The Guido

I’m looking at him. A big ex-jock of a guy. Deep chest, big round biceps. Dark hair that’s arranged in waves around his ears. Strands of gray betray the fact he’s probably my age, maybe a little bit younger. His muscles might’ve been more defined and tighter a few years back, but even slightly out of shape, he’s a hot slab of Italian beef that probably turns a lot of heads.

He’s standing there, khakis unzipped, chambray shirt undone, exposing his tanned torso. His balls are the size of eggs, nestled between the teeth of his zipper. And the dick. Fuck. It looks heavy. If you picked up that thing and let it fall on a flat surface, it looks as if it’d make a resounding thud. Thwack it down on a butcher’s scale, and the needle would probably fly off. Is he as long as I am? Not by a long shot, but a hungry cocksucker wouldn’t give a fuck with that hooded giant in his face.

In fact, the cocksucker kneeling between us didn’t hesitate a half-second before unhinging his jaw and letting it drop, python-like, to engulf the man’s link. He’s a skinny twenty-something with short hair and a fitted plaid shirt. A true cocksucker. He’s rubbing himself through his jeans, but his focus is on the man’s meat. Getting it wet. Opening for it wide. Sucking it deep. He adjusts his crouching stance so that he’s at the perfect height to take that fat fucker down his gullet. He’s got one knee pointed toward the sky above, and one knee firmly ground into the damp grass and earth beneath his feet. That’s going to leave a stain. The cocksucker doesn’t care.

“Yeah,” grunts the beef. “You like that Guido meat, huh?”

The cocksucker grunts. Opens his lids wide, looks at the man. He might have a mouthful of dick, but the look in those eyes tells us this is prayer time for him.

If that’s what he’s going to call himself, fine. I’ll call him that, too. The Guido’s looking at me. Those dark eyes of his scan up and down my body. He raises a hand to rub the back of his knuckles through my facial scruff. Lets his fist travel down. Tweaks my nipple between his index and middle finger. Lifts my blue T so he can get a better view of my cock. I’m newly trimmed, balls shaved. My dick’s arched out, rock hard. It flatters me he’s so fascinated by my rod; he grabs it, squeezes it, bounces it in the palm of his hand. My head flares from the attention.

“That’s a beauty,” he murmurs. There are cars passing within earshot, but it’s mostly quiet in this little wooded area. He doesn’t have to speak up to be heard. “Look at that,” he says to the anonymous cocksucker, putting one of his meaty paws atop the kid’s head to turn it in my direction. “You need to be paying attention to that one.”

The cocksucker obeys. He looks up at me, worship still in his eyes. Opens wide. Engulfs me in a single swift motion. The slab he’s already swallowed has opened up his throat. I slide right down.

The Guido takes my hand and puts it on his dick. It’s hot and wet from the cocksucker’s slobber. Then he grabs me under the chin, pulls me in, and plants his mouth over mine. His lips are soft and pillowy; when his tongue invades my mouth I taste the distant remnants of coffee. He’s a good kisser. Seems almost unfair that a guy this attractive should be hung and a good kisser, too.

I’m a little off-balance when the kiss ends. I blink a few times, surprised. He grins at me. Looks down at the cocksucker. “Now me again,” he says, grabbing the kid’s head and yanking him back onto his uncut slab.

Back and forth we go with the mouth. That’s all the kid is to us. A mouth. We don’t know his name, don’t know where he’s from, what he does for a living. Don’t care. We just know he can suck. We know he can nurse on dick like a pro. So that’s what we keep giving him. More and more dick. We look at the other while the cocksucker sucks, grinning and playing with each other’s nipples, touching each other’s bodies. Kissing from time to time. The hungry mouth keeps his eyes closed, concentrating on the shaft he’s pleasuring. Waits for the command to switch, or for the pair of hands that pries him from one erection and forces him down on the other.

When the Guido comes, it’s loudly. He growls like an animal as his fist clamps down on the base of his cock. When he pulls out of the mouth, his meat is dark and angry-looking. Just the tip is peeking out of his foreskin. He rests the base of his hand on the kid’s forehead, tips his face skyward. Semen gushes out and spills down on the cocksucker’s face, a great rush of it. Some of it puddles around the kid’s closed eyes, then runs down his temples to his ears. A spurt of it laces his forehead. The final slow ooze of it creams the boy’s mouth, trickles down his flat, waiting tongue into his throat. Then the Guido’s dick rests heavily on the cocksucker’s cheek.

I shoot as well. It sprays out seconds later, landing on the other man’s dick, the kid’s face, the ground. The last spurt plops down onto my sneakers.

We stand there for a moment, not moving, in this erotic tableau. Then the cocksucker pulls down his other knee and lets it rest on the ground. That’ll be a matching stain, I think to myself, as I zip.

