That Sprinkler Guy

In a couple of spectacularly unsuccessful entries a few weeks back I attempted to track the genesis of my acquaintance with Topher, who became my partner in crime at some point later in my adolescence. Talking about Topher was going to be my gateway to addressing my complex and involved relationship with a man named Earl, whose attentions and mentoring shaped pretty much my entire sexual career.

I’d still like to talk about Earl. It’ll take several entries to do it. However, because whenever I write entries about the sex I had thirty or more years ago I have a vocal minority of readers who feel obliged to express their displeasure about the concept of a teen having sex with adult men, I’d like to stress an important point. I’m writing about things that happened a very long time ago. I can’t change my past. Admittedly, I could pretend it didn’t happen, or not write about it and leave it shrouded in silence, to avoid offending tender sensibilities.

I choose not to do that, however. I think some experiences are worth recording and exploring in an honest manner. If you’re going to be one of those people who don’t appreciate that, I advise you to skip these particular entries.

To get to Earl, I need to first to talk about That Sprinkler Guy, who introduced us.

It would have been in 1979 that I met That Sprinkler Guy. It was not very long after the events of my A Very Bad Day entry, when I’d been caught screwing around in the park restroom by the police and taken home in shame to my father. It was still summer, but at least a month after that incident. I remember being so frightened by it all that I’d sworn off whoring around altogether—a resolution that I kept for perhaps all of two weeks. After that, my summer hornies reasserted themselves, and I accommodated them by fooling around first only in my usual restroom haunts in the Richmond public library and on the campus where my parents both taught. The next week I added the park near the carillon into my cruising. Then a couple of weeks after that, I was back to Bryan Park, the scene of my shame, and the closest cruising spot to home.

I was reluctant ever to let myself get cornered again in the restrooms there, though. I might have used them to meet guys, but rarely would I do much in there, where I couldn’t see who might be approaching. I’d ask guys to take me into the woods. Or if it was evening, we’d play in the picnic shelters that hosted all manner of couplings and group sex.

It was a lazy and slow summer morning when I met That Sprinkler Guy. I remember it being one of those gorgeous, sun-drenched Virginia summer days on which the rolling park baked in the glare and haze. It was one of those mornings when the cicadas had already started their unending huzz before breakfast was over, giving warning that by the late afternoon you’d probably hear nothing in most of the quiet Richmond neighborhoods save for the hum of air conditioning condensers and the soft rhythm of sprinklers showering thirsty lawns. I loved the heat, and the sun, though usually it discouraged all but the most hard-core sex seekers from hitting the parks.

I’d been sitting beneath a tree near the road that led to the shelters and restrooms for some time, bike propped against the trunk, as I read a paperback I’d stuck in my pocket. Then I saw a white pick-up truck turn from the neighborhood street flanking the park onto its drive, kicking up clouds of dust with its big wheels as it turned. As the trunk neared, it slowed down. That Sprinkler Guy, commercial lettering announced on its side. Commercial/Residential Sprinkler Installation. A phone number graced the bottom of the ad. I saw the curly-headed driver lean over as he approached and passed to check me out.

I knew I was in business. I let the truck continue up the road, waiting a moment before I stuck my paperback into my pocket, stood, and kicked up the stand of my bike so that I could follow. He was waiting inside, standing at the solitary urinal, a cap somehow pulled atop that head of thick, bristling black curls. That Sprinkler Guy was a stocky bulldog of a man, somewhere in his mid-thirties. The T-shirt he wore with his business’s logo bulged from his beefy arms and shoulders. With his thick lips and pug nose he wasn’t handsome, but he sure as hell was sexy. His dirty jeans hung low beneath a slight belly, unzipped to display a long, thick, slab of hard dick. He didn’t even bother to pretend he was peeing; when I pushed inside the door and looked him over from in front of the sink, he took a step back to display his meat. With a grin on his lips, he showed off how his angled foreskin slipped back and forth over the greasy knob.

I stepped up to feel its warm length in my hand. “Well damn,” he said, his mouth lop-sided and pleased. When I was close, he reached up and ran his fingers through my long blond hair. “You are a cute one, son!”

I was going to suggest we take our activity elsewhere, but he already had the same idea. He stuffed his enormous dick down his pants leg, pulled up the frayed waistband of his white briefs, fastened his pants, and caught my neck in the crook of his arm. Out of the restroom we strolled, instant buddies. My bike was already locked up, so I accepted an invitation to hop in the guy’s truck and take a little ride with him.

