m in. He’s well-fucked, this one; there’s barely any resistance, all the way down. I pause when I reach the base, then pull apart those globes and force myself in an extra half-inch. His back is arched; his neck as well, as he lifts his head to let out a mighty sob of pleasure.

“Right there,” he whispers. “Right…right there. Oh god, you’re hitting that spot I love.”

“You want to sit on it?” I murmur. “I’ll get in real deep if you sit on it.”

I sense some hesitation. Maybe he’s wondering how he can once more hide his right arm; maybe he’s plotting the combination of moves he’ll use, the vectors that will have to come into play for the concealment. But it’s bullshit. If he wants that spot hit, he needs to let me deploy him into a position in which I can hit that spot over and over again.

“Sit on it,” I order.

I turn over on my back, and prop up my head with some pillows. He turns himself over, right arm held out of sight behind his back. Then, as I hold my cock upright, he straddles me and lowers himself down. His eyes close as he sinks onto me.

“Yes” I whisper. It feels right. It feels good.

He must be feeling good, himself. When he’s fully down on me, his head jerks back once more to let me know I’ve found that spot again. I hold my hands to his chest and let his weight fall upon them. He’s still angling his arm awkwardly to keep it out of sight. To me it’s obvious that the charade is interfering with his ultimate enjoyment.

“Come here,” I whisper. I take his left hand in my right, then raise my left hand in the same position. He responds by trying to lean forward and plant his right arm over my head, but it’s a bumbling angle that lessens the pleasure for us both. Finally, I push him back upright. I hold out my left hand, cupped, as I thrust inside him. Then, when his eyes close and he loses himself a little in the pleasure of my big dick so deep within, I take hold of his right forearm. Our fingers are entwined to my right; he’s finally no longer concealing anything and resting in my grasp, on my left. Our eyes meet.

“You like this?” I ask him.

He nods. “Yes.”

“Is this what you want?”

“Yes sir,” he says.

Even though he’s on top of me, I’m still the one doing the work. I thrust upward with my hips as I support him with my hands and upper thighs; his dick throbs. His jock becomes wetter with every thrust. The man gazes down at me through slitted eyelids as I stare at him squarely on. I gauge my thrusts by his every little reaction, banging harder when I sense he needs it, slowing down when I get too close. It’s impossible to hold off forever, though. “Are you ready for my load?” I ask, finally.

His fingers tighten around my right hand. “I’ve been ready since you walked through the door, sir.”

There’s such a look of need in his eyes that I can’t hold off any more. My fingers clutch at his hand and arm tightly as I let loose. I’m still jetting into him when I untangle my right hand from his and claw open his jock. His short cock is slicker than even mine, all from his own precum; I close a fist around it and force him into climax with just a few short strokes.

Both of us are breathing heavily when the sexual haze subsides. He sinks down onto my dick and, as I raise my hips once more, collapses on top of my body. Still connected, ass to cock, my sperm making his insides slippery, we make out in languorous fashion.

After a very long minute, he lifts his head and strokes my hair. “I really like you,” he says.

“I really like you, too,” I tell him.

Nothing more needs to be said. We understand each other.

A Sloth of Bears

After midnight, the busiest part of the ship isn’t the Lido buffet, or the party happening poolside, or the piano bar across from the casino. Most of the traffic take place in a spot that’s the darkest and most remote. Men hike to the forward part of the vessel, climb the stairs up from Deck 11, and wander to the ship's uppermost level. Hands in pockets, their paces slow and meandering, as if they've merely decided to take an evening stroll, adventure-seekers saunter to the railing in front, where clusters of strangers already congregate in small groups.

The Dick Deck, they call it. Every cruise ship has one when there's a gay charter aboard. During the daytime this adults-only area is reserved for nude sunbathing. Nothing overlooks this space; it can't be stumbled upon accidentally. On this cruise, where nearly every cabin is occupied by gay men, it's our unofficial after-hours public play space. Someone has grabbed beach towels to wrap around the low-lying lights designed ordinarily to cast an atmospheric glow on the boards underfoot. There are no floodlights; the back half of the ship is obscured. Save for the Milky Way above and the occasional glow of a phone or watch, this area is nearly completely dark.

Men cluster near the door of a stairwell that leads down to the Crow's Nest bar, a deck below. After sunset, the crew piled the sunbathing lounge chairs in a neat heap next to the stair. A fit, muscular older guy sprawls face-down on top of that stack, legs open, wearing nothing but a pair of sneakers. His clothes lie in a pile on the planks. He groans noisily—someone has stepped up to the deck chairs and applied his mouth to the man's ass, which lies right at face level. I don't find the guy doing the rimming especially attractive, but my opinion doesn't matter. The older man writhes and bucks so vigorously from the attention that the stack of chairs begin to scrape and inch noisily across the deck.

I'm standing about a dozen feet away, alone, leaning against the rail. I could join the group that's milling around the deck chairs, but inserting myself in the midst of the action isn't really my style. I'm dressed to cruise, though—a pair of shorts with no underwear beneath, a dark tee, sneakers. I'm not hard, but my dick is full enough to form a noticeable bulge beneath the thin fabric draped over it. The group surrounding the chairs swells in size as more men amble into this dark, all-male space; they're craning necks to see the action, looking around to see if anyone else wants to start something. I'm not surprised when nothing happens among the crush of bodies. Men come in two stripes: those who instigate sex, and those who hope proximity to sex will lend them an allure they don't have. The men in that anonymous pack are mostly the latter.

I'm one of the former. It would be easy enough to go over and grab a hand and put it to my crotch, to take a handful of ass and watch whatever fellow I clutch groan with gratitude. Those pickings are too easy, though. So I summon my patience, and rest my elbows on the railing at the small of my back, and wait.

It's not long before a man appears from the direction of the spa stairwell who catches my eye. Tall guy—even taller than I am. Maybe six-four, six-five. Beefy. Furry. A long beard that ends mid-ribcage. Nice face. He's a big slab of bear, this one. I like the look. He's wearing an unbuttoned flowered Hawaiian shirt that reveals a mass of chest hair, yellow shorts, and a pair of flip-flops. My eyes follow him as he paces with obvious interest to the gang by the deck chairs. He takes a glance, looks around the crowd, then detaches to walk in my direction.

Our eyes lock. I nod. He smiles in return. It's one of those goofy grins I find instantly endearing, but he glides past and walks on. While the sloppy sounds of butt-munching and the muscled older guy's grunting continues to my left, I watch the big bear stride over to the quiet end of the deck. Up at the stars he stares, as if taking a quiet moment. Then he turns, leans against the rail, and looks my way.

I meet his gaze. It doesn't take long for him to react. He pushes himself from the rail and begins—oh so casually—to stroll back my way. He smiles again as he passes, closer this time. Then rests his behind on the railing about four feet from where I stand.

Wasting no time, I slide over next to him. In turn, he closes the gap of mere inches between us by easing his hip next to mine. My hand reaches for his package; I cup his balls firmly, feel a few inches of hardness spring to life. He rubs one palm against my stiff dick beneath my shorts, and cups a hand to the back of my head to pull me close. Our lips meet. His tongue invades my mouth. My free hand explores the fur beneath his open shirt, and squeezes one of the metal bars that piece his nipples.

“Do you have a room?” he growls in my ear. I shake my head. Again his beard tickles my neck as he murmurs, “I do, but maybe you're not the kind of guy who goes to a strange man's room.”

The comment makes me laugh. “I'm the kind of guy who loves going to a strange man's room.”

“Well c'mon then.” He grabs my hand in his paw and tugs me in the direction of the stairs. When we're in the light, and walking down, he asks my name. We exchange introductions. “Rob, huh? Now I gotta use it three times so I can remember.” He's got a slight Southern drawl, even though he's just told me he's from Colorado. “All right, one: I can't wait to get into Rob's pants.”

We're at the elevators, now. The doors open; he's still holding my hands like we're sixth-grade boyfriends. A couple of men smile at us as we step inside. They've obviously been to the green-themed poolside party above; they're dressed like the Lucky Charms leprechaun, only with more spangles and higher panty lines.

“Two,” says my bear, once we’re inside. He pushes the number of his floor. “From what I felt up there, Rob has a mighty big dick and I can't wait to get it down my throat.”

“Who's Rob?” asks one of the leprechauns with obvious interest.

“This hung motherfucker right here,” says the bear, swinging our clasped hands like he owns me.
“And he's all mine, bitches.” The leprechauns burst out into laughter. One of them eyes my shorts with speculation.