The beef has to tuck his thick meat down the leg of his pants when he stuffs it back in there. It leaves a bulge I can see over my shoulder as I take the trail back up to the parking lot. The cocksucker remains kneeling. My last vision of him before he’s obscured by the brush is of him lifting his face to the sun, as if in thanks for what he’s received.

Good Boy

His neighborhood is dark—almost pitch black, in fact. The closest streetlight was at the intersection where I’d turned my car behind his, a full block behind me. He turns off his car’s lights, and I turn off mine. When he steps out and into the driveway of his house, he’s a shadow against shadows through my windshield.

My dick is hard, though. My pulse quickens as I pocket my keys and follow him across concrete and brick to the front door of his split level. There’s no light above the door. No lamps aglow within. There’s just us, the cloudy night sky, and the streetlight obscured by trees, far away.

“Do you know where you are?” he asks, pausing before he inserts the key.

“No,” I tell him.

“You mean, you don’t know where on the map you are?”

I can’t see his expression. “No, not really,” I say. The route we’d taken when I’d followed his car hadn’t been long—no more than ten minutes of driving, really. But once off the main routes and onto residential side roads I’d never seen before, I’d quickly lost my bearings. I’d kept focused on the tail lights of his dark truck.

“How will you find your way home if you’re lost?”

“I’ll manage,” I tell him.

Then while I’m standing there, I remembered something from college. It was one of the first weeks of the acting class I took, the first semester of my freshman year. We’d gone through several afternoons in which we’d laid on the floor and relaxed ourself into a boneless stupor, and exercises in which we’d pretended to be fish out of water, or seeds bursting into life, or animals in a zoo. Before we could be trusted with actual scripts by real playwrights, however, the professor gave us sheets of paper a two-person exchange of identical lines, for an in-class task. The lines were fairly mundane—something along the lines of “Hi.” “Hello.” “Nice weather, isn’t it?” “I hadn’t noticed.” Our assignment, however, was to pair off and present the script to the class while enacting one of several secret scenarios the professor had given us. The class would watch while we’d speak the lines and mime a little, and try to guess the subtext behind the words.

I remember my partner and I were supposed to be a man and a woman in an elevator. I was supposed to be interested in her; she was supposed to react as if she thought I was hitting on her. Her Hi was neutral and cautious; mine was knowing. Her inquiry about the weather she made while stepping to the far end of the imaginary elevator; I said I hadn’t noticed while I tilted my head and stared at her backside as if I was too busy looking at her ass to notice anything else. I spoke one of my follow-up lines while reaching across her to push a floor button and moving too close; she replied with another of the bland sentences by flattening herself against an imaginary elevator wall. The class guessed what we were trying to convey almost immediately.

Some of the other scenes were of young lovers enjoying a picnic, or of a student trying to butter up a professor, or of a young person caring for an elderly grandparent. We all had the exact same dialogue to work with, but what the professor aimed to show us was that even when given the same material and even with the same scenery and props (which is to say, none at all), we could convey an infinite variety of scenarios in a recognizable way.

I’d met this guy only minutes before at the northbound cruisy car lot off the freeway, where after dark men looking for sex pull into empty parking spaces and wait for each other. The cold was biting, and I’d made a bargain with myself that if nothing happened within a half hour, I’d leave and warm myself at the nearest coffee shop. For twenty of those thirty minutes I’d sat fruitlessly in my driver’s seat, rubbing an erection through my jeans, while a bear in a pickup truck looked at his smartphone and snuck furtive looks my way. I’d given up on him and driven to the southbound lot, certain that he was just waiting to pick up a carpooling spouse, but he’d followed me there and then driven away almost instantly. With five minutes to go, I’d driven back to the northbound lot to see if he was there. He wasn’t.

Then the black truck had pulled up next to me. I could see the man driving—an older guy with a military cut. He was easily in his sixties or maybe even more, but he was very plainly taking care of himself. Even on this cold night he was wearing a short-sleeved T that displayed his brawny, muscular forearms. His face was handsome. He nodded at me, and I nodded back. He rolled down the passenger side window. I turned off my car, stepped out onto the gravel, leaned into the window, and nodded. “You’re hot,” he said, in a deep and masculine voice.

“So are you,” I replied.

“Follow me home?”

I didn’t need a second invitation. But then I stood there on his front stoop, while he asked if I knew where we were. And those memories of that college acting exercise surfaced. It struck me that the innocuous exchange could be interpreted in any number of ways. How will you find your way home if you’re lost?—the question of a man concerned about his guest. Or, How will you find your way home . . . if you’re lost?—the question of an axe murderer.

