Hot Pants and Bermuda Shorts

Rural Rest Area Near Home—August, 2016

I was invited to a sex party on a Saturday night.  It was late enough so I could actually go.  The afternoon before the party, I was able to stop at the rural rest area after taking several departing employees to the airport…

I pull in.  It’s always cooler here with the trees and a breeze.  The first person I see is the camisole and panty man from the bookstore.  Today he is in the same camisole with a pair of hot pink short shorts.  He sees me and drops his McDonald’s bag disdainfully into the trash can.  He gets into his little sports car and peels out of the parking lot.

At the moment there is only one other man here.  He wanders over to my driver’s side window.  I recognize him now—I’ve seen him in years past but not this year.  He leans on the car to chat.  He carefully unzips his loud Bermuda shorts and pulls out a rather undersized salami.

“It’s good to finally see you again,” he says as he brazenly strokes his meat.  It hardens—not a centimeter longer.  “The pickin’s have been lousy here this summer.  You’ve been missed.” 

“Well, good to know I’m needed.”

At that moment a semi brakes noisily out on the road.  My personal flasher just has time to cover himself before the trucker pulls in.  I watch the loud shorts waddle away to his car and slink down into his seat so it looks like he’s asleep.

I have a party—I don’t need to wait around. 

I head home. 

With a smile on my face.

Cruising Under the Hickory Trees

Rural Rest Area Near Home—July/August, 2016

After the good encounter with the trucker—the post I wrote up with his taste still in my mouth—I made time to get back to the rest area occasionally during my busy summer. 

I am sitting in my car, the radio tuned to the NPR station.  I am listening to the news at noon.   The rest area is busy.   A semi is parked behind me.  Two different pick-up trucks contain older farmers. I recognize them both as potential trade.  The semi driver has been napping.  He wakes and gets out of his cab.  He strides past me on the way to the pit toilets.  He’s early 40’s and I can’t help but notice that his muscular arms, sticking out of his dark T-shirt, are defined and hairy.  His jeans are tight, clinging to his ass.  He nods to me as he passes.  I watch him go into the men’s—not bothering to shut the door.

The old men in the trucks pay attention, too.

I wait.  The length of a good piss.

The trucker steps back out.  He stops in the glare of the light.  He squints as he turns his body in the direction of my vehicle.  And unmistakably squeezes his crotch.

I open my door.  My foot is on the ground.  I don’t care if the older guys watch us, but I’m sucking this guy off.

At that moment a minivan pulls into the lot.  It parks on the opposite side of where I’m parked and three kids and two mothers tumble out to claim the picnic table near the woman’s rest room.

I look at the trucker.  The pick-ups have already started their trucks and are gone.

I start walking to the trucker to suggest his cab.  He doesn’t wait for me to get near.  He lopes to his cab as one of the little boys runs screaming across the parking lot.  The trucker starts his engine with a huge diesel snort and is gone before I can get back to my car.

The play group is here to eat.  There is nothing to do but go home.

*****

Another day.  Around 1pm.

I have closed my eyes for a moment.  I have not seen a soul in the 30 minutes I’ve been here.

A semi roars into the lot.  I open my eyes.  It parks behind me.  I wait.

I hear the cab door open.  The driver gets out.  I have my windows open.  I can smell him before he passes.  And not in a good way.  The man is huge and unwashed.  His clothes are filthy.  He pays no attention to me, pisses and is gone.  Not looking  to play—no need to turn him down.

I sigh and go home.

*****

I am at the picnic table that is nearest the men’s room.  I am reading, sitting in the shade of the hickory trees.  A man drives in.  He looks familiar but I’m not sure.

Then I realize it’s a guy I used to play with regularly.  I would ask him to the playroom whenever I needed an extra cock for a load loving bottom.  He loved to seed whatever man I was fucking that day for my felching pleasure.  I thought he’d moved out of state.

But he’s here now.

We catch up.  I learn he’s back in town occasionally.  And horny.

We go behind the toilets.  He stands on the concrete foundation.  He opens his fly.  It’s a smaller than average dick, but he has big balls.

“I haven’t cum in a week,” he tells me.

“I’ll fix that.”

And I do.  In no time at all.  I swallow hungrily.  The first load I’ve had that week.

*****

Another day.  Listening to the news.

An older man drives in.  His car is huge.  He parks right next to me, country music flooding through his open windows.

“Good to see you,” he says, still in his car.

I turn off my radio and nod at him.  I remember him.  He was regular trade here two years ago.

