Helmet Head

The spouse had a flight out of town today. On the way home I hit the 275 rest stop—it’s the one benefit of having to drive out to that side of town.

I pulled the car to the lot’s far end, as I always do when I cruise there. Usually I sit outside and stroke while I cruise the men in the other cars, but nobody was in their vehicle today. I thought there might be action going on indoors, but when I went into the men’s room, the only person coming out was a scary-looking custodian. I pissed, washed my hands, and got ready to leave.

Then a cruiser walked in while I dried off. I could tell he was a cruiser by the way he stood at the urinals—off to the side, body askew, his core swiveled slightly to the right. His hand moved back and forth like he was shaking off the last drops, but I knew better. The guy was hot. Maybe mid-thirties, shaggy brown hair, scruff on his face. Lean body. Nice Banana Republic clothes.

I stepped up to the urinal, unzipped, and hauled out my dick. We stared at each other openly. He had one of those tools with a monster helmet, an enormous head that looked like it would split holes wide open. His eyebrows rose at the size of mine. “Nice,” he whispered.

“You too,” I whispered back. “Beautiful.” Then I reached out and stroked his. I had a good handful before I heard the squeak of the outside door. We separated. Another man walked in—tall, stocky, gray hair, though he couldn’t have been more than forty-one or forty-two. He looked over his shoulder at us as he headed for the stalls, then stopped once he reached the doors there. Then he fondled his package. It was safe to play.

My buddy showed me his hard dick again. “You married?” he whispered, nodding at my wedding ring. I nodded back. In the mirror, I could see the gray-haired guy playing with himself as he looked at me. “You wanna . . . ?” He reached in front of himself, mimed holding someone’s head in front of his dick, and thrust back and forth into the air. He really dug in with his hips while he did it, and pursed his lips in sexual heat.

“Fuck yeah,” I said, getting ready to kneel on the ground and slurp on it.

The door opened again. Back to safety positions.

When it was clear, the gray-haired guy came over to stand between us. When he reached for the other guy, helmet-head shied away. He only wanted me. I let the gray-haired guy play with me, though. He jerked my dick in helmet-head’s direction, showing it off to him. Helmet-head hissed in appreciation. “You want some. . . ?” The guy was a master of mime. He pretended to grab invisible hips and pull them in. His dick arced up and in, up and in, over and over. “You wanna get fucked?” he asked, just in case I didn’t get it. “Or fuck me? What do you want, married stud?”

“I wanna fuck you,” I whispered back. My dick was dripping now.

“You wanna fuck me?”

“Fuck yeah.”

He turned around and began to pull down his pants, right there in the middle of the men’s room. Then we heard the door open again. The gray-haired guy scooted out as the custodian and a trucker came into the room. The custodian had a mop and bucket and didn’t look like he was going anywhere. Helmet-head zipped up and washed his hands; I followed him. We stood side by side at the driers. Protected by the wall, he pulled out his still-hard curved meat one last time and let the hot air blow on it while I watched. I just grinned, laughed, and walked out of the room.

I was kind of hoping he’d follow me to his car, but instead he left the restrooms and went back to his sedan. As he drove out of the parking lot, he gave me a peace sign.

I wanted to hang around and cruise longer, but the custodian clocked me. Besides, I have the scruffy kid coming over tonight, and I can take out my frustration on his hole.