Read as a script, or narrated in a flat tone, it would be more than possible to find sinister overtones to the words he’d said. It would be equally possible to hear in mine the naive last words of a lamb led to slaughter. Or, as I’d assumed to that minute, he might just be that guy who didn’t want his trick banging at his door at midnight, complaining of not being able to find his way out of the cul-de-sac.

The moment’s doubt gives me pause, however. When he pushes open the door and the warmth from within rushed out, I hesitate. There are some genuinely bad people out there. I could end up in the bottom of a home-dug pit, rubbing lotion on its skin.

“Are you coming in, or what?” he says from the other side of the threshold. When I don’t answer right away, he reaches up with a hand, cups the back of my head, and pulls my mouth down to his.

Our lips pressed tight together, with our tongues exploring the back recesses of each other’s mouths, I manage to stumble inside. He holds my head tight between his palms, as if afraid I’ll try to push him away. I don’t. I need those kisses too much, and he does it so well. He smells like the shaving soap they used to use at old barber shops—the kind of vanished storefront with a rotating red and white pole in front. “Get up to the bedroom,” he growls in my ear.

I scamper up the stairs. From behind he guides me into the first door. There’s a large brass bed in the room’s center, a bedside table where a lamp burns low, and some drawn blinds. I can see now that the man is shorter than I could tell while he sat in his truck; he’s no more than five-four or five. He’s assertive enough, however, that when he shoves me back onto the mattress, I stay there. He regards me with glittering eyes as he steps back, puffs out his muscular chest, and removes his belt.

I swallow as he pushes down his jeans. He’s wearing a worn-out jock with a full pouch. Already there’s a wet spot formed on the front. I can see the outline of his hard cock beneath the gray fabric. With both arms, he shimmies out of his T-shirt. He’s a robust old man beneath that cotton. He’s in better shape than most guys half his age, and his eraser-sized nipples are already as erect as his cock. “You want to suck it?” he asks.

I look up into his face. He really is a handsome fucker, is all I can think. The man reminds me of a drill sergeant from an old army movie, all bark and needing to bite. “Oh yeah,” I tell him. I really want to suck it.

He yanks me to my feet. Pushes off my jacket. Pulls off my shirt and undoes my pants like they’re the fly-away clothing strippers yank off with a single tug. I’m wearing nothing more than a pair of white sweat socks when he pushes me down to my knees, bashes his cock against my face, and shoves the fat monster between my hungry lips.

He tastes good. Clean. Soapy, as if he’s rinsed off only a few minutes before hitting the car park. At first he holds my head still as he pistons in and out of my wet and sloppy mouth. Long, slow strokes, from tip to base. He’s only about six and a half fat inches, which isn’t that much to handle. But he’s determined to get deep in there, and he drives so far in that he’s hitting spots guys with more inches than him rarely touch. “I need this so bad, son,” he murmurs, as he strokes the underside of my beard.

Being called son by a handsome older guy hits all my buttons. My cock is fully erect, but I don’t touch it. I can feel it leap and beg for release, but still I keep my hands off. I look up at him with adoration as he fucks my mouth and throat. I’d do anything for this man, after that.

And he knows it. “You like it rough?” he asks. I nod, quick and hungry. “Nice,” he says, speculation making him drawl. “I wonder how rough you can take it.”

“Whatever you want,” I say, when he gives me a chance.

Before I know what’s happening, he’s manhandling me—a five-foot-four guy with twenty pounds and twenty years on me throwing my six-foot-three frame onto the bed. He grabs a couple of the pillows and shoves them beneath my neck and head, then straddles my shoulders. Then his dick is thrusting at my face.

I know what to do. I open up and let him have the access his dick needs. “Good boy,” he whispers. When I look up, he’s playing with his nipples. I try to reach up to do that for him, but he stops me. “Let daddy do all the work,” he growls. “You just take that dick like you’re supposed to.”

I want to be a good boy for him. I need to be a good boy. At this moment, I want nothing more than to be this stranger’s good boy, to give him exactly what he wants and needs. His meat seems to grow thicker in my gullet with every thrust. He’s pounding the back of my throat so savagely that it’s aching. I breathe when I can, trying to gasp in air in those brief fractions of seconds when he’s pulled out and before he rams back in.

“Nice,” he keeps saying, over and over again. “Good boy. Take it. Take all of it.”

My eyes begin to water. Tears are streaming down the sides of my face from the battering he’s giving me. I’m sure I’ve turned a deep red from both the cramped position I’ve had to maintain beneath his body, and from my lack of oxygen. He doesn’t seem to care, though. My mouth is just fuckmeat to him. He’s using a stranger to get his nut; he doesn’t really care about my comfort. He cares about how wet and warm my mouth is around his rigid dick, and that’s it. He cares about the tightness, the pliability. How willing I am.