“I could sure use your mouth.”

Direct and to the point.  I nod.   Then I’m out and locking my car.

It’s been a quiet day. I wait for him behind the building.  He’s a good 10 years older than I, maybe even 15.  His dress is what my dad would’ve called natty.  His cuffed tan pants are pressed.  So is his open shirt with its slightly tropical design.  His gray hair—and there’s a lot of it—is perfectly combed. His mustache is trimmed tightly.  He’s tanned.  And he has just opened his fly to show me his 7 thick inches of uncut dick.  His hygiene is just as impeccable as his dress.  He sighs as I take him into my mouth. 

Oh, I remember this guy.  He can’t get fully hard anymore.  But he loves my oral skills.

“You are the only guy I let do this to me,” he croons.

True or not, I re-double my effort to please this daddy.

In just moments he floods my mouth with gallons of cum.  He can’t stop shooting and I keep swallowing.  I am totally taken aback at the size of his load. 

He pats my head with his soft hands and almost whispers “Thank you, young man.” 

I stay on my knees, watching, as he takes a perfectly white handkerchief out of his back pocket and wraps his dick in it before he tucks it all back into his white briefs.

I could so easily become this man.  He rubs my head once more.  “You know how to do it right.” He heads to his massive, older car.

I stand up and swallow again. 

Still tasting him.

Trucker

Rural Rest Area Near Home—July, 2016

I can still taste him as I type this…

Unexpectedly, I found myself with some free time today.  My work load jumps to 65+ hours a week in the summer months, so I just resign myself to little or no sex.  (And not much time to write!)  The playroom has been packed away since June for my house belongs to the company I work for and a steady stream of fellow employees are in and out all summer.  (It always amuses me when a straight married guy is assigned to the bedroom that just a few weeks before was chockful of sex furniture.  Does he like the five different mirrors all over the room that I don’t bother to pack?)

But this morning I had ninety minutes where I didn’t have to do anything.  I had not been to the rural rest area in over a year.  Well, I had stopped once on a non-sexual visit, but I was intrigued to see if there was any action.

I pull in to the shaded parking area on this sticky, 93 degree day.  There are two semi-trucks and a rather junky old car.  One semi, with a sleeper compartment, is parked to the side.  A bearded man sits on the picnic table near the cab.  He’s approaching 50, bearded and trim—dressed in an A-shirt and jeans. The other semi-truck is nose to nose with the junker.   I vaguely recognize the man in the car. He is huge.  He barely fits behind the wheel of his car.  There is no sign of the other driver. I park, get out and go into the pit toilet.  It’s a hot day—no way I’m staying in there for anytime.  I piss and leave.  I look over to the man on the picnic table.  Did he just grope himself while looking at his atlas?

I wander behind the toilet and look at the hickory trees.  The large man is out of the car and coming up the walk.

“Long time, no see,” he chortles at the top of his voice.  “I told that driver there was a guy with a big dick who used to come here, and here you are.” 

“Thanks.”

He disappears into the toilet.  I don’t follow.  I look over at the trucker. He studies the page in front of him.  This time his hand decidedly brushes his crotch.  I wait.  He looks right at me and squeezes his dick through his jeans.  But he doesn’t make a move.  I wait a little longer.  The toilet door bangs and the large guy makes the long walk to the car.  He gets in and drives off—guessing which way things are going to go. 

I wait.

He studies his map.

I go to my car, grab the water bottle and head to the pump.  I work the handle and fill the bottle with well water.  I turn.  He’s moved to the table in front of the toilets.  I walk behind building.  He stays at the table, but his left hand goes to the waist band of his pants.  He pulls it down when he knows I’m looking, exposing his ass crack.

Oh, that’s not happening—not out here and with no prep.  I go back to looking at the hickory trees. When I come back around, he’s gone.  The table is empty.  I walk back.  He’s not in the men’s toilet.  Is he in the cab of his truck?  I walk around to the back again.  I hear a noise in the women’s side.  I go towards the door.  He emerges, his jeans tented, just as I arrive.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Other than you?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. 

I ask if he’s seen the other driver.

“I haven’t.”

“You want that sucked?” I ask, jerking my thumb at the tented crotch.

“Sure.”  He unzips right there, barely hidden by the partition between the two sides of the toilet.  He show me a hard seven inches.  Uncut., with the foreskin tight around his smallish cock head.  He gestures towards the woman’s side.

