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.