And I am one hundred percent fucking willing, for him.

I can tell he’s close when he starts to grunt. His belly and chest curl around the top of my head; I can feel his arms cradling the back of my neck as he starts pumping even harder. I can’t breath at all, but I endure my airlessness for a half-minute while he finishes off with a series of animal noises. Like a feral beast, he drives to the back of my throat. He’s nearly crushing my skull. I don’t care. I want the load.

When it comes, it gushes almost directly down my throat. I can feel the heat of it, taste a little of it when I start to gag. Though his grip lessens a little, he holds me down on his dick until I’ve taken care of every drop of that semen. Then, gradually, he releases his hold. When he finally straightens upright, cracks his knuckles, and stretches, I’m still nursing on his softening dick.

He pulls it out with a plop. “Good boy,” he tells me.

“Thank you,” I say to him. I’ve never been so grateful for dick as I am at that moment. “Thank you,” I say again, as I plant several soft kisses on his pubes.

He’s done. He hands me my clothes. Dresses himself. Waits until I’m completely together before escorting me down to the front door. “So you really don’t know how to get home?” he asks.

“I’ll manage,” I tell him.

He nods. “Turn left at the light,” he growls, as he rubs my butt. “Take the road to the light after that. You’ll see where you are.” I thank him, and wave before he shuts the door. Sure enough, when I follow his directions I find myself on a section of the Post Road I’ve traveled many times before.

Turns out he was the concerned partner and not the axe murderer, after all. But damn, I loved the way he used his weapon.

Park and . . . Oh Yeah

There are slow or even tragic evenings at the park-and-ride lot. Then there are Monday nights like this one, when I pull with a sharp right up the ramp and into the center of an empty stretch of spaces at the far end. I’m not even there for a hot minute when another vehicle slides in next to mine. It’s a slick black sedan, foreign-made. I look up from my phone warily, steeling myself for the sight of a bad set of teeth, or a less-than-attractive face, or a belly upon which one could easily rest entire shelves of commemorative plates.

But no, the guy’s handsome—clearly Latin, with salt-and-pepper hair on the pepper side, groomed into a professional and sexy wave across his forehead. Despite the gray, he’s younger than I. He’s wearing a crisply-pressed white businessman’s shirt, and a gray suit jacket. He’s lost the tie somewhere before this exit. His head is turned to look in my direction.

I have absolutely no qualms about staring back. This man is fine. Damned fine.

For a half-minute we bathe in each other’s glances. I can tell from the flicker of his eyes he’s checking out my jawline, my hair. I’m looking at the neat lines of his shirt, the angle at which it falls against an obviously-muscular chest.

He unbuckles. Open his door. Steps out of his car. When he stands, I can tell he’s only about five-five, maybe five-six. But he’s a hot little fucker. While he maintains eye contact with me over his windshield, he pulls off that expensive suit coat, folds it deftly, and stores it on his seat. His fingers flip open the clasps on his cuff links; he tosses them atop the jacket and shuts his door. Then he’s folding the ends of those French cuffs over each other and exposing his brawny forearms as he moves in my direction.

He bends down a little, looks through my window. I nod, and he lets himself in. “I like your looks,” he says, once he’s sitting down. His hand reaches out to massage the bulge in my jeans. There’s not a shy bone in this guy’s body. “Damn. Big boy.”

He’s got a lump in his own pants that he’s rubbing with the heel of his free hand. “You’re not tiny,” I comment.

“You married?” he asks.

I nod. “You?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Sixteen years. Damn. I love that dick. That’s what I need.”

He looks around. I do, too. There’s a pickup truck at the lot’s other end with its back hatch pulled down; two men are moving something from a car to the truck’s bed, but they’re a long distance away. He unzips his pants, pulls them down beneath his butt. They’re wrapped around his knees. He’s wearing a pair of blue-striped boxers from Brooks Brothers; he opens the fly and pulls out his cock. It’s no monster, but it’s a beauty. A good six and a half inches, maybe, fat, perfectly formed. “Fuck,” I say. “Let me suck it.”

“So you like sucking?” he asks, looking around.

“I love to suck.”

“Ahhh, probably shouldn’t do it here though.”

“Just a taste,” I beg. I’m hungry for that beauty.

“Show me yours.”

I unzip, unbutton. I pull out the goods. He hisses at the sight. “Sssssshit. You’re way bigger than me.”

“You’ve got a hot one though,” I assure him. I’m still staring at it.

“What gets you super-hard?” he asks.

I look around again. “Privacy,” I joke.

“How about a hot ass?”

I nod, and lick my lips. Yeah. I love hot ass.

And he can tell. The fucker responds by turning in the passenger seat so that he’s resting on his right hip. He pulls down his boxers and exposes his butt to me. It’s round, and smooth, and creamy. “Touch it,” he says. “Go on. Touch it.”