“I think it’s safer to be out back—we can separate faster if we hear traffic.”

He nods.  We walk around behind.  I have him stand on the concrete foundation of the building.  I kneel.

He’s easy to take to the root.  The foreskin doesn’t retract.  His whole cock smells of soap not man. 

“Lick my balls.”

I do.  Medium sized and hairy.  I fleeting think how nice it would be, in different circumstances, to lick what I’m sure is a very hairy ass.

“I’m close…”

“In my mouth.”

He jerks a couple of more strokes as I nuzzle his balls.

“Here.”

I move up to take his cock.  He shakes like he’s having a convulsion.  I get one drop of semen in my mouth. 

He thanks me profusely, gets in his truck and is gone.

I refill my water bottle and go back to work.

Cruising with a Purpose

My Hometown—July, 2015

The day before my friends arrived from Chicago, I got an email from the Fluid Pig—the man who loves cum and piss in either hole.  He told me that he was coming to the area again—and this time he wanted to stay in my hometown.  We chatted back and forth.  He’d arrive the Sunday after the guys from Chicago left.  I’d see him on Monday night, when I was pretty sure to have a little time off.  He talked about how hot it would be to see each other more than once.  I suggested he text me after he took any evening load—and I’d see if I could get away for a quick clean-up and a fresh load replacement.  He loved that idea.  So did I—and it was even doable at this point in my summer.

On Monday afternoon, I suddenly had unscheduled time off.  I went off on a reconnaissance mission for the Fluid Pig…

I am sitting in the shade of ancient Hickory trees. I’m at the rural rest area that is fairly close to home.  It has “unimproved” facilities and people only stop here when they have no other choice.

   

Or to cruise.

I have been out to it only a few times this summer—but never played.  The State Troopers, who patrolled the place into a wasteland the year before, are gone due to budget cuts.  There are still a few truckers, local farmers and guys who drive in just for the thrill of cruising.

A semi arrives.  I watch the tucker, so large he can barely get out of his cab, make his way across the parking lot to the pit toilets.  I give him a pass.

And wait.

A hot young man arrives.  He’s dressed in next to nothing with the hot weather.  He marches into the stall and slams the door—locking it tightly.

No chance there.

I wait—and read, alone again.

A car appears, big—from the 90’s—but impeccably cared for.  A man I know steps out.  The same could be said for him—he’s impeccably cared for as well.  I have no ideas how many years older than me he might be, but a good ten.  His grey hair is always in place, his tanned and toned skin glows.  He’s nattily dressed in crisp slacks and a white dress shirt.  His wedding band is as wide as the tires on his car.

He sees me.  He grins and goes behind the stalls.  I follow.

His dick is out and hard.  A beauty—the head still covered with a succulent looking foreskin. 

“I was hoping you might be here,” he tells me.

I don’t answer; I just get on my knees and suck.  I attack the foreskin with my tongue, working it inside, looking for pre-cum.

The man groans.  He opens his slacks more, to give me access to his full balls.

Between his need, my skill, and the danger of discovery—he shoots in my mouth in no time.

He thanks me and does himself up.  He has no need to wipe his dick down.  I have cleaned him completely. 

I hang back behind the toilets.

As soon as I hear his car door open, I pull a condom out of my pocket, rip it open and spit his load into it.  It’s sizable and very white.

I grin to myself.

Lube for the Fluid Pig tonight.

Foreskin Sighting

Closer to Detroit—October, 2013

I’m on my way to pick up my Dad and take him to his pace-maker checkup.  My travel cup of hot tea has worked its way through me very fast.  I am not going to make it to my Dad’s to piss.  There’s a rest area ahead.  It’s a newer one on the Interstate.  It replaced an earlier rest area where my brother had had a huge amount of college sex in the 1970’s.  If this new one has any action, I have never run across any.

 I pull in.  I park next to a compact car.  A very attractive cinnamon skinned man is sitting in it.  He makes immediate eye contact.  I smile, but I can’t linger.  I really need to piss.  I am out of my car and push through the swinging glass doors.  This is the exact opposite of the rural rest area where I often hang out.  There are two men’s rooms, one on the side where the cars park and one on the side where the truckers park.  Between them is a baby changing room which is always locked.   There are two women’s restrooms as well, with the custodian’s office between those.  His door is always open, and he makes a point of being aware of who is coming into the place.

