Closed For Cruising

On the Shore of Lake Ontario—September, 2014

I headed to the Niagara Wine Country the next day.  I pitched camp, blew up the large air mattress and carefully unrolled my sleeping bag in what the manufacturers optimistically called a “three man tent.” 

The moment I was done, I headed to the gay cruising park with a thick novel to read between blowjobs.  But when I got there, there was a chain across the drive.  Closed.  You could still park across the street, under some trees, and walk in.  I did.  Only one dedicated dog walker was around—a middle aged woman who was not looking for a quick hook up in the brush.  Gay men didn’t seem to want to make that much commitment—actually walk a couple hundred yards into their old stomping grounds.

The cliffs along Lake Ontario were eroding steeply—likely the reason for the closure.  One huge tree had fallen into the lake below.  The grass was no longer cut by the park service and was knee high this late in the summer. The paths into the secluded areas for play were still there among the trees away from the lake, but they also showed real signs of disuse. 

I walked out and went to the local library instead.  I chatted with James, the older man I had met in the park a few times over the years.  He told me what I had guessed—gay men had given up on the space—and there was no new site to take its place.  Occasionally, James had a fuck buddy meet him there, but he bemoaned the death of his only cruising spot.

Of course he and I met there twice.  It would have been three times during my week in the area, but our signals were crossed the first time.  I said I’d park and wait for him, thinking he’s bicycle past me in my car and then into the park.  Nope.  He went directly to the old entrance and I didn’t see him ride in.

We figured it out after another set of emails.  The sex was honestly nothing that special—though I was happy to relieve the man of a load each time—a man who rarely had any other contacts and was so in need.  And I did like his soft hands caressing my ears and the back of my head as I sucked him off.

And, also as before, he needed to talk. 

I listened. 

And nodded.

It mostly made me want to pack up and get back to Toronto.  And I did—for Cum Union.  

Cumming next post…

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.

Moments (of Sex) In the Woods

Nashville—October/November, 2012

I have always loved this huge park in the Nashville area.  It happens to be very close to where I stay.  I read, listen to NPR, do my homework and once wrote a blog post while getting back to nature.  And it’s cruisy.  Well, kind of.  Last year, it was jumping when I arrived and then went very dead.  This year, with less rangers around, it was cruisier.  But the weather worked against me.  It was cold.  But a dedicated sex hound will always find something…

One:

I am as far away from the main road as I can get.  I am standing in the mostly denuded woods down by the river.  The water level is low from the drought.  Through the trees, I can just make out a dark car parking across from mine.  A middle aged man steps out.  Baggy jeans and windbreaker with running shoes—the alibi for his wife back home.  He looks around.  No one else is here.  He heads in my direction.  I hear him on the leaves, cracking twigs as he picks his way into the underbrush.  He sees my blue jacket—I can hear him stop and stare.  I stand facing away from him, making a pretense of checking how much creek bed has been revealed.  He moves a little nearer to me.  I turn and do the nod thing—one nature lover to another acknowledging the other’s presence. I turn back to the water.  He moves slightly away from me.   But I can still hear his zipper.  And then the sound of piss landing on the fallen tree trunk.

But funny, he never zips up.  I turn and walk towards him, looking like I’m headed to the path to get to my car.  He turns at just the right moment, and shows me a fat, fat cock with a generous overhang of foreskin, even when hard. 

I smile. 

He looks worried.  He says just one word:  “Please?”

I move towards him and fall to my knees…

Two:

 

I am sitting in my car at the top of a hill near the remains of a dilapidated picnic shelter, ignoring the work I should be doing and listen to “Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me.”  A Mercedes comes up the hill.  The driver is surprisingly young for the car.  I can make out longish blond hair, and sharp good looks behind the wheel.  He takes one look at me, turns the car laboriously around, and heads right back down the hill.

I listen to the radio, closing my eyes.