I'm flustered, but only a little. My new friend is so amiably goofy that all I really can do is laugh along with them.

“Yep,” he's saying to the party-goers. “You two boys think about me choking on Rob's big hog in about five minutes, because down my throat is where that huge dong is gonna be. Hey! That's number three!” he crows.

All four of us are chuckling when the bear and I stumble out of the elevator. One of us is a little more red than the others. The bear knows I'm charmed, though. He leads me toward the ship's aft by the hand, obviously tickled at his choice of trick. I'm flattered he's so pleased. When he rests his head on my shoulder, like we're lovebirds, it's all I can do to conceal the boner pointing in the general direction of Cuba.

He's got an inside cabin. It's tidy enough, but the first thing that catches my eye is the jumbo squirt bottle of Gun Oil by the bed. This dude is ready for something. I kick off my sneakers. When I turn to face him, the bear is looking me with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Grrrrrr,” he says.

His eyes are bluer than mine. I knew he was tall. I didn't realize, until we were walking down that hall together, that he was taller than even I. How much does he weigh? Two-fifty? Thereabouts? Whatever it is, he's solid through and through. He puffs up his chest and takes two steps forward to square off with me like we're wrestlers sizing each other up before a championship match. “I'm gonna enjoy taking you down, mister,” he says in a low voice.

“You’re gonna take me down?” I reply, not breaking my stare.

His hands yank my shorts to the floor. I'm not wearing anything underneath, so my dick springs out, then bounces. Roughly he wrests my shirt over my neck. The bear’s eyes glint as he shoves me onto his bed.

“You don't know what you've gotten yourself into, son,” he says to my sprawled form. Those short of his are being held up by a belt that he unbuckles and slides out of its loops. It's so slow and deliberate an act that my heart pounds a little faster. “Daddy is going to treat you like the real bad boy you are. Y'hear?”

“Yes sir,” I respond. I mean, I've got to be a good five to ten years older than this guy, but I'm not going to object to being the boy for a couple of hours.

His shorts fall to the floor. He's wearing a much-used Bike jock, more gray than white. He pulls off the Hawaiian shirt he's been wearing all this time, swings it around a finger like a cocky son-of-a-bitch, and lets it fly. It lands on the little desk in the opposite corner. “I think I might just fuck that little boyhole of yours,” he says. He still has the belt in his hands, the leather doubled over. “Yeah. I think daddy is going to spank that little ass, then breed it deep. You want that, son?”

I hadn't exactly envisioned this encounter going quite in this direction, but what the fuck. I'm having fun. I've haven't had a dick up my ass in half a decade or more. Let's run with it and see where it goes, I figure. Good sex—the best sex—is like comedy improv. And the first rule of improv is never to shut down what your creative partner suggests. In both sex and comedy, partners say yes to what's suggested. They build upon what the other brings to the scene.

So I say: “I want what dad wants. Sir.”

“Damn right you do, son,” he barks. “Now, let dad choke on that cock you got. That monster meat you got from my side of the family.”

I'd felt the bear's erection up on the Dick Deck. If I'd gotten my monster meat from his side of the family, it must've skipped a generation, I think. But like a good boy I keep my opinions to myself.

Besides, the only thing coming out of my mouth right now are groans and gasps—this guy is making good on his promise to take my big hog down his gullet. There's no choking, though. He swallows my eight inches whole, nuzzling the base with his lips and nose after it has slipped without effort down his throat. “Fuck,” I manage to grunt out. I try to lift myself up to watch what he's doing, but without breaking the rhythm of his deep-throating, he shoves me back into the pillows.

It's only after a good five minutes of him swallowing me whole that he disengages and rises to his feet. “Here,” he says, as he walks over to the desk where he'd thrown his shirt. He picks up a silver rectangular gadget, takes a moment to fiddle with its buttons, and hands it to me. It's a point-and-shoot camera. “I want some photos of me with this god-damned masterpiece in my mouth.” Then he's back to work.

I take a number of shots, with and without flash, of him staring into the lens with hunger. My god-damned masterpiece is nowhere to be seen in any of them; it's all the way down his throat the entire time. Whenever I attempt to set the camera down, he grunts and gestures for me to take more photos. Thirty, forty, fifty shots click by.

Finally he allows me to set aside the point-and-shoot. “Now I'm gonna eat that beautiful ass, son,” he growls. “Get you ready for fuckin'. On your knees, boy.”

I obey. He positions me near the bottom of the bed with my knees spread and my face in the pillow.
“God damn. Lookit that pucker.” The dirtier he talks, the more of a drawl he affects. Then again, I’m a little like that, myself. “Arch your back, son. Show off that bubble butt.”

I don’t in the least have a bubble butt, and at my advanced age I’m no longer certain my back actually can arch any longer, but I do my best.

“Fuck yeah,” he says, giving my ass a light slap. “That’s the way to make a man want to fuckin’ rape you. Cocktease. Little faggot hole. Wiggle it.” Again, I obey. “Put your hands on your ass and pull it apart for me. Now, boy. Fuck yeah. Gotta get some shots of that!”

What is he—? Oh shit. He’s taking shots of me spreading my hole. Welp. Might as well look good on camera. I arch my back and show it off, chagrined slightly that I’m getting even harder doing it.

The man lets loose a rumbling note of appreciation deep from his chest. “Makin’ daddy rock hard here. Gotta taste it.” I gasp as his tongue flicks against my hole. His beard scrapes and grinds into the sensitive skin, making me catch my breath. “You like that, don’t you, little faggot. Big ol’ man eatin' that pussy of yours.”

“Yes sir,” I wheeze into the pillow.

“What’s that?” he barks before chewing on my hole again.

“Yes sir!”

I might be in a daze—it’s been a while since anyone ate my hole, much less made me put it on display—but I can swear I hear the faint mechanical click of a card key in the cabin door. “Fuck,” says the bear. “My husband’s back.” A hundred thoughts pulse through my brain in the milliseconds following that statement, all of them dire. But the bear follows up with, “Don’t worry, he’ll like what I’ve brought home. Don’t move, boy.”

The cabin door opens. I hear footsteps and the jingling of metal. And there I am, face down, on my knees, ass up at the bed’s edge, my fingers clawing at the edges of my hole to expose it. “Look what I got, honey,” says the bear to someone unknown.

“Looks mighty good,” I hear a deep voice rumble. Unlike his husband, the newcomer lacks a Southern twang. “Looks ready to fuck.”

In my head I’m calculating the unlikelihood of being able to take two dicks in my hole sequentially, when it’s been eons since I’ve had even one. But then I hear a third voice say, “Why don’t we all have a shot.”

And a fourth voice says, “I wouldn’t mind wettin’ my dick in that.”

Oh, crap. This situation has gotten thoroughly out of hand. I know plenty of bottoms who would love to be gang-banged by a bunch of bears, but what had begun as a situation for which I was game has, in the space of thirty seconds, turned into something for which I wasn’t in the least prepared.

I’m beginning to panic slightly when I feel a pair of hands on my waist. They pivot me onto my back. Someone lifts my hips and slides a pillow underneath. A slightly older gentleman, gray-haired, muscular, bearded, wearing a lime pair of spandex shorts and a tank top, leans down to kiss me. A younger bear in Kelly green from shorts to tee kneels down and begins licking my hole. A very tanned and bearded older man kneels on the bed beside me and starts to twist my nipples.

And my bear, my Southern daddy, kneels opposite to deep-throat my cock again.
“Take turns on this little bitch’s ass,” says the man twisting my nipples. I could have pointed out, if my mouth hadn’t been occupied by a stranger’s tongue, that I was taller and larger than any of them save the Southern bear, but I’m already squirming with too much sensation to really protest. Each man has his area of concentration—mouth, nipples, dick, hole—and they’re all lavishing me with attention. All at once, it’s both too much—and yet not enough.

The gray-haired man removes his lips from mine and begins to pull down his spandex. The man twisting my tits takes over kissing until the gray-haired fellow knees straddle my head. He lifts me up to suck an uncut fat six-incher, only half-hard, sporting a thick Prince Albert.

I’m being pushed close to the edge by the sheer amount of attention I’m getting. “Use this,” I hear my bear say as my chest begins to heave with more vigor. The man torturing my nipples bounces the mattress as he stands up, but someone—I think the man whose dick is in my mouth—takes over nipple duty. I hear clicking noises, and see an occasional bright flash. That motherfucker is taking more photos of me being worked over by the other three bears.

