Boy in the Woods

I see him first from a distance, against the sunny morning horizon—short and rounded among spear-like trunks shooting toward the sky. Back and forth his silhouette ambles. When I walk through the woods in his direction, my feet shuffling along the dirt trail and kicking up leaves and small branches still wet with dew, he grows more distinct. He has one hand shoved into a pocket. The other presses a cell phone to his ear.

He’s a young man. Twenty. Twenty-one. Something like that. Though the weather is crisp and still waiting to be warmed by the September sun, he wears baggy shorts that expose his hairless legs. He seems skinny, though it’s was tough to tell from the oversized plaid flannel shirt on his back. We’re the only two souls rambling through this out-of-the-way place where men come to meet each other. Still bowing his head as if he’s listening to someone of interest on the line’s other end, he looks me over quickly, covertly, just as I study him.

He’s not talking to anyone at all, I realize with certainty. At most he’s listening to a voice mail; there’s no response, no sign of engagement. He’s just stalling. Waiting.

Waiting for someone like me.

My brisk walk crawls to a slow. When I lean against a tree, the impact of my shoulder against its bark makes the slender sapling’s leaves shudder. My thumbs hook in the pockets of my jeans. The fingertips of my right hand drop low, across the crotch. Casually, slowly, they quest—searching for the mound of spongy flesh. When they find it, they rub across its length. Without hurry, yes, but there’s an urgency in the way they show off the length of the hardening inches beneath the denim.

As I suspect, he’s watching. The kid’s mesmerized. As he stares at my crotch, I take in his tousled blond hair, the green intensity of his hungry eyes, the sharpness of his beak-like face. He lowers the hand holding the phone, and shoves the device into his pocket. Then he looks me in the eyes for the first time, and nods.

I nod back.

He strolls over. Now his left hand is rubbing against a growing protrusion in his own pants. His right hand reaches out. His eyebrows rise, asking permission that I give with another nod, and then I feel his palm cupping me, his fingertips pressing against where the underside of my sac would be.

I jerk my head in a gesture that tells him to follow. Men meet in the central area of this heavily-wooded park, but they don’t usually play here. It’s too open, too exposed to anyone walking in. I lead him over a trail so faint it’s barely distinguishable, a mere spoor made barely visible by leaves lightly trodden by men such as ourselves. Over fallen trees and little rivulets it leads toward the deepest and most inaccessible parts of the woods. There’s a clearing there, large enough for five or six men, screened by evergreens and shadows.

I nod again when we’ve stopped. He unbuttons my jeans, and pulls down the waistband of my Gap trunks. My dick springs out. Even among the sweet-smelling evergreens and the dank, fermenting leaves, I can smell its unmistakable, freshly-washed scent. To the boy it’s irresistible. He puts both knees on the forest ground and cups his left hand around my length as he inhales, and then covers my dick with his wet mouth.

I sigh as he sucks me, and let my pants drop to the ground. My hands shift restlessly over my stomach, my hips, the sides of my balls. I run my hands through his hair and find it stiff and full of product. He looks up at me with short, sideways glances, like a baby bird. I nod again, giving him the approval he wants. Then his eyes close as he savors the sensations of sucking.

While he slurps over my increasingly sloppy dick, he unbuttons and removes his shirt, revealing a sky-blue tank top beneath. He pauses for a moment—but only a moment, no more—to lift his dirty knees and yank down his shorts and kick them off, so that he’s dressed only in his hiking boots, nubbly gray socks, and that impossibly blue tank. His dick is an uncut six inches that drools from the tip. When he settles down again, it curves up into the empty air, rock hard, and juts into his own abdomen as he moves back and forth.

It’s quiet in the woods this morning. A road lies around the park’s perimeter, but no cars make their noisy presence known along its length. We can’t even hear the distant hum of the nearest busy avenue. Just the restless trees, the irregular sounds of the forest, and the slurps of his stretched-out lips over my dick.

I could be satisfied with that perfect moment there in the woods—the silence, the boy, and the pleasure he was giving my dick, but I want more. My hand reaches down and cups him beneath the chin until I’ve pried him off my cock. I lift him to his feet. Not caring whether he’s into it or not, I press my mouth against his. His eyes remain closed, but his mouth opens to receive mine. It’s wet, and tastes sweet like my precum, and of my dick, and of distant, almost forgotten sugared coffee. His eyes only open a moment later, when I remove my mouth from his and look him in the face. Even then, they’re heavy-lidded, and addled from cock.

He’s all sensation, the boy. He’s in the moment, asking for nothing, but ready to receive anything. So I say the only words that will pass between us: “Bend over.”

He obeys.

The animal cry that cuts through the woods a few moments later, as I enter him, seems to bring the forest to a halt. Even the trees pause in their slow gyrations. For a moment, all is silence.

Then, as the cry becomes memory, the sighs and the breath of the woods resume.