Sounds of tires on the gravel.  I open my lids just enough to see the Mercedes return.  Once again, he looks at me, turns around and goes back down the hill.

I close my eyes tightly.

He returns.  This time he parks right behind me.  I wait for him to walk into the woods.  I am not going to make the first move.  Not today.  It’s cold.  But nothing.

I look in the rearview mirror.  He seems to be reading.  I wait.  Then a little longer.

Finally, I grab an old magazine, saved for just such a trip.  I get out of my Focus, walking to the trash can with it, having to pass his car on the way.  He’s kept his shirt on, but the rest of him is naked.  Hard and dripping.  Flogging his meat to an ancient copy of Torso.  His head is turned away from me, but he must know I’m right there.

My cock struggles to stand up, losing the battle with the denim, but making an obscene bulge.  He turns.  His eyes are right on my meat.  They glance up at my face.  Then back down at the packed denim.  The window glides down.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“Nice.”

“You, too.”

“Show it to me.”  It takes no time for me to open my fly and let my full size flop out.  “Come here.”

I move to the open window.  His mouth swallows every inch…

 

Three:

I am in the rest room.  It’s a two urinal, one seat affair.  Still open on this cold first day of November.  It’s getting dark now at 5pm.  It’s 4:45pm now.  The sun is all but gone, and with it the dog walkers and the lone runner. 

I truly have to piss---the tea I was drinking as I read, has gone straight through me.  I am just unbuttoning my fly as I hear a car on gravel.  On the road or this lot?

 I wait. 

The lot.  Engine cuts.  Car door shuts.  Footsteps on gravel, on the sidewalk.  A dark shape turns the corner.  My piss starts--splashing noisily as I aim it directly down the drain.  I can see a tall, broad shouldered man move into the urinal to my right. He unzips, but there’s no piss.  I finish up, but don’t move.

We both stand.  No sound at all.  Neither wanting to make the first move.  Then I hear it.  His hand moving over his cock.  It must be slick, since I can hear it distinctly.  At the same time we both step back from our urinal and turn towards each other.

“I hope to hell you are a cock sucker.”

I nod. 

It’s dark enough now I can’t really see his cock.

I kneel.  The aroma from his open fly is heady.  I move in.  His penis is thin and long.  I get it into my mouth---and he explodes.  My throat is coated with a hot, sweet load.  He grabs the cinder block partition and mutters his thanks in the last of the autumn light.

Canada--Wednesday In the Woods

Lake Ontario—August, 2012

I had time the next day to head back to the dog walk/conservation area.  Two cars were in the lot.  I read for a bit, then decided to walk around and see if there was any “trouble” to get into…

 I walk away from the lake, across the expanse of sun parched field and into the new growth of trees.  As I round the first corner, there they are:  two men and a Boston terrier.  Just talking.  I smile and nod and continue on down the trail.  The man doing all the talking I recognize from previous years here.  He is older than I, short and balding, with quite a few extra pounds.   He loves to talk and tell stories—stories that ramble until he has lost track of why he is telling that particular tale.  I love the look of the other guy:   he’s taller than me, thin, with a promising bulge in his track shorts.  He’s in great shape for being in his late 60’s.  He tosses a stick for his dog to chase as I amble on down the brambled path. 

I give them a little time—then make a U-turn and head back.  I duck under a low branch—and there they are.  The short guy is on his knees, sucking the very large cock of the tall, grey haired gentleman.  The dog is scampering around, licking at the big guy’s crotch, as Daddy gets head.  They wave me over to join them.  I unzip.  I pull out my growing cock.  The large guy goes from one to the other.  It feels good, but I’m not fully hard.  My mouth is on Daddy’s nipple.  My hand is on Daddy’s hairless, totally smooth ass.