I waste no time. I reach out with my hand and grab the man’s butt. He loves the way I manhandle his flesh. “Squeeze it. Yeah. It can take some rough treatment,” he says in a soft voice. “Yeah. Just like that.”

I have one cheek in each hand, and I’m squeezing and separating them. I’m pulling them apart to expose his hole. It’s tiny, and pink, and hairless, almost as if it’s been shaved. I’m pretty sure this is natural, though.

“You can touch it,” he whispers. “It’s cool. It’s clean. Touch it.”

I run a fingertip over the pucker. It responses by disappearing and then blossoming out. “Beautiful,” I muse.

“You want it?” he wants to know. I nod at him. He looks at me over his shoulder, then sticks a meticulously-manicured thumb into his mouth. He wets it, then reaches around and shoves it into his own hole. “Show me how you’d fuck me,” he says. He gestures with his head at my dick. “Beat it.”

My meat is stiff and throbbing at this point. I check around me again before I begin pumping, but then I keep my eyes on that hole. He’s sodomizing his own butt with his thumb, driving it in and pulling it out again. His wedding ring glints at me with every thrust. “Would you fuck me hard?” he wants to know.

“Yeah, I’d fuck you hard,” I say. I start pounding my fist around my meat, to show him. It turns him on. He squirms and pulls apart his cheeks to expose his winking hole again. “I’d fuck you like a bitch in heat.”

“Bet the wife loves that monster raping her,” he says. Our eyes meet. “I know I would.”

It’s the intimacy of that instant that sets me off. Sperm spurts out of my dick and cascades down my clenched fist, icing the knuckles and dripping down onto the seat below. He watches with fascination until I’m done. Then he rights himself on the seat, stares at my still-oozing erection. In a swift, unexpected motion he leans over. I feel the heat of his breath on my shaft, feel the wetness of his tongue. It grazes against the head as he takes a lick of my load for his prize.

Then he’s groping in my glove box and tossing me a napkin from Taco Bell, while he pulls up his boxers and suit pants and pulls himself together.

“Are you around here often?” I ask. I want to see this man again. Naked, in a hotel room.

“Not often. Even the little I am is too often,” he says, not unkindly. We both know the chances of running across each other again soon are slim.

“I get that,” I tell him. He waits for me to clean up my mess, and to pull up my pants again. Then he’s out and gone. From his own car he gives me a salute before he pulls out.

Encounters like I wrote about last week are what make me always consider not going back to this particular car park.

Men like this one are what keep me going back.

Park and . . . Yikes.

Guys are always asking me in email or on an instant messenger about the park-and-ride lot I visit. They picture it as basically a roadside orgy, an outdoors bathhouse—a spot where cruisers approach my windows the minute I drive up, hoping for a taste of my dick. Throw in some roller skates and a chocolate malted and the cruisers sound like carhops at a sexy Treasure Island drive-in.

Obviously, it’s not like that at all.

No, the park-and-ride lot is first and foremost just a parking lot in the middle of nowhere where businessmen and women meet for carpools into Manhattan in the mornings. It’s where families from different parts of the county will meet to transfer crap for a weekend tag sale from one trunk to another. It’s the spot from which busses carrying school groups to a weekend theater matinee will leave, and where the parents will idle at the appointed time to pick them up again. At any given time, eighty to ninety percent of the cars in the lot are there for legitimate business.

Frankly, there are days on which the remaining ten percent aren’t worth hanging around for. I’ve had a little more time to myself than usual this month and I’ve ended up hitting the park-and-ride a little more than usual in the last couple of weeks. I went at eleven on a Sunday night (“Sunday nights are incredibly hot at this place!”, read the online review at a cruising site) to find myself the only car in the lot at all. I left after a very quiet and action-less fifteen minutes.

I paid the lot another visit when it was on my way home the next night. It was after rush hour, so there were plenty of open spots around. I was a little disappointed when, after a couple of minutes in a quieter corner of the lot, a woman pulled in next to my car. It was dusk, and her van had some kind of tinting on the windows, so all I could really see was a blond bob. I figured it was some suburban housewife picking up her husband after a late night at the office.

Then she got out of the car with a black clutch in her left hand. It wasn’t a woman. It was definitely a cross-dresser. Not an artful cross-dresser, either—that is, not one who went to any lengths to create an illusion of femininity. Basically, it was an old bald man with a wig in a Lily Pulitzer dress, with thick chest hair sprouting out of the neckline. He looked like Benny Hill’s sidekick, Jackie Wright, stuffed into leftovers from the local Methodist church rummage sale.