I walk right by the first men’s room and go into the one on the truckers’ side.  It is empty.  There are five urinals—two pairs that are on walls that make the men stand back to back and one on the wall between them.  I choose one that puts my back to the door.  I unbutton and haul my cock out.  The piss cascades into one of those new waterless urinals.  Before the stream even starts to slow, there is movement behind me.  Someone else has entered.  I glance to my right.  I can see the other set of urinals in the mirror over the sinks.  It’s the man from the car.

I wait a moment.  My piss has lessened, but you can still hear some spiraling down the drain.  I look over my shoulder.  His upper body is turned towards me.  He is obviously stroking—the tail of his blue blazer is moving in rhythm with his hand.  He smirks at me.  The moment my piss stops, my cock hardens.  And I go over to the urinal next to him.

He is stroking a beautiful uncut cock.  It is sticking out of his neatly pressed tan pants.  His white shirt is open at the throat; his tie has been left in the car.  He grins at me.  He bends over and looks hard at my dick. He comes up with a slight whistle under his breath. I look at the fine black hair covering his hand—the hand that is continually skinning his foreskin over the head of his cock.

“Do you fuck?” he whispers.

I nod.

He murmurs “Nice.”  His cock is drooling.  My cock is spitting pre-cum all over my fingers.  I bring them up to my mouth.

The man sighs.  I think he’s about to get on his knees…

The attendant noisily clanks through the door, pushing a mop bucket on wheels.  We recover in time, pushing our junk deep into the urinals.  The attendant looks at us.  He says nothing, but goes right to one of the stalls.  We hear him wring out the mop.  It hits the floor with a splat.  The attendant is obliviously there to stay for a while.

I do up my pants.  I look at my hot Middle Eastern partner.  I nod towards the lobby, hoping he’ll follow me out to into there.  I wait, feigning interest in the candy machine.  He comes out and immediately goes into the other men’s room.  I follow him in.  He’s already stroking openly at the nearest urinal.

“We can’t stay here,” I whisper.  “He’s seen us.”

He strokes, showing me the purple head of his cock.  I’m uncomfortably stuffed into my jeans.  I think for a moment about going for it. 

“Got a place?”  he asks. 

I’m 70 miles from home.  I shake my head.

He shrugs.

Then I hear the mop bucket, squeaking.  If the attendant finds us both in here, we are indeed screwed.  I head out to my car, making it out into the lobby before the attendant emerges from the restroom and heads for the other.  I sit for a moment behind the wheel, but the man never comes out.

I sigh and head on to pick-up my Dad.

Behind the Pit Toilets

Near Home—September, 2013

In a comment to my last post, fellow blogger, Upton King of Wonderland Burlesque wrote:  “Wow…Epic night.  But then, where you’re concerned, they’re all epic, huh?”

Well…No. 

But his comment made me think a little about the sex I record here.  I have skipped over very little that has happened to me sexually since I started writing this blog.  I have covered the Good, the Bad, the Spectacular and the Dirty.  Some entries are a combination of several of those.  The few sexual things I skipped over in the last year were two different trips to a bookstore where nothing happened but me jerking off to porn. I don’t think my readers care about me wanking to an empty and/or non-interested room—and, gasp, one time it was to condomed porn, since that’s what is often shown there.

I do have a tendency to choose something to pursue that I will likely find exciting.  If I have an offer for a regular fuck and the offer of a small group, I’ll take the group.  If it’s two asses on offer, I know I’ll choose the kinkier guy.  If it’s a blow job or fucking, most of my readers know where I will be going. 

I also know I have a true talent for getting things started in a public place.  I have always enjoyed being the first one out of my clothes at a motel party, or the first cock out at a bookstore.  I don’t walk around a bathhouse with a towel so tightly wound around me you can’t see if I have a dick—no, I wear a jock that accentuates my meat and frames my flat ass for all to see—and the towel is tossed over my shoulder.

I also play with a lot of guys I know—so I know I will have a good time.  I like to think my regulars are guys who like to keep pushing limits, just as I often do.

But there are days—as there are for all of us—where nothing works.  The online sites are silent.  Or I’m too far away from anyone.  Such was the case in early September.  I was sitting in the tiny rest area on a state road here in West Michigan.  I arrived at noon, usually a good time to find guys on their lunch hour.

 

One car is in the lot.  An elderly couple is hobbling toward the pair of pit toilets.  I park at the far end of the lot.  I have a clear field of vision for the door of the men’s room.  The door’s hinges have pulled out of the frame.  You have to lift the knob to get it to close properly.  

I pull out my book and read.

The couple leaves.