I know what I want.  I kneel behind those long, long legs.  I pull apart his ass cheeks and begin licking.  He looks at me over his shoulder.  Then he bends over, surrendering to my invading tongue. His cock pulls out of the Talker’s mouth—Daddy doesn’t care—he just leans on his former cock sucker’s shoulders.  I feel a hot tongue on my balls.  There is no way the fat guy could bend that far over…

Nope, it’s the dog.

Damn, he’s good, too.

I shoo him away, but he’s back instantly.  I ignore him and spread his cheeks apart with my hands.  His hole tastes great, salty and moist. 

Then the cock sucker starts talking.  He goes on and on about another cruise place, and it deflates both our cocks.  The dog starts barking—warning us of approaching dog walkers.  We clothe ourselves in plenty of time.  The terrier scoots away to welcome a standard poodle.

We try to wait out the intruders, but they are playing catch right by the entrance to the path .  No more sex for now.

“I remember you,” says the talker.  “We had a long talk last year.”   And then he proceeds to resurrect the entire conversation.

I nod.  And nod.

“I remember your tongue,” says the tall man.  “You rimmed and fucked me at the bathhouse in Fort Erie.”

I smile and nod, not remembering him at all. 

But now I write a blog. 

And I think I will.

 

I promise that I’ve never had the dog before…

Canada--Tuesday in the Park

Lake Ontario—August, 2012

 

I have been coming to this sleepy town in Canada for many years.  It took me the first 10 years to track down the cruising area.  I’d found a park in the downtown instantly.  I had eyed guys going into the men’s room and been cruised while sitting on a park bench, but I swore my old Damron Guide Book was wrong—this couldn’t be the real cruising ground.  It was just a too crowded and too family oriented an area.  About seven years ago, on an impulse, I took a side road before I got downtown.  I don’t know why.  It led to a conservation area.  Dog walkers and fags.  Many times they were one and the same.  I was in a cocksucker’s paradise. 

I park.  I read.  I look at the view.  Lake Ontario is choppy today.  But the sky is very blue.  It’s so clear that I can see Toronto across the water—90 miles away.  It’s a quiet morning.  A straight couple is my only company as they walk their three dogs.  They soon get in their black Land Rover and leave. 

I walk to the cliff edge.  There is major erosion here.  One of the huge trees has toppled onto the beach below since I was here last year.  I hear a car on the gravel.  A lone man.  He parks next to my car and gets out.  He’s sixty-ish, in shorts and a rather loud shirt.  He sees me.  His hand brushes his crotch, quite by accident of course, as he tucks his shirt into shorts.  I stick my hands in the pockets of my pants and amble towards the woods.

He follows.  I stop and look at the view.  He stops to tie his shoe.  I move towards a hidden path to get us out of the main park.  He stops and checks the parking lot for other cars.  I step over the remains of the rusty fence.  He stops to admire the view.  And touches himself.  He notes where I am going.  I head down the path, high weeds surrounding me.  I make it to a huge old maple tree.  And wait. 

He takes his time.  But he’s ready.  When he rounds the bend, he is holding a very hard cock under his shorts.  I grasp mine through the fabric of my pants—outlining the length and girth of it.  He takes his out.  Uncut with a fiery red head.  He peels it back.  He looks at me.  Almost pleading.  I’ve made him be bold.  I walk down the slight slope towards him, crunching through the brittle leaves.

“You want that sucked?”

He nods.  I sink down on my haunches.  I take his cock out of his hand, letting the head retract under all that skin.  My tongue snakes out.  I touch the wrinkled end.  A single drop of precum.  I lick it away.   I suck him into my mouth.  My tongue works under the foreskin.  My hand goes up to help peel it all pack.  He sighs as it’s exposed in my mouth and my tongue laps gently at it.

I suck harder. 

He goes as far as to fuck my face a little.

The squirrels are making noise in the brush around us.  It makes him nervous.

“Show me yours.”

I get up and undo my belt and zipper.

He touches me tentatively. 

The contact makes his cock jump.

He strokes me, but makes no move to suck me.

I sink to my knees.  I want his cum. 