“Come on, baby,” says the bear I’d picked up on the Dick Deck. “Shoot for daddy.” His fist clutches tight around my meat as he jacks up and down the distended wet flesh. I couldn’t hold back if I’d wanted. From my core I feel lava surge through my balls and up the shaft. “Fuck! Look at that hog shoot!” the bear roars, as the others grunt in appreciation. For a moment, all noise recedes as I shudder and convulse from the orgasm. Two jets of semen land somewhere on my belly, but the bear buries my inches into his throat once again to catch the rest. Whimpering, my jerky agitations subside. Suddenly the nipple-twisting becomes painful.

“That’s the way my boy does it. Just like I taught him,” announces the bear. I shiver at the sensation of his rough tongue lapping up the cum on my belly. “Atta boy, son.” The fellow above me pulls his semi-hard dick from my mouth.

“Shit,” I stammer. “I’ve never….”

“Never what?” asks my bear.

His husband chuckles. “Never been molested by a sloth of bears, he means.”

“A what of what?”

“It’s a collective noun.” The gray-haired man shrugs. “I don’t know how I know that.”

“That’s what I meant,” I agree. “Fuck, that was…intense.”

The men all laugh at once. “Worth it for that sweet load, son,” says my bear. He and the man in spandex pull me up to the top of the bed and cuddle me between them. The other two pile in on either side. The man who’d originally assigned himself to twist my nipples hands back my bear his camera.

“Selfie time,” says the bear. He makes all of us crowd in and smile up at the ceiling as we take an exhausted last couple of photos.

I leave about ten minutes later, when I feel like I can walk again. It’s not until I get back to my own cabin in those wee hours of the morning that I realize I’ve forgotten to give the bear my email address so I can I get copies of some of those photos for myself. Oh well, I think. I can do it when I see them around the ship, later in the week.

The odd thing is, though, that I never see any of those guys again. And I never get to see the shots either I or they took.

So if anyone out there happens to see some badly-lit photos of me on all fours spreading my pasty ass for the world to see…let me know, would you?

Feed Me, Burp Me, Hose Me Down

“Oh my god.” I can’t see the man around the corner, but I’m pretty certain that anyone in a two-hundred-foot radius can hear his light tenor. “Oh my god,” he repeats. “Listen to what this says: I’m a little stinker. I make bigger loads than anyone!”

A chorus of laughter erupts from the other unseen gay guys who surround the speaker in this little store. I’m in a portside tourist shop on the island of Grand Turk—the first port of call on my week-long vacation cruise. It’s apparent that this section of the island isn’t accustomed to much tourist traffic; only two ships are stopping here the entire week. Though the little mall built next to the docks is neat and cheerful, the stores here don’t offer much in the way of the typical Diamonds International chains, or those inexplicably popular t-shirts that change color in the sunlight. Even the duty-free shop is a wan little affair, only missing a sign that reads, Hey, we know you’ll do better at any other port, but while you’re here….

And this little shop, this tiny purveyor of tourist claptrap and the oddest and endiest of odds and ends, sells some of the most perverse objects ever. I’ve been looking for something fun and colorful as a souvenir for the friend feeding my cats while I’m away, but in this little emporium there’s precious little from which to choose. I’ve already rejected the crudely-painted objects purporting to be ashtrays, since all of which have been sculpted into convex domes that would seem to repel ashes to the table, rather than collect them. I’ve rifled through a plastic milk jug of Grand Turk refrigerator magnets of varying tackiness, only to discover that the so-called magnetic strip on the back don’t actually adhere to the empty rotating iron magnet stand sitting next to them. The colorful images of tropical flowers printed on a dispirited rack of tees have all been printed askew, at a Dutch angle.

In fact, everything in this strange establishment looks as if it has been purchased at a deep discount well below wholesale from some tropical island factory seconds bin. Or perhaps, made in the dark by amateurs who, guerilla-like, had snuck into a tchotchkes factory after night and couldn’t quite work out how to operate the machinery.

Then there are the bibs. I’m fixated before an entire wall of cheap plastic bibs in garish neons when the unseen man caterwauls again, “I make bigger loads than anyone!”

I’m not really paying attention to him. Each bib has a slogan printed—again, slightly off level—in crude block letters on its front. I love daddy cuz he treats me right! reads one. Another has been emblazoned with, I might look tiny, but I’m a mighty big boy underneath!

I’ve actually been staring at all these bibs (and there are a hell of a lot of them, since I don’t exactly know who would ever buy them) for a couple of minutes. I’m trying to figure out if it’s just me, or whether there was something a little—I don’t know—off about these damned things.

“Oh my gawwwwwd,” drawls a deep Southern bear within eyeshot. He’s a massive man with tree trunk legs stuffed into combat boots, his belly bulging out a tee sporting a glitter-farting unicorn. Apparently the display of bibs extends around the corner, because he’s plucked one in a cornea-searing shade of pink from the wall to display to his gaggle of bear friends. “Spank me hard and put me to bed.” His group bursts once more into hilarious laughter.

No. It’s not just me.

“Daddy hugs and kisses me best,” reads the first guy. “Why are these thingies all about daddies? Don’t they hang around babies’ necks or something?”

“Want me to stop crying? Shove something good in my mouth. God daaaaaamn!” hoots the Southern bear.

“Mommy made me, but daddy spanks me. Y’all, this is some seriously deep-level weird Freudian shit,” says the first guy.

“I’m-a gonna have to buy me a bunch of these.” The Southern bear grabs several in his paws. “Oo, I like this one: Feed me, burp me, hose me down.”

Two of his friends dissolve into hysterics. “Hose me down!” says one. “It’s like they made these especially for gay men.”

“You mean, it’s like they made these just for you.”

“Y’all, they did make them just for me,” says the bear as he lays a bib against his chest, like he’s trying it on for size. “This one that says Open wide and swallow is going to be my outfit to the tea dance tomorrow, I swear.”

“Buy it,” someone urges. “Buy it! It’s the best!”

“Yeah, you can’t top that one.”

That’s when I make my appearance. I’ve been quietly laughing along with them, mostly out of view, but now I step out and brandish a bib from my side of the display. “No,” I announced with authority, holding aloft my prize. “This one is the best.”

The Southern bear narrows his eyes and reads aloud my proffered bib. “My hands might be tiny but I can still wrap them around daddy.” His eyes met mine and widened. “Oh. My. God.”

The other bears crowd around the corner to see the bib for themselves. They whoop and holler their amusement so loudly that other men from the cruise start poking their heads through the open doors to see what’s so funny.

“Gimme that,” say the bear, snatching the hanger from my hand. “Please. Unless you want it for yourself, that is.”

“All yours,” I grin.

The following day, at the afternoon tea party back on the ship, I spy the Southern bear dancing in the crowd with his friends. He catches my eye and waves at where I stand on the balcony above. Then he backs away to a clear spot to show off what he’s wearing. Somehow he has jerry-rigged a whole mess of bibs into a poncho of sorts; it’s multi-colored, painful to the eyes, and covered with slogans that probably had been intended innocently enough, but to a mass of gay men would seem like the worst (and best) kind of double-entendres. The one I’d showed him is in the dead center.

Well, I think to myself, at least that weird little shop made money from the tourists that morning.

Uptown Train

This dude wedged up against me? He has three hats.

I’ve just squeezed onto an uptown train. It’s eight-thirty at night, but the express leaving from Union Square is packed. Wall-to-wall, every seat filled, every pole a totem of clenched fists. Grand Central is only one stop away, I think to myself, but even though the doors have closed, the train hasn’t yet left the station. This sardine-like excursion is going to take a good ten minutes. And the dude mere inches away is wearing three hats at once.

I know this because two of the three brims are in my face. I’m having to angle my jaw up and to the right, just to avoid them. I look at his short, muscular body, covered by a frayed old skin-tight t-shirt. Through the maze of backpacks and bodies I can see his expensive high-top sneakers, his tight sweatpants with the ankle elastic pulled up to his knees to expose bull calves. Tough little punk. He’s a tough little Latin shit with a beard . . . and three baseball caps, over which he’s got a pair of Beats over-the-ears headphones.

Are three caps a statement? Has every wanna-be street thug been wearing three caps and I just haven’t noticed? Okay, in the grand scheme of things, three baseball caps is probably less asinine than one polo shirt worn atop another polo shirt, both with the collars popped, which was a preppy thing I might have done once or twice as a college kid. But its a close race.