Silence, but for the wind in the hickory trees.

I go back to my book.

A car at the far end.  A lone man.  I watch as he scrambles out of his compact car and all but runs for the men’s room.  But he takes the time to slam the door of the toilet.  You can hear the lock slide shut.  He’s gone in minutes.

A tractor starts up in the neighboring field.  The sound of his engine mixes with the Handel I have on the radio.

A truck arrives, taking up four parking spaces.  The driver gets out, stretches and walks slowly toward the toilets.  He looks right at me.  I return his gaze.  He’s nothing special, but in today’s wilderness, I know I’d play with him.  When he gets to the door, he bangs it shut twice before he can get it to latch.

The sky darkens.  I think we might get some rain.

Another car.  A family of four comes and goes.

Rain spatters on my windshield.  Just a few random drops, all big and fat.  Not a downpour—just enough to make me put up the window for a moment. 

Back to my book.

I eat the sandwich I had packed.

A car parks quite close to me.

A thirty–something blond man looks over at me.  He gets out.  He’s a cub, in cut-offs and a tee.  He looks once more at me and goes in to piss, leaving the door ajar.

I wait a moment.

I get out and start towards the toilet.  He is out before I’m halfway there.  He stops, looks at me, and goes behind the building.  I follow, my cock hardening. 

He’s there.  Standing on the edge of the cement foundation.  His cock is out.  What there is of it.

“Suck me off.”

I hesitate.  I so needed it to go the other way today.  I kneel.

I swirl my tongue around his tiny cockhead twice and he erupts in my mouth.  He grunts and bucks into my face and then whips it out of my mouth and shoves it back into his shorts.

All told, maybe a minute and a half.

No other men.  No other cars.

Epic? 

Not quite…

Hooked

Rural Rest Area Near Home—July, 2013

When I started having gay sex, I just wanted to suck cock.  But even the night I lost my virginity with a man; the guy took one look at my big, hard cock and sat on it.  I mean, the thirty years with my partner were pretty much all about mutual oral sex.  Of course we tried everything in that length of time together, but oral sex was to what we always returned.  Now, there are still days that sucking is really the only kind of sex I want to have.  I have learned that sometimes it’s best to keep my cock in my pants as I suck.  No temptations.

There is an “unimproved” rest area off the beaten track near my home.  It is favored by truck drivers and farmers with only an occasional family.  Last year it was a good place for relief with my busy summer.  For some reason, I barely went to it this year.  The one time there I met up with Bill.  (He has made a brief appearance in these pages here.

I have said before, I love to fuck ass that I perceive as my age or younger.  I love to suck the cock of a man who is older than me.  As I age, it’s getting harder to find men to even vaguely be a “daddy,” but Bill is perfect at 66 or 67.  His years of growing up working a farm show in his sinewy arms.  He’s stayed trim.  He has a goatee and a fringe of white hair.  His face is weathered from the sun and from the cigarettes that he has now given up.  Usually in jeans and a plaid shirt, in the heat of July, he was in an A-shirt that showed off his arms and the top tufts of the hair on his chest.  And there’s his cock.  Thick and meaty.  It hooks down sharply.  If I am on my knees in front of him, it goes right down my throat at the perfect angle.

I am sitting in my car, with half an ear on the classical programing on NPR, reading a play by Enda Walsh.  It’s warm, but not nearly as hot as some Julys in Michigan.  The rest area is hopping.  It is mid-week—the guys have found an excuse to get out of the house.  The problem is that there are so many people here, you can’t do anything.  Some stroll to the pit toilet, then go back to their vehicle and drive off—lingering at the intersection, hoping someone will follow them to some lonesome place.  I have seen no one that inspires me to want to do that.

I go to the water pump.   I fill my water bottle.  I hear a larger vehicle arrive.  It’s Bill.  I sit back in my car and wait for him to make the obligatory pit stop.  When he comes out, he heads for the pump—which means he has to pass my car.

“Hello there, stranger.”  His voice is deep and gruff.  It’s been almost a year since we’ve seen each other.

“How are you?”

“I need you.”  He hefted the waistband of his jeans, pulling the fabric taut around his obviously hard cock.  “But not here.”

“Where do you think?”

“The lake.  Follow me.”  He gets back in his pickup.  I follow him to a manmade lake—one that had been a byproduct of making the highway.  He backs into on overgrown parking space.  I pull in and get out of my car.  You can hear kids in the water a long ways away, but there is no one near us.  Bill is eager.  He has his jeans open by the time I jump into the cab.  “I’ll keep watch.” 