I suck some more.

“I can’t get off here.”  He pats my head.  “I’m too nervous.”  He gets his cock back in his pants.  “There’s a car.”  I hear it coming down the gravel.  I look in that direction—it’s impossible to see it from where we are hidden.

When I turn back to him, he’s gone.  I watch him step over the rusty fence.  I wait a bit, rearrange the package, and amble back to my book.

 

 

 

Good-bye to Nashville

Nashville--December, 2011

The Professor and I tried to meet up again on my last night in Nashville. Unfortunately, it did not work out. Having had the two men the night before, I just stayed home on my last Saturday. Sunday morning I packed the car, and took my cup of hot tea to read in the park. I love symmetry. I wanted my last moments of Nashville to end as they began. And they did…
　
It has been cold. Unseasonably cold for Nashville. But Sunday is warming right back up. The previous gray days are giving way to one last sunny one. It’s somewhere in the high 50’s just in time for me to drive back to the frozen North. It’s early in the park. A few runners go by on the nearby track. An elderly couple walking two cocker spaniels wave at me. The hillside in front of me is a mass of gray trees, with an evergreen peeking through here and there. I have some green Chai tea and am reading an odd play by Christopher Fry until it’s time for Says You! on the local NPR station.

I am answering most of the questions right along with today’s panelists as a rather beat up car turns the corner, pauses and then heads straight for me. It’s not going the cruising speed, so I expect another dog owner. But it’s a lone man, who parks right next to me. A good country boy with flannel shirt and a John Deere baseball cap. He looks right at me. His window goes down.

I lower mine.

He stares.

I wait.

I turn the radio down.

He looks away.

I stare at him.

He looks at me.

I hold his gaze.

Then return to my book.

“Do you suck cock?”

I turn to him. I just smile.

“I want to get off.”

I get out of my car and walk to the woods edge. I take the path that has the most vegetation left on the branches. I hear him open and close his car door. Soon he’s coming down the same path. He’s undoing his pants as he appears in the clearing. He is semi hard just at the thought of it. It’s a thick dick, with a lot of foreskin covering half the head.

“Make me feel good.” He strokes it twice, pulling the foreskin back and exposing the deep red of the helmet.
I kneel. He’s freshly washed, but I can smell the musky scent that, after all these years, still makes my cock stir. I take him in my mouth. My tongue works around his cock head. My left hand goes to his thick shaft and forces some of the foreskin back in place. My tongue works between it and the cock head. He loves this. I can also sense he’s almost there.

He likely was ready to shoot when he rounded the corner in his car.

He grunts.

I deep throat him.

I come up slowly. I want to taste his seed. Two more swirls of my tongue across his flaring cock head and he’s shooting. More sweet than salty. I still am gripping his cock with my left hand. I don’t let go until I’ve milked and swallowed every drop of cum out of his spasming dick.

He zips and is gone. I stay in the woods a moment. I hear his car start up and retreat.

I love symmetry. The first thing I did in town and now the last.

Hello Nashville--and Good-bye.

"Hey, I got some guys coming over...."

Nashville--November, 2011


It was Saturday night. And my last time in Nashville to play at a reasonable hour, as work would be switching me to evenings for the final week . I wanted something really good. As luck would have, a guy who’d been talking to me all week, told me he had a couple coming over, who wanted a few additional guys--would I bring the sling. I got over there fast...　

It’s a residence hotel. I can’t find the room. They are all outside entries, but the room numbers are minuscule. I finally find it and knock. I am maybe 4 minutes late. Three guys are already there. The host is naked, and 50 lbs or so heavier than his already large picture. The two men (also naked) don’t look at all like the couple from Mississippi. Because they aren’t. The couple we did all this for is fighting somewhere across town and not coming.