The dude is having problems getting the Beats to sit properly, even extended all the way. When he reaches up with both hands to adjust them, the movement causes a ripple effect among the people in my immediate vicinity; everyone has to shift and move to accommodate his elbows. I’ve got my neck bent so far to the side it probably looks like I’m resting it on the businessman’s shoulder, next to me. One of the hats is going to have to go, he seems to realize.

He takes off the top one, flat-brimmed with a Yankees logo, to reveal a shiny black leather baseball cap underneath. Multiple murmurs of annoyance arise as he again tries to fix the headphones. The first cap still in his hand, he pulls off the leather hat and stuffs the pair into the waistband of his sweats. Then, lifting the Beats, he moves the brim of the final cap from the back of his head to the front, and settles the headphones squarely on his ears. The train jolts and moves; we’re finally, slowly, on our way.

I look at the guy’s final headwear. I recognize the brand logo immediately. Nasty Pig. There’s even a silver adhesive sticker still on the flat brim to verify: Official Nasty Pig Gear, it reads.

From his streetwear I’d mentally categorized this guy as a would-be thug. Now I know he’s a cocksucking thug. I smirk. That’s when the dude’s eyes catch mine. No, that’s when the dude’s eyes, so dark and so deep that it's tough to tell where the brown ends and the iris begins, lock onto mine.

I feel a spark of electricity at the base of my spine. People don’t really look at each other on the New York subway. We stand in our places, pretending it’s totally natural to be as close to each other as we are. We avoid eye contact to maintain the pretense of our personal space. But even though my eyes reflexively dance away for a moment, they shoot back just as quickly. He’s still staring. His glance travels down my body, then back to my face. This short little Latin bull and I are cruising each other from the distance of eight inches away. On a fucking subway. With a hundred people crushed around us.

Nasty Pig does a thing with his upper teeth, where they bite into his pillowy bottom lip at one far corner. It’s a sexy move that makes my pants stir. My dick is coming to life. Now he’s hooking his headphones cord around his index finger and sucking it into his mouth. He’s still staring at me, but now he’s gone beyond merely checking me out; he’s staring with intent.

I feel a tingle along the underside of my dick. When I peek down, I can see his pinky finger crooked, tracing up and down the denim of my jeans along the outline of my bulge. Naturally, that just makes me stiffer. When I look back up, he’s still sucking on that cord and giving me most provocative look I’ve had in months. This boy is not only wearing a Nasty Pig hat, he’s determined to live up to the brand.

The train is moving at full speed now; we’re whizzing past 34th. The next stop is mine. He must see me lowering my head to glance at the station sign as we speed by, because now the dude is bending over from the waist, reaching over the little backpack-wearing Asian college student chattering to a friend, extending an arm in the direction of the subway map behind plexiglass next to the door. He’s doing it as casually as anyone could, in a jam-packed train; the point of the exercise, it dawns on me when I see him pointing to the white circle ringed in black next to 125th Street along the green vertical line, is to show me his stop. He straightens up once he’s ascertained I’ve seen his destination, and raises his eyebrows. I pause. My own stop is approaching. But then I make a decision, and nod in response. The train screeches and brakes to a stop. We’ve reached Grand Central.

It’s been a long day, and fifteen minutes ago I’d been itching to go home. Now, though? I guess I’m going to Harlem.

A slew of people exit at Grand Central; another slew gets on. The Latin dude in the Nasty Pig baseball cap and I remain at our spots on the pole, pressed against each other, the crush of bodies shelter his relentless stroking of my dick through its denim prison. The train clears out somewhat at 59th; we separate by a couple of feet. I hold my backpack so that it blocks any public view of my raging erection. The concealment elicits a smirk of his own. His eyes bore into mine. The things I’m gonna do to you, that look says.

Harlem. We emerge from the depths onto the street. Neither of us speaks. I let him take the lead. The smell of hot spiced lamb and of onions and peppers from a food cart follows us around a corner, and then to a numbered street nearby. He uses a key to unlatch a iron gate in front of a small apartment building. With a gentlemanly gesture, he holds it open for me. I push it shut when I’m on the other side. Another key for the front door, then, once we’ve climbed one flight of stairs, a third for his apartment. Inside, the air is stale and still. There’s a faint scent of Lysol, and of cooking grease.

The two hats that covered the Nasty Pig revelation have been jutting out of the dude’s sweatpants pocket all during our walk. He yanks them out and tosses them on a chair. As I stand there, waiting to see what he might do, my heart flops about like a wild bird desperate to escape its cage; I’m a little breathless both at this stranger’s provocation and at my nerve. Nasty Pig is fucking fine. It’s clear he spends his days lifting, probably admiring his growing muscles in the gym mirrors while he works them. How old is he? Twenty-six? Twenty-eight?

I open my lips to say something, to break the ice. But before I speak, he clears his throat, then lifts up his arms. One hand grabs the brim of his baseball cap. The other grabs the rear. He turns it around on his head. And then he kneels. My lips stay open, but all that comes out is a breath. Oh fuck, my lips work. No sound emerges.

He’s got his cheek against my still-hard dick, rubbing it through the jeans as his hands tug at my belt and then at my zipper. My pants fall to the ground; he yanks at the elastic of my trunks. They tumble into the well of denim around my ankles. I feel his strong hand gripping my dick, squeezing it tight, maintaining an expert pressure on the extreme of pleasure, just below the threshold of pain. His lips are pursed; he’s breathing heavily through them as he gazes at my meat. Studying it. Admiring the fuck out of it. He glances up, watching me watch him. Then he’s twisting my shaft around, looking at it from another vantage. Then he opens his mouth wide.

I feel a cyclone of heat as his mouth surrounds my flesh. Then wetness, and the sloppy sensation of his lips dragging themselves down my shaft toward my balls. My head jerks back. I let out a groan.

The walls of the hallway where he’s blowing me are narrow; my left hand braces itself against cold plaster while my right gropes at a leather jacket hanging from a peg. He’s on his knees, hungrily gobbling the dick he’d been teasing for a hundred and ten blocks; one of his hands encloses my nuts in his grasp.

For five minutes while he greedily sucks me, we don’t make it more than a yard past his apartment door. Without announcement, though, he lunges to his feet. With my dick in his hand like a dog’s leash, he pushes off one of his kicks with his toes, then the other. He leads me down the hallway, padding in black-socked feet and me shuffling behind, past a tiny living area and an even tinier kitchen toward a room in the back. Only when we’ve reached the room with a mattress on the floor does he let go of my dick—but his fingers still tickle the underside, beckoning me to the makeshift bed on the floor. There’s a stack of boxes by the head that’s acting as a kind of nightstand, and a full-length mirror on a stand in one corner. I manage to wrestle my feet out of their shoes and the tangle of pants simultaneously; my hoodie comes off. He pulls off my t-shirt himself, then steps back. Off comes the Nasty Pig cap, tossed on the floor without ceremony. He skims off his own top using that crossed-hand move guys use to strip in movies, that I never can quite manage to grasp. Then his sweatpants drop. He stares at me the whole time.

The dude’s got a beautiful body. He’s a little bull, solid and shapely. A Nasty Pig dream model. He grabs a bottle of poppers from his makeshift nightstand, shakes it. Then he twists off the cap and inhales deeply. One nostril. Then the other. He offers me the bottle, but I shake my head.

Then he’s down on the dirty mattress. This little Latin piece of ass is on all fours for a stranger his dad’s age, his butt up in the air, his feet spread, his head down. He needs me inside him. It’d be cruel to deny the kid. Right?

Charitable humanitarian that I am, I kneel down behind the boy. My cock’s head nudges against his surprisingly furry little hole. He moans a little bit, and pushes back against me. Still greedy. I savor his need while I take my time spitting into my hand and getting my dick slick. Only once my shaft is glistening to I start to push in.

I intend to go slowly, but Nasty Pig doesn’t have the patience. He thrusts his hips back, engulfing my meat in a single push. Almost immediately he regrets it. I don’t know if he’s unused to dicks my size, or whether he’s just imitating porn to turn me on, but his face contorts. He bucks and yells at the sensations. His hand halts my hips, trying to stop me from thrusting just yet. Still hissing and breathing heavily, his face gradually goes back to normal. I take that as my cue.

With my hands parting the meaty globes of his butt, I slide my inches in and out. He nods, then grunts, then starts making noises of approval. Neither of us have spoken a word so far—why break the ice now? I press down on the small of his back with my hand’s heel, bring up one knees so that I can get some more momentum going. He grabs for the poppers again as I plow deep.