I get to work.  It’s cramped in the front seat of the truck, but from the look of things, I won’t be here long.  I lick around the head and swallow the whole shaft down.  I have to twist slightly to get the hook to lodge as I like it.  I come up for air and go down two or three times.  This time he holds me in place and fucks into my ovaled mouth.  I think he’s going to shoot, but he holds off.

“Let me see yours.”

I undo my pants.  I am hard from servicing him.  He gives me a few preliminary licks.  Then he takes me until he gags.  The angle is bad, so Bill only gets about half my cock.

I lean back over, adjust to the best angle, and let him fuck into my mouth. 

This time he shoots. 

Hooked in place.

Spewing his seed directly into my gut.

“Damn.  You are the only guy I let do that.”

I come up and look at him.

“Well, there’s one other” he amends.  “I wouldn’t let most of those guys touch me.” 

I thank him. 

“I didn’t do anything with another guy until we met a couple of years ago.”

“Did you ever want to—growing up?”

“I thought about it.  But it was too much hassle.  I got married by nineteen.”  He thinks a moment.  “I wasted a lot of time…”

We both let that sentence hang in the air.

A car is coming down the gravel path to where we are—we can hear it though not see it yet.  We both are zipped up and pulled together by the time the junker pulls past us on the way to the fishing spot.

*****

I saw Bill again in August, almost immediately after the playroom was set back up.  He looked at all the apparatus—the sling, the fuck bench, the rimseat—but said nothing.  We played on the bed.  It was nice to be naked with him, but it was over for him just as fast.  He hooked his cock down my throat and I got another gut full.

“Did I tell you I’m getting my dick fixed?”

“No,” I sounded surprised, even to my ears.

“That curve.  The doc says he can straighten it.  I fell off a bike as a kid and the seat hit me—causing all that scar tissue. That’s what makes it hook.”

“Right.”

“He says he can take it all out and it’ll be straight after all these years.”

I smiled encouragingly.  He seemed so pleased. 

He must have hated it all these years—the very thing that I loved the most about sucking him…

Car and Driver

Near Home--May, 2012

After CLAW, I did not do anything sexual for about five days.  I was beat.  By day five, I woke up with an enormous erection.  I was ready to go again.  I went to the closest bookstore.  I had fun, but nothing particularly memorable happened.  That was for the drive home...

I pull into the rest area closest to my home.  It's off a minor state highway.  Nothing fancy--there are pit toilets and no running water just a water pump with great tasting well water.  But it can be the busiest rest area on this side of the state.  Two cars are parked, one at either end of the lot.  And in the space reserved for the occasional semi, a white stretch limo, well, stretches across lot.  I park near the pump.  An older gentlemen in a beat up Volkswagen nods at me as I get out.  I walk to the toilet, passing the limo--I can see nothing through the tinted windows.  I pass the other car.  The driver sinks down in his seat and busies himself unfolding a map of Michigan.

I piss.  I don't linger.

When I emerge, the driver of the limo is lounging against the side of his car, smoking a huge cigar.  Thank you, Dr Freud.  He's in his 40's and short, with a shaved head.  He's slightly stocky and looks so out of place in his dark suit and tie.  He nods at me as I amble back to the water pump.  I work the handle.  Drink.  I look up.  The limo driver's gone.  He's in the back of the car with the door open.  I look at the two guys in the cars.  Neither meets my eye.  I walk over to the limo and look in.  He has his fly open and is stroking an extra thick, beer can of a cock.

"Suck me off, man."

I climb in and shut the door.  The smell of the leather upholstery makes me get instantly hard in my jeans.  I unbutton my 501s.  My cock flops out.  He pays no attention to me--he's all about stroking his own cock. 

"Get me off!"  He's insistent.  I bend towards him.  I have to really oval my mouth to get him inside
me without raking him with my teeth.  I open and take his dripping dick to the root.  His hand is instantly on the back of my  head.  He holds me in place as his cock expands, closing off my air supply.  He lets go, just as I'm on the edge of choking.  I swirl the precum in my mouth and swallow, letting my tongue swab his thick head. 

We repeat the hold in place thing a couple of times--then he unbuckles his belt, opens the waist band of his pants and pulls out a set of bull balls. 

"Lick these."

 I nuzzle the hairy orbs.  They are truly huge.  He's jerking like crazy as I try to take one, then the other into my mouth.  I love how they roll across the bridge of my nose as I move from one to the other.  I finally pull them up and lick under them.