I say I’ll get the sling. No one offers to help, but they are all naked. I go out to the car to get the duffel bag full of sling and a tarp wrapped around the poles. I stagger in. There is an odd vibe in the air. The man around my age, is getting his dick sucked by the host. A shaved head man sits on the bed and watches. I put up the sling. Some one else arrives. He’s the youngest of the bunch. He says he’s leaving. Then he sees my dick and decides to stay. The bed sitter has not moved. I try to mingle with the men. I kneel to suck the older guy--and am pushed out of the way by the host. The young, cute one sucks my dick. The host leaves the older man, and pushes the cute one out of the way to go down on me. The cute one is pissed and leaves after all.

I pull out and lick the hole of the man who has done nothing but sit there. He’s a bottom--they’ve told me. He seems to enjoy the rim job, I rise to impale him. The host comes over and pours so much lube down his crack we have to stop. The bottom heads for the bathroom and emerges half dressed. He’s gone as fast as he can throw on his clothes. In the meantime, the guy my age has cum and is putting on his jeans and tee. Elapsed time: 25 minutes.

I am left with the host. He asks if I want his ass….I shrug. He’s in the sling, it’s feeling pretty good--and, you guessed it, no prep--I hand him towel after towel….

He goes off to clean up, all apologies--but it was the final straw. I wash at the kitchenette sink and have half the sling down before he comes out of the bathroom. It’s decidedly chilly as I head out into the warm night air. Elapsed time: 40 minutes.

Nashville has been having a lovely warm spell. In frustration I drive straight to the park--if nothing else, to calm myself down before I head home. It‘s dark, so far away from any light but the moon and stars. Trees arch over the road, skeletal in the late Autumn. Almost instantly a car is beside me. His dome light reveals a cute country boy who wants to suck some cock. We get lost in the dark, finding a picnic pavilion. I unbutton and he is down on me instantly. He knows what he’s doing. I pull him off me to sample his large and uncut cock he‘s been stroking. He lets me for a time, but soon he kneels and gets me back in his mouth--and shoots. He stops sucking. I stroke as he buckles his belt and zips up. I blow a load on the concrete. He smiles. Elapsed time since I entered the park: 15 minutes.

I go home and watch Ronald Coleman in Her Night of Romance (1924). It is better than anything else I’ve done that night.
　

The Park

Nashville--November, 2011

I left for Nashville soon after the Suit left the bookstore. In three hours I was there. In four hours I was moved in and sitting in one of the largest parks in the area. When I first worked in Nashville 25 years ago all of Nashville’s parks were packed with men looking for sex. Added park rangers on bikes, several stings, surveillance equipment and a newly built high school close by have changed the tenor of the place in the last few years. But the day I arrived, with temperatures in the high 60’s in mid November, the place was jumping like it was 1977.

The park I have always gone to is huge for being so near a metropolitan area. Huge as in 2684 acres of forest, trails, steep hillsides, picnic shelters and a couple of restrooms. Many of the winding roadways have been closed for cars, so runners abound. As do mule deer, raccoons, opossums, bluebirds and enough squirrels for every other tree.

My first summer there I remember lying on the hill in front of one of the Federal Works Project style picnic shelters. I still sat in the sun back then and had nothing on but a Speedo that clung to every curve of my cock. I had guessed about the park, but it was my first introduction to cruising Southern style. A silver Buick, the size of boat, came around the curve and hit the brakes. The car remained motionless for a time, then proceeded to the parking lot. Soon a man in his sixties, approximately the same size as his car and wearing little other than short shorts and flip-flops, made his way up he hill towards me. He began circling me (pausing to catch his breath on the picnic table behind me. after each time around) The circles got smaller and smaller. Each time he passed my feet I heard him say, “It sure is hot out.” I would nod and go back to my book. Soon he was close enough that I could see the tiny head of his uncut cock hanging out of those short shorts.

We did not hook up.

