The Man on the Bicycle

On the shore of Lake Ontario—August, 2013

 

The cruise park where I have always hung out whenever I visit the Niagara wine country, was anything but crowded the week I was there.  I saw one naked sunbather.  We talked, with him spread eagled before me on an old Army blanket, as he told me how he attracted women and then got them into the woods.  (For the record, he was 65+, with a large belly.)  The other visitors to the recreation area were a few families, young straight couples, and lots of dog walkers.  I think I saw one other guy cruising, but he had no interest in me.

And there was the guy on the bicycle.

I was sitting in my car, reading, for it had rained the night before and the grass was wet.  He glanced at me as he passed in front of me and made a wide U-turn to park right next to me. 

“Hello,” he gushed.  “You’re back.”

I nodded.  He looked vaguely familiar.  I’m sure I must have done something with him sometime.

“The park has changed,” he told me.  “There are so few people here nowadays.”

“Is it police?  Rangers?”

“No,” he said shook his head. “There’s no money for them to be out here.”  He looked out at the lake.  “Guys just don’t seem to come out here anymore.  Or at least guys who want to play with me.”

I looked at him again.  I guessed he was anywhere from 60 to 70.  His clothes were expensive—tan slacks and a pin striped shirt.  The shoes were a top of the line exercise shoe.  His thinning hair was occasionally caught in the breeze off the lake.  All in all, he reminded me a literature teacher I had in school except there was no bowtie.  I looked down at the fingers gripping the handlebars.  There was a gold band on his left hand that seemed to dwarf his ring finger. 

James remembered everything about my visit in 2011.  We’d played in the woods on two different days.  Once, he reminded me, we had sucked each other off.  Another time I had refused to let him bother with my cock while I’d taken his cum.  I remembered him not from the sex, but from his conversational style and good humor—and his need to have some gay man actually listen to him.  The park seemed to be the only connection he had with anyone queer.  And now even that limited exposure was drying up.

“So do you want me to suck you?”  It sounded so blunt after all the other chat.  It did stop James as he was beginning a new topic.

“I can’t today.  I’m late for dinner now.  Meatloaf.  How about tomorrow?  About 5:00?”

I agreed.  James pedaled off with a quick wave—and headed home down the rutted road to his wife’s meatloaf.

But he didn’t show up the next day.  And neither did anyone else.

The day after that,  he was parked again by my car.  “I’m so sorry.  Yesterday I had some sort of stomach flu.  Or food poisoning.  But I’m fine now.”

I refrained from asking if it was the meatloaf.

He pointed to the wooded area where most men played.  He was eager.  He was also in easy access exercise clothes.  We pushed our way through the undergrowth until we were lost from view—not that there was anyone there to view us.

 

“You are so handsome.”

I thank James, though I don’t particularly believe him. 

He has pulled his maroon running shorts down and is stroking his distended cock.  I unbuckle my belt as he feels my mound of dick through my jeans.  I push the pants down right along with the underwear so my hard cock juts out.  His fist wraps around it.  He gives it two or three strokes with his soft hands.  Then he bends at the waist and takes a third of it into his mouth.

He is all tongue action.  It feels good but I want to go deeper into his mouth.  I thrust once and he gags.  I pull out and sink to my knees.  I take him to the root on the first swallow.  He gives a grunt of satisfaction.  His soft hands trace patterns on my ears.  He tells me how good it feels.  How long it’s been since anyone did this to him.

He doesn’t blow instantly, like I thought he might.  But it doesn’t take too much to make him cum.  He shoots down my throat.  I swallow his thick load.  He pulls out the ubiquitous fast food napkin from a shirt pocket and mops up the little I don’t clean off his cock.

And we talk.  Well, he does mostly.  About what he’d like to do with me in a bed.  We both know it won’t happen—he has a wife at home and I have a sleeping bag on an air mattress.  He talks about watching his teenaged students in class.  (I was right—he is a teacher.)  How free they seem to him.  How he has a kid, openly gay at 15, in one of his classes.  James says he can’t imagine being that open.  Ever.  Much less that young. 

He finds his bicycle.   He wants my Squirt screen name—a service I rarely use—but it’s big, he tells me, in Canada.  I give it to him.

With a last wave, James pedals out of the park.

I stay in the woods a moment more.  I could have so easily gone down his path 35 years ago.   I was trained to teach; expected to have a wife.  I smirk at myself, realizing I even have the bowties. 

But I took a different path.  Something, at this very moment, I’m glad I did.

I step out of the woods and into the first sunshine in the last three days.