I’m not going to last long, I know; I’ve got a three-day load in my nuts and I know exactly where it’s going to end up. Nasty Pig is clutching his pillow now, high from the vapors and accepting the rough fuck as if he knows he deserves it. One of his hands covers mine. Our fingers intertwine as we both pull wide his butt cheek.

I need more traction. My dick makes an audible squelch as I pull out of his raw hole and coerce the boy to his feet. He braces himself against the wall as I shove myself back in. Partly I’m doing this for him; I know he’s getting off on the sight of us in that full-length mirror of his. Mostly, though, I’m doing it for me. Standing up, I can admire the sight of my slick shaft as it slides into his guts. Standing up, I can hold him by the hips and fuck him like the nasty little bitch he clearly wants to be. His back arches; his fat uncut dick is short enough that it can slap against his belly to match the sound of my thrusts.

When I shoot, it’s loud. I bark out my pleasure and the concussion reverberates around the room. His eyes open; he watches the reflection of my hips jutting forward as my cock buries itself as deep inside his hole as it can go. Those dark eyes flash; there’s a serious look on his face as I shoot my sperm inside. A serious look for serious business, it seems. I’m still inside his hole, recuperating, when he starts whacking that fat pinga of his. A few strokes, a grunt, and his seed spatters out. There’s a bucket of it, splattering on the bedclothes, the wall, the floor. A moment of silence and stillness. Then he shifts forward. My dick slops out. More seed falls onto the bedclothes. This time it’s mine.

The baseball cap is the first thing he dons. He sits down on his mattress wearing nothing but the hat and his black sock, legs spread, dick flopping down low between his legs. I start to grab my clothes. I dress while he checks his messages. He’s still silently poking at the glass of his phone as I don my shoes and hoodie. I know my cue to exit.

We still haven’t spoken a word. I raise my hand in farewell.

He’s up on his feet, suddenly. Unexpectedly, he pulls down my head to his own. Our lips lock in a kiss. His mouth still tastes of my precum. I feel his wet dick against my wrist.

I’m on the street a moment later. After the closeness of the apartment, the night air is cool on my sweaty face. I can pick up my commuter train from the Harlem stop as if nothing at all brought me so far out of my way—though I know that getting on at Harlem, I’m unlikely to find a seat.

Actually, it’s the first time I’m thinking that a crowded train isn’t so bad an experience after all.

Dick Dock 2015: Transition

The week I vacation in Provincetown is one of transition. When I arrive, the boys flocking to the daily Tea Dance are the twinks, the party boys, the thin little things with curly locks and tight clothes and disdain for anything much beyond the tips of their pretty little turned-up noses and their designer drinks. The Saturday I leave, however, is the official start of Bear Week. Thursday is really when the town’s population starts to get heavier. Furrier. The tight Capri pants give way to bulky cargo shorts, the dainty flip-flops to athletic socks and combat boots. By week’s end there are fewer smooth pecs and a lot of hairy expanses of chest. More nipple rings. More tattoos. More testosterone.

Under the dock on my last night, I can already tell the difference by who’s cruising. The silhouettes against the lit beach are broad-shouldered, taller, stockier. I’m seeing fewer chins and a lot more beards.

But there are a few hold-ons among the twinks. One of them starts following immediately when I reach the bottom of the steps down to the sand and turn the sharp corner to duck under the dock above. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for me. Our eyes meet. I take in his slightly scruffy chin, the blond hair, his open dress shirt, the moonlike luminescence of his pale chest. He nods, ever so slightly, then simply falls into step with me. We pass a half-dozen men lurking the shadows, slouched against the pillars supporting the wood planks above. The sand sides through my sandals and cools my toes as we shuffle through it to a quiet place past the clusters of men huddled together. I lean back against a girder, and turn to him.

He stares me in the eyes. I feel his palm cup my shorts. They’re soccer shorts, made of a synthetic material. I’ve worn them around town all day with no underwear beneath. Nothing but a cock ring, to show off the bounce of my package and the outline of my head beneath the sleazy fabric. He seems surprised at the warmth of me. I feel his fingers travel the length of my hardening meat, then the release of elastic as he pulls the shorts away from my hips and down to my knees.

“Yes,” I sigh into the night. The kid grasps my cock firmly in one hand. The other he curls around the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss. He’s a good kisser, this one. Young, eager, and hungry for attention. Our lips wrestle for dominance; he seems determined to prove to me how good a kisser he is, however, so I let him take control as he sucks my tongue deep into the recesses of his mouth.

Finally he pulls away. Our eyes lock once more. The kid must be something spectacular in the light. Pity I’ll never see him again. One by one, he takes my nipples into his mouth, suckling at them until they’re tingling with blood and desire. Then he drops to his knees.

I hear him unzip his own slacks. I can see a flash of white briefs before he yanks them beneath his balls. The white dress shirt he’s wearing falls from his shoulders and dangles halfway down his back, suspended where the sleeves are folded at his elbows. Is he a waiter just off work, I wonder? He needed cock so badly that he couldn’t wait to change out of the clean formal shirt and dark slacks and good shoes? It’s a moot question. He pushes me firmly back against the wood and steel and wraps those soft lips of his around my cock.

He’s eager to prove himself here, too. I can tell by the way he looks up at me that he’s begging for my encouragement and praise. I run my hands through his sandy blond hair and let it ruffle between my fingers, and nod. He closes his eyes in gratitude and deep-throats the rod before him for long moments before looking up at me again to measure my enjoyment. He doesn’t need to look. He should be able to tell by the sounds I’m making, the guttural Christs! and the growled Good boys!

My grunts are attracting a crowd, yet again. They’re keeping their distance for now, which I appreciate. I want this boy to myself for a while. I can see his fist furiously beating up and down at his waist. A second later, I hear him breathing heavily and choking, as if my dick’s too much for him.

Then he’s up on his feet, scrambling to wipe the sand from his knees and shins.

“Suck me,” I urge.

“I just came. Sorry,” he says, zipping up. He does a half-assed job of trying to yank his dress shirt up and over his shoulders again. “You’ve got a great cock, though.”

“You’re through?” I ask, a little astonished. The kid hadn’t been sucking for more than a couple of minutes.

“I’m done,” he says, loudly enough for the crowd around him to hear. “Sorry, dude.”

There’s been a large bear standing in the little group around me. The second he hears the kid make his apology, he elbows him out of the way. No—he basically tackles the kid to the ground to take his place.

It’s almost cartoon-like in execution. A few years ago, I took one of my cats out into the back garden of my old house. She saw a squirrel that had climbed to the top of the wooden fence that surrounded the yard. The cat took off running, launched herself five feet into the air, and body-slammed the squirrel so thoroughly with one shoulder that both animals fell down to the ground. The fence shuddered from the impact. The squirrel was unharmed, but stunned; the cat had knocked the wind out of herself and seemed a little surprised to have connected with her target. Eventually the animals slunk their separate ways with an unspoken agreement not to mention the incident again.

That backyard encounter is what this reminds me of; the kid goes sprawling into the beach with an audible Oof! while the bear’s knees hit the dirt and send up a spray of sand I can feel on the underside of my balls. The bear’s huge. He’s so tall he couldn’t stand up straight underneath the dock, and broad as a linebacker.

“This cock is mine,” he announces in a deep bass.

Nobody contradicts the guy, least of all me. Even if I hadn’t been turned on, I would’ve been afraid to. The kid who’d been sucking me picked himself up and dusted himself off as he vanished toward the light and the street. Meanwhile, I can feel the new mouth kissing my balls and the shaft of my dick.

“Fucking beautiful,” the bear announces. He’s not shy, this one. “Mine.” He sounds proud of himself, like a five-year-old bully who’s claimed the prize toy on the playground.

“So get to work,” I tell him.

Instead of obeying immediately, there’s a long pause. I’m not sure what he’s doing at first, but then I hear wetness, followed by what sounds like his teeth clacking together. Combined, the auditory input leads me to only one inevitable conclusion. Oh Christ, I think to myself. He’s taking his dentures out.
For years now I’ve had guys offer me gum jobs, as they call them. They’ve always promised me they’re the ultimate in pleasure, but somehow I’ve never been enticed enough to give them a try. I’m kind of a captive audience now, though, and what the hell. It’s my last night in town. Why the fuck not?

I’m almost dreading what it’s going to feel like when I feel his mouth clamp down around me. But you know what? It’s not that bad. After a minute or so of him slowly sucking up and down my shaft, I can’t really even tell the difference between the gum job and a regular blow job. Which makes sense, really; most guys don’t use their teeth on my cock, anyway. (The ones who do get sent home immediately.) The best wrap their lips around their incisors. The sensation between a pair of gums and a pair of lip-wrapped teeth isn’t all that dissimilar. So after a very short period I forget it’s a gum job at all, and relax into it.