So many memories flooded through my brain as I drove into the park:
A three way in the back picnic table shelter one midnight in the pouring rain.
A mutual blowjob with an ebony skinned hiker, lost in the hills.
The lithe, red haired runner who let me eat his ass in the restroom, but would not let me fuck it, since I still used condoms exclusively back then.
The trail where I used to fuck guys, bent over a log.
A small clearing down by the river where countless blowjobs were given or received.
The good looking man who drove his Volvo relentlessly around the park while jerking off.
The lithe, red haired runner getting my load two years ago--as his usual fuck bud watched.
I am sitting on top of the hill, the same one I sunbathed on all those years ago. It has a direct view of the restroom where all the action happens. In no time, a car passes me and parks at the restroom. He looks up at me and goes in. I can see blond hair, jeans and sneakers, a little younger than me. I wait and count. He’s been in there too long. I go down the hill.

It’s dark inside after the bright sunshine. But he’s still there at the right hand urinal. I take the left. Even manage to piss. And get hard after all the sex the night before and this afternoon. I stroke. It’s obvious that’s what he is doing, but a small partition keeps us from seeing each other.

We wait. Eyes dead ahead. Soon enough he looks over. I turn and catch his eye. He looks away. We wait. Again. Eyes meet. I step back and show him my erect cock. He’s on his knees and I’m feeding it to him. He’s okay. Not great. Almost instantly there is the sound of a car on the gravel outside. We spring apart, and are back at the urinals, looking nonchalant, by the time a bearish looking guy ambles in. He goes to the toilet beyond us--a cinderblock stall with no door. We hear him drop his pants. The blond soon zips up and run off scared. I do an elaborate hand wash. The guy is still back there. I go to the paper towel dispenser on the far wall. It is conveniently placed so you can look directly into the stall. I’m glad I do. The bear has a remarkable beer can cock that he’s stroking obscenely. He stands, showing it off. I kneel and take it in my mouth. He shoots a thick ropy load at once. The sound of another car on gravel. We separate--he sits and I move to the sink as a young man comes in. He pisses and is gone before I can wash my hands. I dry them and hike back up the hill.

A black SUV is soon circling the winding road. He goes up the hill that is next to mine, where the remains of a companion shelter sits. I listen for him to come back down. He’s stayed up there. I hike up the taller hill. The SUV is parked to the right, with a child’s seat in the back, but no one is in the vehicle. Down the path into the woods? Or behind the roofless shelter’s fireplace? I go to the shelter first. A nice looking young dad has his dick out and is stroking. He turns away when he sees me, but he doesn’t put it away. He hears me open my jeans. He turns back to me.

“Suck me,” he says. “Please.”

With the bear’s cum still on my breath, I slip to my knees. I pry his fist off his very average cock, and slowly slide it into my mouth. He grabs my head and begins pumping it into my face. I try to slow him down, but he’s going to blow before I even get started. And he does, muffling a groan. Not a lot, but great flavor. He turns away instantly and just shoves his sticky cock back in his khaki’s. I do myself up and walk back to my car.

I have company. A true country boy. A carpenter by trade, with all his tools in the back of the once red pickup. I recognize him from previous years. He gives great head. He waves for me to join him in his cab. He’s already unzipped and hard. A thick, red uncut slab of cock is in his hand. I get in and unbutton. His hand holds my meat, giving it a few strokes. Then he reaches up to my neck and pulls me into his crotch. Well, damn…

I suck. And suck. He’s no minute man. I finally get him off by licking his balls until he’s pleading with me to swallow his seed. I do. And get my reward. Another sizable load blasts down my throat.

He thanks me. I take a long walk in the woods. I sit and read. A familiar car appears. It’s the first man. Again, he walks into the bathroom. I hike down the hill. No games this time. He gets on his knees and sucks my cock. I make him work. But he’s nervous. So I give him what he wants…

In two or three days time, it’s colder and the restrooms are closed for the winter. The men are gone, save for an occasional lone car. I still go out after work, to walk off some stress--but I‘m pretty much alone in the park with some dog walkers and all those squirrels.