Luckily I’d already pulled out my cell phone to check mail when I’d thought it was a housewife; I slunk down in my seat and did my best to appear invisible as she made several passes by the front of my car in an effort to entice me. It didn’t work.

Another time I went back to find the place hopping—just not with anyone I found remotely attractive. After I parked my car, two guys—one Phillip Seymour Hoffman lookalike who was actually wearing a trench coat that made him look like a flasher, and the other a married guy with a comb-over who pulled a fifth of bourbon out of his trunk and took a massive swig from it before approaching—circled around my car like it was a fishing boat, and they were sharks from one of the Jaws movies who’d caught the scent of bloody chum. When I maintained a studious (and oblivious) concentration on my cell phone and proceeded to make an imaginary call to no one, they took off into the woods and presumably went at each other. And they were welcome to it.

A third man approached my car after they left. He wasn’t bad looking. He was tall, in his forties, and wasn’t actively cultivating the image and dress sense of a child molester. My bar isn’t too high, you know. “How’re you doing tonight?” he said, rubbing a bulge in the front of his jeans.

“I’m good,” I told him, giving him a great big smile. Men like my smile. I like to disarm them with it.

He was so charmed that he smiled back. I actually recoiled at the sight of his teeth. At the roots they were yellow. Out toward the ends, they were a rancid brown. Even as I type these words, I’m trying not to gag at the memory. I don’t know whether I was looking at active decay, or the kind of tobacco stains that came from religiously packing chaw into his mouth before every bedtime. But it was vile, whatever it was. It was so disgusting that I was actually speechless. “You looking for fun?” he leered at me with those brown teeth, as he leaned in to look through the driver’s side window.

I was totally speechless. There was no way I was having sex with that man. I didn’t want that mouth and those teeth anywhere near my dick.

Despite the fact that he’d already peered in to see the outline of my hard-on beneath the flimsy shorts I was wearing, I was considering initiating another imaginary phone call. Then the guy saved me, when he saw my left hand scrambling to cover up my quickly-evaporating arousal. “Aw, fuck,” he said, heaving his shoulders. “You’re married.” He wheeled around like a teenaged girl upset that I hadn’t bought her the pair of shoes she’d wanted. “Fuck. Why do I always have to fall for the married ones?”

“OH WELL!” I nearly shouted with relief, as I rolled up my windows. “SORRY ‘BOUT THAT!”

I think the tread marks are still there that I left as I peeled rubber home.

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.

Close Calls

It only takes one word to change the situation from good to bad. I’m lifting up my pelvis, pulling down my shorts, when the man in the driver’s seat next to me says, “Cops.”

I turn my head to the right, toward the entrance of the parking lot, and sure enough, a tan sedan’s pulling in through the entrance. In the other cars I can see a flurry of activity. Men pick up their phones and suddenly pretend to be involved in phone calls in which they weren’t, seconds before. The man parked by the entrance who had been staring lasciviously at anyone and everyone driving in is suddenly involved in a crossword puzzle. The man in the black compact who had been zooming around the parking lot like a maddened beetle, parking by car after car so that he could look into the windows and check out the prospects, zooms out and toward the parkway.

“Shit,” I say. I’m naked from the waist down. My cock’s pointed at the ceiling of this guy’s SUV. This won’t do.

I’d pulled into the lot only a few minutes before. It was one of the long, lingering August dusks I’ve learned to expect here, when daylight ebbs away, but night seems reluctant to fall. It had been dusk when I’d pulled away from home a half-hour before; it was dusk when I drove my car into the cruisy lot and to its far end. I could tell it was busy. I’ve only visited this spot a handful of times, and I’d never seen it quite as busy as it was that night. Usually there are at least two to three spaces between the parked cars. Tonight, there’s only one at most.

I’d pulled up next to the van simply because it was parked at the lot’s far end, far away from the unattractive troll sitting by the entrance who’d basically done a double-take when he’d seen me. My windows were down. I’d turned off the ignition. When I looked at the SUV next to mine, I was relieved to see that the guy was rugged, and handsome. His face was covered with scruff. The rest of him I couldn’t see, but he was sexy enough that when he leaned over and called through his open window, “Hey there,” I didn’t mind replying with a friendly hello. “What’re you doing tonight?” he asked.

“Just killing some time,” I drawled.

“Want to kill time over here with me?”

He didn’t have to ask twice. I’d left my car and hopped into the passenger seat. He was a lean and sexy man, I found, and from the moment I was in his car, his hands were all over me. He grabbed my crotch and felt the hardness within. He rubbed his hands over my legs, seeming to like the abundance of hair there. His hands crept over my stomach, my chest, my shoulders, my biceps, squeezing and testing and prodding. “I’m like you,” he said. “Lean, mean, and with a major piece.”

“Show me,” I urged, in a whisper.

