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.