The bear is a better cocksucker than the boy had been. No contest. The boy might’ve been hungry and eager, but the bear just knows what the fuck to do. He’s stroking the sides of my nuts, tickling my hole with his knuckle, going deep and then dragging his lips up the shaft to make his mouth into a warm and sloppy pussy for my cock. “I want that load,” he announces loudly, the words made indistinct by the wet inches and the lack of his dentures. “You’re gonna give me that load.”

“Yeah,” I moan, pushing down at my hips so he can suck as much of me as possible. “I’m gonna give you my load.”

It doesn’t take long. It’s one of those lengthy, gradual orgasms that seems to begin as a humming, crescendos into a chorus, and ends with my body shrieking its own wild aria. I bang my head against the steel girder behind it, but I don’t care. With so much pleasure, I’m not going to feel the hurt.

The bear swallows every drop of it, then nurses my dick to get the remnants. “Now that’s how you suck cock,” I announce.

He’s fishing into his pocket again, under cover of the night. It’s a moment before he can say, “Fucking A, dude.”

I pull up my shorts. They barely restrain my still-hard cock, but it’ll be a minute or two before I’m back on the street at the public sees me. It’ll subside.

Twink week to bear week. I feel like I’ve had it all in the course of a single blow job. At least I’m ending the vacation on a good note . . . with my first gum job, to boot.

Night at the Dick Dock, Part I

This year I’m an old pro at this particular cruising site. I head down the drive toward the beach without trepidation, not even casting more than a passing glance at the tide creeping in. Last year, like a noob, I made the mistake of trudging through the sand to an entrance halfway down the dock, where everyone could see my slow progress under the harsh light of the street lamps above. This year I know exactly where to round the pillar at the drive’s foot, and I slip into the shadows before I’m seen. Last year I might have been the curious explorer. This year, though, I’m a seasoned pro. This is just as much my hunting ground as it is any other man’s.

My eyes adjust to the gloom almost immediately. It’s after eleven, but there’s not much of a crowd here. Not yet. I saunter past a heavily-spectacled older gentleman with a pot belly. He’s got his fingers inserted in the fly of his almost phosphorescently-white shorts. When I pass by I feel the fingertips of his other hand brush my elbow. I can afford to bide my time a bit.

Individuals lurk the furthest recesses beneath the dock. In the darkest of shadows they wait, checking me out as I pass. I’m not ready to commit to any of these guys. I can do better. Instead, I take a position in a niche right in the middle of the dock, away from the others. I hook a thumb through one of my belt loops, lean against the post, and wait.

I’m not losing anything by waiting. I don’t go for the bait; I wait for my prey to come to me. I know my role in this sexual ecosystem. I’m the instigator. I’ll make my move when I’m ready. Not before.

Men pass me by in the night, taking in what they can see of me in the near-darkness—my narrow frame, my long body, my hand casually cupping the bulge in my shorts. Occasionally they’ll pause in front of me, hoping I’ll reach out and pull them to me. I merely nod, let them pass, and continue to wait. I’ll know what I want, when I see it.

It doesn’t take long before a man stands at the post opposite mine. I can tell by the way his head bobs and sways in the shadows that he’s trying to figure out whether I’m as good as I might seem. He’s checking me out as much as possible, using a peripheral vision that’s slightly sharper in the low light to get a better impression of me. I can tell more about him from where I stand. He’s blond. Maybe in his late twenties, early thirties. He’s got on a muscle tee. I can see his biceps, luminous against the dark. His hair is a light color. Blond, I think. I can’t really see his features, but I’m thinking he’s probably the best of the current bunch. Handsome, even.

Yeah. This is the one.

I’ve got both thumbs through the foremost belt hoops, framing my crotch. I can see his head weaving as he attempts to make sure he’s seeing what he’s seeing. I unzip. Rub my hand over my stiffening dick. Stare right in his direction. Then, just to make sure I’m crystal clear, I beckon him over with a curved index finger.

He obeys.

Yes, the man is indeed handsome. Up close he smells lightly of expensive cologne and more strongly of soap. When he presses his mouth on mine, he tastes of mint mouthwash. The guy’s a good kisser, I have to say. The hunger I feel when we connect intensifies. I force his hands down on my cock and let him feel what he’s going to be getting. He groans at the feel of my hard meat, then even as we’re kissing, I feel his hips curve into a smile. He’s happy he’s getting a big one. I like that in a man.

Like I said, I’m an instigator. Even though there are two or three dozen men milling around beneath the dock in the near pitch-blackness, no one’s having sex yet. No one except me, that is, with the hottest guy here. Right on cue, smelling the pheromones, just about everyone who’s staggering around by themselves converge on the two of us. I’ve got my hand on the back of the guy’s head as I pull him deeper into the kiss, but over the top of his head I can see the pirañas swimming nearer.

He’s down on his knees to deep-throat his prize. Scarcely has he gone down when other men are vying to take his place. I feel hands reaching for my head, hands trying to pull my face to theirs. Hands run up my stomach beneath my t-shirt, fingers tweak my nipples. I pretend not to notice. I pull my head away so that I can gaze down on the fellow on my dick. He’s my focus. When I see the glint of his eyes as he gazes up at me, I know once again I’ve picked the right one.

There’s quite a crowd around us now. Maybe twenty men are feeding from our sexual energy. My instigation is spreading as men begin to fondle each other, to kiss, to couple off, even as they attempt to pull me away from my quarry. The blond has to struggle to stand up, the crowd is so thick around us. He clutches onto my dick with his hand to keep anyone else from taking it from him, then he whispers something into my ear.

The syllables are lush and sweet, like a scented summer breeze on a foreign isle. It takes my brain a moment to register that he’s spoken to me in French. I think he’s telling me I’m a handsome man. “Thanks,” I whisper in his ear. Then, “Do you have somewhere we can go?”

He takes me by the hand and pulls me in the direction of the drive. I take a moment to buckle up and then we push our way out of the crowd. I doubt any of those on the edges are aware that we were its epicenter. Then we’re free, and walking up the drive.

I can see him better in the street lamps. He’s not just handsome. He’s hot as fuck. Blond hair, muscles, scruff on his face. “I wish to be naked with you,” he says, in what’s almost a comical French accent. It’s almost like someone attempting a Maurice Chevalier accent, but he’s completely for real. “Do you have the place to go?”

“I thought you did,” I said.

His face contorts with irritation. “I am at the—what is the words? Camp ground?” I know there’s a campground somewhere in the coastal town, but I have no clear idea of where it is. “We can go there, but it is a long, long walk. A very long walk.”

Well, fuck. My dick is still wet in my shorts, and even though I’m up for a long walk if it means getting into the guy’s ass, he seems dubious. We’re still holding hands; his fingers are intertwined with mine. I’m touched at how much like a boyfriend he’s treating me. “Let me suck you more,” he says, in that charming accent. “Let me drink you.”

I’m not going to say no to that.

Hand in hand we return to the dark area beneath the Boatslip. The action is full swing now. We push past clumps of twos and threes and occasional fours and fives to the area where we were before. The crowd is dispersed, but the little niches against the hotel’s foundation are filled with couples. We find a new spot a little further on. He drops before me worshipfully, and hooks his fingertips into my waistband.

I unbuckle, pull down my shorts, and let my heavy cock fall onto his face. He starts to suck, grunting with pleasure as he does. I lean back against the post and allow myself to enjoy it.

My eyes are closed when I feel someone lifting up my shirt. My neck shoves through the hole; I feel the fabric wrenched back like a yoke, exposing my upper body to the night air. There’s a mouth on my nipple, a pair of bearded lips on my stomach. There’s wet suction on my other nipple. Then someone draws me into a kiss.

Once again I’ve got a throng around me. Though I stay in place, I feel like a crowd-surfer at a concert. I’m throwing myself out to the masses, letting them buoy me safely in their grip. There are mouths all over me and men vying for my attention. Hungry faggots are trying to pull my Frenchman off my dick, but he’s not going anywhere. He’s planted in the goddamned dirt like a fencepost. He’s not going anywhere.

I’m the center of attention. I’m the cock of the walk, right now, right here. And I’m confident enough to know I deserve it.