"You fucker!"

And he shoots.  His load splatters across my forehead.  One strand runs down towards my eye.  I wipe it away, just in time.

He's pulling out the drink napkins from the limo's bar.  "Here.  Sorry about that."

"I'm fine," I say, wiping  most of his load off my forehead.  I taste a little of it off my fingers, but he's oblivious.  I get my cock back into my pants as best as I can.  I open the door--both cars are gone.

"Well," he says, "thanks.  Now it's off to prom."

He's out of the back, into the drivers seat and drives off to pick up some teenage couple--who won't have a clue what just happened in their rented limo.

Semi

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Rest Area Reverie

Near Home--August/September/October, 2011

I stopped by the rest area off the under-traveled state highway this afternoon on the way home from fucking a leather top who’d wanted to sub out.  I wasn’t looking for action there.  It was sort of a good-by-for-the-season visit.  It has been unseasonably cold and wet, I wondered if it would be gated shut for the winter already.  It wasn’t.  But the wind of the last day and a half had done it’s work.  The hickory trees were skeletal against the overcast sky.  The yellow leaves were down and mostly blown clear of the park.  The hickory nuts themselves had fallen earlier in the month.  With their double shell, they are the size of tennis balls.  The first time one had fallen on my car, I jumped since it was such a loud thud on the metal.  I’d been reading and was sure some state trooper had arrived and had just pounded his fist on the roof of my car--thinking he was going to surprise me there jerking off.  Today, they have been either crushed by cars--or gathered by the squirrels who have taken over the park from the cruisers.

I sat with a cup of coffee, thinking about what I’d just done.  But then without really meaning to, I began reviewing how much fun the park had provided for me during the last eight weeks.  I thought of Bill first.  Well, since we’d first connected at the end of August, we’d met fairly often.  He was in a black pick-up.  A work pick-up, not one for show.  He got out of the cab.  A tall rangy man of 65 or so.  All jeans and work boots and flannel shirts.  A handsome weathered face with a fringe of grey hair.  In other words, every thing I love in those older than I.  Our eyes met that first time--me reading at a picnic table--he on the way to the pit toilet.  He disappeared, then, ambled over to me, still zipping up and in no time we had driven to a secluded boat ramp area and were exchanging blow jobs.  I discovered a big, thick cock with a downward curve.  I loved how perfectly it fit in my throat--he loved me to sort of batter the back of his--who could ask for anything more?

I rarely fucked at the rest area--or any of the places we took our activities.  I don’t trust the clean out of guys who just decide to stop by.  But there was one.  I knew him from years past.  He had a shaved head, a slight beer belly and was a good eight inches shorter than I.  He favored short shorts.  But you forgave his clothes when your cock was in his mouth.  He liked to suck.  No, he lived to suck cock.  I occasionally sucked his very small dick.  But usually I would finger his ass until he came, and often added my cock.  He loved the danger of being found behind the fiberglass restroom.  Not my favorite place, but I knew I could get him off incredibly fast.  One day, we waited to be alone there.  And waited.  And waited.  Finally he told me to follow him.  I did.  He drove in the opposite direction from the poison ivy road.  He took a few confusing turns, then parked right on the dirt road.  He opened the side of his van, vaguely covering us and I fingered and fucked him on the side of the road, all the while listening for the distant sound of wheels on gravel to give us a heads up.  Crazy.  I know.  I know.

The hottest moment of the summer was in a panel truck.  He was a delivery man for a parts firm.  He was younger than I, cropped brown hair, sunburned and dressed in a grimy coverall.  He was the perfect grease monkey fantasy I always have when I get my oil changed….

It’s been an uneventful morning.  I look up from my reading at the sound of an engine.  A parts van has parked next to me.  The man gets out, makes eye contact and heads up to the rest room.  He’s in there much too long.  My cock wakes up.

He finally comes back out of the toilet.  He ambles to his van and pretends to answer his cell phone.  I  get out, lock up and go piss--making sure my cock runs down my left pants leg.  I come back out.  He is still sitting in his front seat--with the window rolled down.  I walk to my car--making sure I’m nearer his vehicle than I need to be.  Yup.  He has his cock out and is stroking.  I look up.  He gestures with a slight nod of his head towards the side doors of his van.  I go around, open, and step in.   He moves back from around his front seat.  His coveralls are zipped down.  His cock is bigger than average and hard as fuck.  I slam the door.  My jeans are dropped.  I lean against the side wall.  I know the drill--as soon as he sees my cock, he’ll be down on it.