In those days Bryan Park was divided roughly into two sections. The back half, accessible through a separate road in the nearby neighborhood, was where cruisers lurked. Rednecks in trucks hung with Confederate flags in their back windows would take the main arched entry into the larger, front half of the park. The two groups rarely mixed. (Though I loved when they did.) That Sprinkler Guy drove from the park’s cruisy side to redneck territory, where even in the morning there were good ol’ boys and their girlfriends listening to Creedence on their radios and drinking from cans of beer wrapped in brown paper. We drove past them to an area deep within the park, closer to where we’d met in the restroom, but inaccessible through the back road. I let him walk me from the truck into the woods, which grew thick and dense upon the rolling hills. After a few minutes on a barely-distinguishable trail, we ended up in a clearing where the sun shone brightly. The park ran alongside I-95, so there was a constant whoosh of traffic as it swept by, but that faint noise was all we could hear, so isolated we were.

“Now’s the part where you strip,” he said, and crossed his arms.

I didn’t know the guy and was aware I was throwing caution to the winds, but I didn’t care. I wanted that dick. I crossed my arms and skimmed off my T-shirt, and dropped my OP shorts to the ground and stepped out of them.

“Kneel,” he said.

I obeyed, planting my knees onto the ground. There I was, nude and exposed, barely able to keep my eyes open from the bright intensity of the sunshine.

“You ever taken a shower before?” he wanted to know, as the logs that were his fingers deftly undid his jeans.

Of course I’d taken a shower before. I took a shower every day. Sometimes two, if I came home from the parks especially cum-covered and stinky. “Sure,” I said.

“Nice. Someone trained you right.” His dick was exposed now. Even soft it was a monster that spilled from the split in his jeans at an impressive angle. Once again he pulled back the foreskin to expose that shiny, thick head. “You ready for it, then?”

Barely had I a chance to nod before a fat stream of urine shot in my direction. I was naive enough not to know what he’d been talking about, when he’d asked if I’d taken a shower. The spray hit me squarely on my closed mouth; I barely had enough time to shut my eyes. I felt the warmth of it cascade down my chin and onto my chest, then drip down my skinny body until it tickled around the base of my dick and balls. He raised his meat so that the arc of liquid baptized the top of my head and trickled down my spine. I was so surprised that I didn’t move.

After a moment, I realized that I didn’t mind that I didn’t mind. Part of me recoiled at the notion he was pissing on me like I was some kind of urinal, true. But at the same time, it felt just like warm water, and the actual physical sensations were pretty pleasant. A twisted part of me deep inside kicked in and liked the degradation of it. This is what I deserved, it felt like; this was what I was made for. I bowed my head and submitted.

The stream of piss seemed endless. That Sprinkler Guy had a bladder like the city reservoir. When he was finally done and the last few drops of pee were dribbling from his dick onto the ground, I knelt in a puddle. Dirt was sticking to my knees and shins; my hair hung in wet strands around my head. Already the heat and the sun was drying the fluid, though, making me skin feel crusted and tight. “And now’s the part where you stand up and bend over, son,” said the man in a gruff voice.

I yelled when he entered me. He lubed, but only just. I would’ve been hard-pressed to take him under normal circumstances, large as he was. I couldn’t even contemplate it these days. The foreskin helped some—I always preferred getting fucked raw by uncut guys in my bottoming days. But it was a fuck I took with my bottom lip firmly between my clenched teeth, as I attempted not to cry and let him know how very close he was to making me cry uncle. Which was a pretty rare thing in those days.

Though honestly, I think he would’ve loved to hear me cry. That Sprinkler Guy was a pounder. When we met for the three years that followed it was always the same routine—the same place, the same procedure, followed by a very long and brutal assault on my hole that would end with him pushing me against the ground or into a tree trunk as he forced an enormous cum load into me.

Every single time I would stumble back down that path in the woods and to his truck, where he would give me a solicitous boost back into the passenger seat so he could drop me back to wherever I’d chained my bike. I’d wash up as best I could either in the park’s restroom or from one of the spigots in the picnic shelter, and let the breezes dry me on my ride home. My dick would always spring to attention when I’d see that battered pickup truck driving into the park, because I knew I was guaranteed to be put into my place.

The clearing, the sun, the piss, and the slamming. I loved them all.