When I have my orgasm, it’s not waves of pleasure. It’s almost as if I’ve got a kidney stone to pass, and the climax is the moment it leaves my system. I feel relief of the most intense kind. It’s gratification without the titillation. But the amount of cum I gush into the guy’s mouth is substantial. I can feel him gulping to keep up with it. When he’s done, he’s wiping cum and spit from his chin and panting. Once again he has to push his way up through the crowd; I let him hang onto my waist as he attempts to get his balance.

“That is what I needed,” he murmurs into my ear. I can smell my sperm on his breath. “Thank you, beautiful man.”

He holds my face in the curve of his palm, and then disappears into the darkness.

Post-Gay Bar

So I’m sitting in a bar. It’s not a gay bar—it’s definitely not billed that way. It’s not entirely a straight bar, either, because I’ve seen a good third to half of the patrons at the area’s one gay club. It’s what they call typically ‘post-gay’ around here—we’re supposed to be so above it, so hip and welcoming, that gay bars are no longer necessary. Maybe it’s true. There are bars of all stripes in the New York suburbs, but very few of them are gay.

No, this joint is one of many bar/restaurants nestling next to each other on a strip in White Plains, which after dark becomes busy with young metropolitans hopping from one establishment to the next. I like this place, though; the bartender’s cute, the drinks aren’t wildly expensive, and every now and again I get to stagger off my stool and sing some karaoke.

Then a guy sits next to me. Over the loudspeaker some chick is caterwauling something off the top forty. The volume’s hair, and the effect is ear-splitting. I always try to be polite in karaoke bars when the singer’s bad—they’re not being paid for it, after all. But the effect to me is like iron tongs scraping blocks of ice, and I’m afraid I turn my face away from the stage and draw it into a rictus of pain.

“Damn,” says the guy. “It’s a good thing she’s cute, because she sure sings like ass.”

I give him a silent look that’s intended to say Amen to that. I look him over. He’s wearing a chambray shirt, worn but clean. Gray slacks. His hair is silvered, lush, curly. He’s a good looking guy. Smells good, too, like fresh citrus. His clothes occupy a space between white-color professional and blue-collar laborer. I’m not quite figuring him out yet. “I haven’t been to this bar before,” he says, as he grabs the bartender’s attention and orders a beer. “You?”

“A few times,” I say. I look down. The guy’s got an impressive bulge down the left leg of his jeans.
“I was next door, heard all the commotion. Thought I’d come see what was going on.” I can’t tell if he’s looking me over or not. He’s definitely looking at me. But he is looking at me? I don’t know. “You seem like the kind of guy who gets a lot of action. Am I right?”

He’s right, but I’m not committing to coming off as cocky. I just grin, shrug, and take a swig from my glass. “Karaoke action, maybe,” I say, by way of modesty.

“Right. I bet that’s not the only action. You singing?”

“Already did. It’ll be a while before I sing again.”

“Maybe we can talk some, then. I’m Louis.”

My dick stirs in my pants as I shake Louis’ hand. I still haven’t figured the guy out. These so-called ‘post-gay’ bars in this sophisticated part of the U.S. are a mixed bag of blessings. The up, of course, is that everybody mingles together and nobody gives a damn who’s gay or who’s straight. The down, of course, is that everybody mingles together and nobody can really tell who’s gay or who’s straight without some name tags. Either way, I like talking to new people, so I give him my name and tell him I’m glad to meet him.

He tells me he’s an engineer who studies drain lines. That makes sense to me—the clothes are a mixture of the down-and-dirty and the supervisor-in-the-yellow-construction-hat. “Seems like a great crowd in here,” he tells me. “Kind of a mix of hot chicks and gay guys, right?” I’m still wondering on which side his pachinko ball lands on when he adds, “I was down in the city a couple of weeks ago and I went to this bar in the Village, Marie’s Crisis?” I tell him I’d heard of it. “Place was fucking packed with the gays. They sing a hell of a lot better than this chick, though! I was pretty sure I was the only straight guy there.”

There’s the name tag I was looking for. Hello, my name is Heterosexual.

He leans in even closer, though, giving me a little bit of an erotic thrill. “With all those gay guys I’m sure could’ve got my dick sucked easy if I wanted at that place, know what I’m saying, though?” he murmurs. And even though I’m not the kind of guy who fetishizes sex with straight men, I’m still a little giddy and aroused at the confidence. I’m pretty sure he’s got me pegged, too; we both know what we are, and we’re both comfortable with ourselves and each other. It’s a post-gay bar thing, right?

We listen to the karaoke singers for a while, exchanging small talk. He tells me about his place up the Hudson; I talk a little about moving from the distressed midwest to the swanky neighborhood where I now reside. Then he leans over and puts a hand on my shoulder, and moves in. I lean forward until my ear is near his lips. “So buddy,” he whispers, soft and intimate. “There’s a pretty lady at twelve o’clock. Your twelve o’clock,” he corrects, when I try to look behind me. “Check her out. Is she my type?”

We’re within kissing distance, almost; the intimacy hits me like a sack of wet bricks. I find I’m totally erect as I look at the woman three seats down from him. She’s dressed up for an evening out. Her dress is cut low on top and cut high at the legs; she’s got a mane of glossy black hair hanging down her shoulders, a clutch in her left hand, left knee atop the right. “I don’t know what your type is,” I murmur into his ear, as the smell of lime tickles my nostrils.

“Is she a blockaway?" he asks, soft and low.

“What’s a blockaway?”

“You know. A dude or a chick who only looks good from a block away or more.”

He gives me a broad grin and a wink while I roared out loud. “She’s not a blockaway,” I assure him.

“Then she’s my type. Do a brother a solid and help me out here.” He jerks his head toward the woman. “Soften her up a little.”

It’s been a long, long time since I was a straight man’s wingman. My dick is still hard when I slide out of my chair with my glass in my hand and mosey over to the woman’s far side. Most of the crowd is up by the karaoke stage; it’s fairly quiet in the stretch of bar seats beyond where the woman has parked herself. I wave my glass at the bartender, set it down on the wood surface, and slide it back. Then I rest my arms on the seat beside the waiting woman. “So are you singing tonight?” I ask her.
She gives me that automatic look of reproach that woman tend to use when they’re alone in public places and don’t care for strange men hitting on them. It’s icy, and distant. Then she turns to dig for something imaginary in her purse.

“You should sing,” I tell her. “The hostess has a huge book of songs. She used to do karaoke at the gay bar way down the road until she moved here. That’s where I used to hang out. But at least this place serves food.” I watch as she processes the information. She looks around at the post-gay bar crowd and draws the correct conclusion, but I’ve already moved on. “Of course, some people find it’s more fun the drunker they are.”

“I’m really not much of a singer,” she says, taking her drink from the bartender and sipping it prettily through the straw. “But I did do ‘Love Shack’ once.”

Christ, everyone and their sloshed aunt has done ‘Love Shack.’ “You should totally do it,” I say, giving her a big smile. “Everyone would love you up there. You’re gorgeous.”

She flushes, and flutters her eyelashes. Flattery from gay guys is always the best. What reason do we have to lie? “Oh, come on.”

“Seriously, you are!” By now, my friend has moved up behind the woman. He’s standing upright, drink in hand, behind her shoulder. “Oh hey, do you know my friend Louis?” I ask, shamelessly stealing a line from How I Met Your Mother. Then I mumble something about seeing the karaoke hostess about when I’m going to sing, and leave the two of them alone.

I’m down the bar, watching Louis talk to the woman. I’m struck by how close his approach looks to an outsider like the way he walked to me: posture open, leaning in, close, intimate. She’s laughing and smiling at her, and she’s smiling at him . . . though perhaps not as broadly as she’d smiled at me. Eventually I turn away and listen to the music again.

He’s back five minutes later. “Nice work, my brother,” he says, slipping me a private secret handshake that I nearly fumble at the last minute. “You are a good, good wingman.”

“But you’re back here,” I point out.

“She’s waiting for someone. There’ll be another.” He sits down to wait with me, and we pass the time talking, inches from each other.

He’s correct. Another woman makes her way into the bar and takes a seat at the tables in the back. I bring her to his attention. “Definitely not a blockaway," he says with approval.

“You know I’d do this for you,” he said. “Though I kinda suspect you don’t need me to.”

“What are wingmen for?” I ask, as I crack my knuckles and get to work.

I use the same approach. Ask her if she’s singing. Let it slip that I’m likely not after her body. Introduce my friend. And leave them alone. This time, though, it seems to stick. He’s at the table for five minutes, flashing his pearly whites, staring her down. Ten minutes. Then he’s beside her on the bench. When I take the stage to sing at the fifteen minute point, he’s to his arms around her, and they’re absorbed in their own little universe. Job done.