He’d unbuckled his shorts and flashed his dick at me. He’d been wearing a leather cock strap wrapped tightly around his engorged meat. It was by no means as long as mine, but it was a respectable seven. And fat. It was one of those superior dicks I see every once in a blue moon—a dick that’s just got beautiful proportions above and beyond the usual run-of-the-mill dick. A dick nearly as superior as mine. Yeah, that was a major piece.

“Let me see yours,” he’d said.

“Zip up,” I’d told him.

And that’s how, when the cops pulled into the lot, I’d been caught pants down when he was discreetly covered.

It doesn’t take me long to zip up. But here I am, in a stranger’s car, seat back, heart pounding and face flushed, dick tenting in my cargo shorts, with my own vehicle a good ten steps away. The cop has pulled directly into a spot past the car beyond mine. “I think I’ll go back to my car,” I say, more as a test balloon than anything else. It sounds good when I say it, though. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

“Follow me,” suggests the man. “There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts down the road. Follow me there.”

I look at him. He’s so scruffy and handsome; he looks like James Denton from Desperate Housewives. “Okay,” I say, though I have no idea where we’re going.

There’s a flurry of activity as I exit the man’s car. A vanload of college-aged kids in a day in the city arrives, and the youths disperse from its side. I take advantage of the confusion to slide back into my car. My buddy in the van pulls out behind me and heads toward the exit. When I pull out to follow, the cop car shifts into reverse, turns around, and joins the exit queue between the van and my car.


Crap, I’m thinking. What if the cop wants to pull over my new friend? I’m making calculations in my head about what I could and should do. I’m figuring that if the squad car follows the van, I’ll simply turn in the opposite direction and head home. That sounds sensible. My friend in the van turns left. The cop car and I advance. The cop turns right.

Finally I flip on my signal. Left it is.

The Dunkin’ Donuts is about a mile down the road—it’s a pretty long drive, that’s for sure, especially when you’re looking in the rear-view mirror expecting to see flashing red and blue lights at any minute. The lot was empty, though, save for a few stragglers going in and out of the liquor store a little further down. Once again, I pull next to his car. He’s already in the back seat; he opens the door for me from the inside, and I join him in the darkness.

“Fuck,” he says.

“That was too close,” I agree.

And then he’s on me. That’s all the dialogue we have. He’s unbuttoning my plaid shirt until it hangs to either side of my chest, yanking off my shorts. I’m not wearing underwear. I’m lying on the leatherette of his SUV’s back seat wearing nothing but an open shirt and a pair of sneakers, and he’s on top of me. I’ve ripped open his shirt so that we’re chest to chest, our mouths hungrily consuming the other’s, making out so hard I’m sure my lips are bruise-red.

His pants are own, tangled around his ankles. His fat dick is pressed against mine. We’re leaving sticky webs of pre-cum strands between us as we grind and thrust and go at each other. We’re like animals in heat, working off the fear and anxiety of the parking lot with each other. We’re hungry, and desperate, and happy to be free. Nothing could feel better than the pressure and hardness of his dick against mine, as we make out and hump like horny high-schoolers.

Then we freeze. On the seat behind us there’s a steady pattern of flashing lights. After a moment of stillness, we both jerk up and clutch at our clothing. My hands go for my shirt. He gropes for his pants.
Then, at the same moment, we see the source of the flashing lights. There’s a tow truck slowly trundling down the road. We look at it, and then at each other, and laugh.

And then we pull up our pants, and put back on our shirts. Two close calls in a night is enough.

Big Red Bear

When he pulls his car next to mine—and I’d known he was going to pull his car next to mine—he noses it into the parking space an inch at a time, pulling it to a slow stop. He powers down the windows. Turns off the ignition. The sedan’s purr subsides. He stares straight ahead into the woods beyond.

I can tell right off he’s a big, big guy. Even with his seat pushed back, he’s still filling up most of the space between where his chest and belly end and the steering wheel begins. He’s wearing a shirt with some kind of island print; there’s a forest of chest hair spilling out of the collar. He has a head of curly red hair, and a thick beard to match. Yeah, he’s a big ol’ bear, but he’s a sexy man. I watch as his hand casually rests against the window ledge. His eyes wander to the left, in my direction, but still looking at the woods. Then his neck twists to follow. Slowly, slowly, he turns his head.

Then our eyes meet.

We’re staring at each other. We don’t drop the glance. Seconds pass. Men don’t look at each other like this from the safety of their cars. Not for this long. We’ve passed that point at which we were supposed to stop, and we’re bathing in each other’s gaze. He wants me. I can see it in the hard glittering of his eyes.