We stare at each other for a long moment.  I can see him weakening.  That “I don’t do this” face.  Suddenly his hand leaves his cock and he swiftly pushes me down by the shoulders.  Hard.  My knees hit the van floor.  His hard cock smacks my cheek.  It leaves a trail of precum there.  Fuck--he’s just turned the tables…

His cock is in my mouth.  He’s grunting.  A finger snakes out--wiping up the precum.  He pulls out, wipes it on his cock and sticks it back in my mouth.  I’m totally into the reverse roles.  But I know enough to look like I’m not sure I want to be on my knees.  He’s getting off on that.

He is really fucking my face now.  This makes him talk dirty.  He grunts and spews.  A huge load.   I clean his cock.  I’m so close to cumming, but not quite there.  And he’s done.  I think.  As soon as I have swallowed the last drop, he lays down on the floor of the van.

“Jerk off on my face.”

Jesus.  I need no encouragement.  I move over on my knees.  It takes no time. His eyes are screwed shut; his mouth tightly closed.  At the last moment he opens wide and my load lands right in his mouth.  It’s my turn to smear my still dripping cock across his upper lip…

Country Matters

From August, 2010

My work schedule in the summer is such that I truly have no days off until close to the very end.  This was one of the ways I finally got some relief.

On one of my three days off from work last summer, I'm sitting in my favorite rest area. It's off a state highway, so not as much traffic---in either cars or men. There is the usual trickle of older men on a late midweek morning. Some hot. Most not. I am reading a book---I really do get things done as I cruise. Suddenly this panel truck pulls in--a cable company van. He's mid 40's, shaved head, muscles obvious under the uniform short sleeve shirt. We do the eye lock thing as he heads in to piss in the fiberglass shell enclosing the pit toilet. He stays in there a long time, but there is a family picnicking---I'm not playing in there with them around. He finally saunters out and makes his way to the water pump--(yeah--this is rural west Michigan!) He has to pass my car to get there, where I'm sitting in my front seat, with the car door open and NPR on low. We nod. He drinks. He comes back toward me.

"Hot." Me or the weather?

I play it safe. "Yeah." It was one of those overly humid days.

"You look busy."

"Not really. Just busy work."

"This place looks crowded."

"It is today."

"Damn."

Long silence.

He looks at the bulge in my 501's. He sighs.

I smile--he gets points for not doing that awful lick of his lips that so many men do.

"Well..." He sighs again. "Guess I'll get going."

He strides back to the van, sits behind the wheel for a long moment, then starts the engine. He pulls out of the parking space and lingers behind my Focus.

Ah, the universal sign for "Follow me."

I close the door and start the engine. He pulls out of the rest area slowly, making sure I’m following and turns right. I follow.  I have to wait for traffic before I can turn. I think I see him turn down a country road.  I lose him for a moment--but am pretty sure I know where he's headed--near a corn field--a place and road where there's next to no traffic.

I spot him. He's already parked and out of the van. He opens both side doors to cut off the view. I park a few yards away, grab my travel size lube and start towards him. He is bent over stepping out of his work pants.

"Hey," he says. "Just changing into some shorts."

"Nice."

He's commando. He throws the work pants into the van. There actually are a pair of shorts ready to step into. I swallow hard. "You want that sucked first?"

"Naw."

The smile flickers off my face.

He turns his back to me. "I want this fucked hard."

I'm instantly erect. He gets on all fours on the floor of the van as I drop my jeans. I finger his hole. With my pants around my ankles, I get on my knees in the roadside vegetation and start to rim him. He moans. He wants it fast and hard and deep. I can give him all that. I reluctantly stop rimming, and slap my drooling cock on his ass. And slip in. Fuck, he's perfect: open, but still tight. I sigh and slowly begin the stroke.

"Don't cum in my ass!"

I'm not even close, of course.

"I won't," I promise.

I am picking up steam--an incredibly short fuck for me, but we are in wide open country. I look down. He's already cum.

"Please cum on my ass. Let it trickle down my crack."

I pull out and do just that.

We clean up, I give him a number. We're all done.

Or so I think.

A day later at work, my knee itches. I scratch through my 501s. I finally step into the bathroom and pull the jeans down. I'm covered in an ugly rash.

I slowly realize--I tongued his ass while kneeling in poison ivy. I have never had such a bad case....