Three songs and I’m out. I give my buddy a wave on the way toward the door. I’m surprised when he makes an apology to the woman and skitters over to stand next to me. His arm’s around my shoulder and he gives me a hug and a toast with his glass. “I pretty sure I’m in this one. It’s all thanks to you.”
Again, the intimacy of the embrace, of that shared common goal of getting laid, makes me hard as a rock. No matter what holes our dicks go into, he and I both share that need of getting in and getting the job done. My heart’s thudding as I show some demur to his praise.

“I owe you one,” he says, looking me dead in the eye with his baby blues as I go. He points at me. “And I always pay my debts.”

I’m doubting he pay this one in quite the way I have in mind. Still. It’s nice to be owed.

Monday Park and Ride

When I pull into the park-and-ride lot, it’s nearly full with cars idling, headlights on. Most of the cars are mini-vans, or foreign-made SUVs. Most have women at the wheel. I drive to the lot’s far end and pull into a length where there are a few empty spaces. Almost immediately after I turn off the ignition, I see why there are so many moms waiting in their cars; a short yellow bus pulls into the lot’s mouth, disgorges a dozen middle-school-aged kids, and eases off again. The children run and skip to their respective parents. The cars whirr into motion and disappear in the direction of the parkway.

Save for a few empty cars belonging to city commuters, I’m alone in the lot.

But not for long. A sedan pulls in next to me. He’s about to drive a half-dozen spaces down and park on the opposite side of a pair of parked and empty cars, but he catches sight of me turning to glimpse him. He pulls instead into the space next to mine. The park-and-ride can be a dicey place to pick guys up. I’ve had hot times at it, but the number of trolls and guys I find unattractive is so disproportionately high there to what I find in online spots, or in bars. So I look over cautiously, casually, prepared to let my glance wander past without engaging if the man looks unpleasant.

This guy, though. Handsome. Young. His dark hair is cut meticulously. Even through the two layers of glass that are my window and his, I can tell he’s a looker. And the looker’s looking right at me. I arrest my glance when our eyes meet. They lock, drill into each other. He nods slightly. I nod. He looks around to see if there are any other cars in the vicinity, then looks back at me. He jerks his head toward the lot exit. I nod, and start my car.

I follow him to the smaller commuter lot on the north side of the parkway. The south lot can hold three dozen cars; this one can barely fit nine. I park at a right angle to his car, slip out of my vehicle, and walk over to the sedan’s passenger side. He puts his hand on my leg when I sit down in the leather seat. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I smile back.

He’s even more handsome than I thought. He’s East Indian from one of his parents, white from the other, is my best guess. His hand slides up to my crotch, and rubs my hard dick through the denim. He’s wearing an expensive shirt of an on-trend shade of purple. French cuffs. Gold cuff links with sapphires, or something sapphire-adjacent. Fine wool pants. I’m feeling like a scrub in my hoodie and ratty brown T-shirt, with my Converse sneakers and my tousled hair. At least, when he leans over to unzip me, I can boast I’m wearing a pair of Hugo Boss briefs. But they’re not even mine. The Rock Star lent them to me for the week. “You’re really handsome,” I venture.

“God, so are you,” he whispers back.

I straighten up. Alert, he pulls back. As I zip my jeans, a car backs into the space directly beside us. The driver’s face leers out the window, only a couple of feet away. He’s an older guy, which I don’t find repellant in itself at all. But he’s not really a sexy, daddy-like older guy. He’s more like the jowly predator in a trench coat who lurks at the edges of playgrounds, in parents’ worst imaginations. He looks more whiskery bloodhound than human. He’s not there to park, or ride. He’s there to stare and leer and try to catch a glimpse of the action.

The drive and I wait a moment, hands on each other’s legs. “Is it worth trying to outwait him?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’ve got to get home.” He wears a wedding ring.

“Do you know anywhere else?” I ask. He shakes his head once more.

It’s a wash. I tell him I hope I’ll see him again, and I return to my car. Then I drive back to the south lot, park again, and wait.

Again, I don’t have to idle for long. A man pulls in next to me in a foreign-made truck, shiny, new, and obviously never used for hauling anything heavier than groceries. He’s an older guy. But this is the kind of older guy for which I easily go weak at the knees—well-groomed, handsome, in good shape. Even from the biceps up I can tell he’s a beefy man who takes care of himself. He’s sitting a couple of feet above me, so when I grab my crotch and squeeze it, he’s got a clear view. I nod at the seat beside me.

He slips out of the cab of his truck and into my car. “Hi,” I say.

He just puts one hand on the back of my neck, pulls me in, and kisses me. He tastes like coffee, but it’s a good taste; I keep my eyes open and my senses alert as he opens my mouth with his probing tongue. Then he lets go of me.

“Fuck,” is my only reply.

He’s also very well dressed. His shirt is white, pressed, and pleated in all the right spots. He flips open a couple of buttons to expose the barrel of his chest. It’s covered with silver fur. His pecs are impressive for a man of any age, but this cat has to be at least in his late sixties. I reach over to his trousers—a caramel-colored herringbone tweed—and find his dick immediately. It’s rock-hard, and jutting to the left. He’s big. My size big.

His hands are on the back of my neck, kneading the muscles there. “Sweet Jesus,” I whisper.

He speaks his first words. “I would give anything to get you naked, son.”

I shiver. “I’d do anything you told me, sir.”

“Yeah?” He asks. He’s obviously turned on by my mode of address. Beneath the herringbone, his dick stirs and becomes even harder. “Anything?”

“What do you want, dad?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He’s got a firm grip on the back of my neck. “I’d tell you to take all your clothes off and get naked for me.” I nod. “Then I’d tell you to stroke yourself while daddy watches.”

“Yes sir,” I whisper.

“Then I’d push you to your knees and make you suck daddy’s dick.”

“I want to suck daddy’s dick,” I say, with an unconscious lick of my lips.

“Then I’d flip you over and explore that hole of yours,” he promises.

I can barely breath, my breath is so raspy. “Would you . . . want to fuck me?” He nods, very slowly, very deliberately. “I don’t get fucked very often.”

“I don’t know why not. You sure are pretty, son.”

“I’d give it up for you, sir.”

“Sweet little boy,” he says. The novelty of being anyone’s little boy at this time of my life is overwhelming. I flush furiously with pleasure as he runs the edge of his hand through my hair. “You’d do as you’re told?”

“I always do what my dad tells me,” I promise.

“You’d be obedient? You want to please daddy?”

“Yes sir,” I say. There’s a slight whine of need in my voice.

“Do you want my dick? Do you want it now?” He’s pushing at the back of my head as he unfastens his tweeds with the other. Fucker has no underwear on. He just whips it out. He’s sitting there with that carpet of silver fur on his chest, shirt open to the waist, pants unzipped, big dick leaking precum. Then he shoves down with his hand.

I know what dad wants. He keeps an eye out while I bend down and suck him. I wrap my mouth around that stiff rod. All the way down I go, only to slide all the way back up, using only my lips and the strength of my embouchure to make my mouth tight around his cock. He keeps a hand on the back of my head the entire time, pushing me down and thrusting up into my mouth in a fast-paced rhythm. It isn’t going to take long, I can tell. He’s already producing even more precum. He’s leaking like a faucet onto my tongue and down the back of my throat.

When he climaxes, it’s swiftly and silently. He holds my head down the entire time. As if I’m tempted to come up for air. I want that fucking load. He sprays it into my mouth, a thin and salty geyser of fluid that I have to swallow twice to consume. I wait for the last glob, then back off.

I sit there, stunned by it all. I’m blinking rapidly, trying to take it all in—it just happened so fucking quickly. He zips up, claps his hands on his legs, and stares at me. “You’ve got sperm in your beard,” he says, pointing to the right side of his face, mirroring where it is. I raise my left hand automatically to locate it and wipe it away, but he grabs my wrist, hard. “Leave it,” he orders. “Are you going home now?”

I nod.

“Leave it in your beard all the way home. Don’t touch it. Don’t get rid of it. When you get home, that’s when you can wipe it away. Before anyone else notices.” He releases the tight clutch on my wrist, and brings my hand to his lips in a courtly manner. He kisses the ring on the fourth finger.

“Yes sir,” I promise.

He exits with another ruffle of my hair. I look at my face in the mirror. It’s not just a little sperm. It’s a huge spray of it. I don’t even know how it could’ve gotten there.

But I wear it as my badge of honor on the drive home, proud to have been a good daddy’s boy.