I want him, too. My dick’s hard. I break the gaze and, as my hands paw and press at my meat in my shorts, I stare down at it. There’s no mistaking what I’m looking at, for him. When I lift my head up again, his mouth is twitch. I nod at him. He slowly, slowly nods back.

I get out of my car. Elongate my lean, lanky body. There are other men in this lot, this park-and-ride off the parkway, all looking for the same thing. I can feel their eyes on me as I thrust forward my pelvis and arch my back in a traveller’s stretch. I’m wearing only a thin T-shirt and a pair of shorts. My feet are in an almost oversized pair of high-top Converse. Knowing that the solitary men in their spaced-out vehicles are staring, I stride around the front of my car, past the sedan, and around to its passenger seat. My long, hairy legs swing into the car and I close the door behind me.

“You’re hot,” are his first whispered words.

I look around. We’re in the corner of the lot; there’s no one who can see what I’m doing. I unbutton my shorts. Unzip. Hike down the elastic of my trunks and pull out the dick. It’s hard—the head is full, the skin taut and shiny. There’s already a bead of pre-cum on the slit. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck!”

Unconsciously, his hand rubs over his body. He pulls up his shirt. His belly is enormous. He’s a Santa Claus of a man—and it suits him. He’s like one of those idealized bear cartoons that big furry guys caption with annoying titles like Woof! My Future Husbear! The chest hair at his collarbone is almost a snowy white, but the further south it goes, the more fiery red it becomes, until it blends in with his flame-colored pubes. I’m turned on. “Show me,” I tell him.

Instantly he snatches down his pants. His dick is rock hard. It’s not large by any means, but it’s fat, and inviting. I look around. Then bend over. He smells clean, as if he’s just gotten out of the shower. I inhale deeply, getting high on that scent of soap and musk and slimy cock spit. “Fuck!” he says. It’s his only vocabulary. “Fuck!”

This park-and-ride is too busy for me to continue deep-throating him for very long. After a minute I come up for air. He stares at me. “Fuck, man,” he says. “Where did you come from?”

I grin and shrug.

“No, seriously . . . men like me don’t get to have sex with men like you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, I mean really, I. . . .”

I didn’t come out to heal anyone's self-esteem issues today. Men waste so much fucking time deciding they’re unworthy of each other. “You’re hot,” I tell him, meaning it. “I want you. You’re hot. Just fucking enjoy being a hot guy.”

He’s staring at me, judging my words. “Yeah,” he says at last. “You’re hot too. Damn. You’re hot.”
I’m stroking. Showing off for him. Wrapping my hand around my knob and squeezing. “I want to be in a bed with you,” I breathe.

He looks around. It’s instinct, in places like this. We’re both always looking, always turning our heads. Always aware. It’s too dangerous not to keep an eye out.

He rubs his hand over his belly. It’s big, and round. He looks almost pregnant, but like I said, it suits him. It’s a turn-on, and he can tell by the way I swallow, the way I lick my lips, that he’s my type. I’m producing pre-cum like crazy. It’s always been an issue with me, and one that many partners have found pretty messy, but he’s digging it. He reaches out with his thumb, presses it into the slit, and comes away with a glob on his thumb tip. He offers it to me. My lips reach out and snatch it off, then close around his thumb so that I can suck on it.

That’s what we do for the minutes after. We’ve both got our pants open, our cocks hard and out. I stroke, and he scoops the long strings of pre-cum from my slit and feeds them to me. I devour it hungrily. He’ll vary my diet from time to time with his own modest output. His pre-cum is sweeter than mine. It’s little dabs of moisture, especially compared to my obscene fountain of cock slime. I eat it all, though. I eat it from his thumb, I eat it from two of his fingers, three, four, when he shoves them all in there.

“Cum for me?” he begs. And I do, almost on demand. He has his hand below my cock head as I spurt and ooze. He catches the enormous quantity of cum in the cup of his palm. His fingers are sticky with the stuff; his hand can barely contain it.

He raises his hand to my mouth. I’m ready. My jaw is wide open, my tongue outstretched. The fluid slides from his hand directly into my throat in one massive glob; I almost choke from the sudden impact. But instinct kicks in and I gulp it down. He shoves his hand in my mouth, making me lick clean his fingers, making me scrape my beard over his palm. Then it’s gone, and I’m still shuddering from the throes of climax. My legs are turned in and clenched together, my dick is squeezed to purple in my fist. I’m covered with sweat. And I have drying cum and spit on my face, and breath that smells like sperm.

“Are you a porn star or something?” he asks. I laugh. The spell’s broken. I zip up and button. “No, really,” he asks. “Are you?’

“Nah,” I tell him. “Just a guy.” I nod, and thank him, and wheel my long legs out of the passenger-side door.

“A hot one,” he says, as I round the car.

I take the compliment, wave, and drive away.