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A Prairie Homo Companion: Meet the Irregulars

I spend so much time at the Prairie during the spring, summer and fall that I’ve come to view it as its own little community. Like any small community it has its share of oddballs – or as I like to think of them, the irregulars; people who don’t seem to quite fit in. While I’m sure that many of the Prairie residents would probably include me on such a list, I like to consider myself part of the regular joes; the guys who frequent this little plot of earth for the purpose it was designed for: hooking up and having sex with other men in the great outdoors. I spend a lot of time on here writing about the activities of the regular joes, so for a change I thought I’d shed a little light on some of my favorite irregulars.

If you’ve read some of my previous posts then several of these guys will be familiar. The others? I don’t believe I’ve ever mentioned before. I view them as possible candidates for a little musical I contemplate writing, titled “Boys in the Bushes: A Prairie Homo Companion”. The show would focus mostly on the regular joes and the fate of the Prairie in the hands of the evil Park and Rec folks (or as celebrated in a proposed musical number “Park and Wrecks”. However, I might feature a few of these dudes as well, in brief cameos. I’m already working on a song celebrating Bicycle Mary which would be choreographed using bicycles. Think: Grease meets Boy Meets Boy meets Beach Blanket Bingo, and you have an idea where I’m headed.

Maybe. Here are a few of the irregulars:

DiapermanThis guy is an odd but frequent sight on the Prairie. Picture a sturdy, squat man, with a ruddy, square face and dumpling cheeks. Then place a pair of plastic rim, oversized poindexter glasses adorning his fatty mug and a large, cloth diaper covering his bottom. Yes, seriously, a big cloth diaper. If I was casting this role, I would look for a slimmed down version of Stephen Root, the actor who played the stapler guy in Office Space (although, yesterday this guy was at the Prairie and upon closer inspection he looks more like a lighter-haired Al Franken). We, at the Prairie, refer to this guy as Diaperman. Usually he tools up on a bike wearing some kind of work out clothes. After stowing the bike, he disappears in the trees for a bit only to emerge sans work out clothes, wearing only a diaper. He then picks up a long log the sits in one of the shady enclaves hidden on the forest side of the trail, places it on his shoulders, like a farmer might take up a yoke and then proceeds to walk about the Prairie doing various ‘exercises’ and calisthenics while making a series of grunting noises usually reserved for the type of activities that take place in the bushes. His presence is horribly disruptive to the general mood of the Prairie and very off-putting for those a bit skittish about pursuing sex in the great outdoors. Whenever he appears I simply wish he would disappear. Yes, I have an appreciation for the truly ridiculous, but that sort of thing never mixes well with sex.

His reason for being at the Prairie doesn’t seem to be sexual in nature, although, if not sexual, then I have no idea what the diaper has to do with anything. I’ve never spoken to him, other than to say ‘hi’, nor do I want to have a conversation with him or get to know him better. For me, I think it best that he remain an enigma; a distant, instantly recognizable character, preferably in tableau. I do have one suggestion for him: get a cape!

Confession time: As of last fall, and this spring, I sort of took it upon myself to go and pee on that log of his whenever the urge struck me. I have since stopped doing that because I guess if I had a favorite log that I hoisted up on my shoulders and paraded about like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, then I would probably not appreciate people peeing on it. Probably.

Bicycle MaryThe legend, the star, the original! And by the original, I mean that she appears to be about as old as the Prairie itself. One of my darkest fears is that someday I will be the one to replace her, you know, like the sentinel of the Prairie that she is. She is a he, of course; an aged, leathery, tanned, drawn man who visits the Prairie as frequently as the sun itself. Forever astride his bicycle, he circles about, diving in and out of the various nooks and crannies that surround the grassland, wearing the skimpiest of jogging shorts and nothing else. As the wind catches the long, sliver locks that adorn his skull like features, he instantly brings to mind that evil puppet the Crypt Keeper, who used to host “Tales from the Crypt”.

What? Too mean? Maybe.

I’ve seen her several times at the Prairie so far this season, sans bicycle. It could be her knees can’t take it anymore. Of course, if her knees are ruined, I don’t think the biking is at fault.

The post I wrote about Bicycle Mary can be found here:

The Goon
This one is probably more sad than funny. I simply don’t understand him – but then, throughout my life, I have stumbled upon people like this and failed to divine what it is I am supposed to learn from them. As much as I want to push them away, I find myself allowing them to at least temporarily clutter up my life. He stands about 6’8” and everything about him, and I do mean everything, is a bit oversized from his large pumpkin head, to his arms which dangle at his sides like gigantic, dead sausages, to his sausage itself which is eye-poppingly inflated, and about the size of a large, fat baby’s arm. So, what’s not to like? Him. He’s so vacant and odd. He stands around with a big old hard-on bulging out the front of his shorts like one of those safety arms that drop in front of the tracks when a train goes by. Rarely does he engage in conversation and when he does it’s a mix of the very odd and very unreal. Unreal, as in, he tells a lot of lies. He told one Prairie regular that his parents once owned all the land the Prairie sits on (not likely). Last year he spent the whole summer speaking in some strange concoction of vaguely European accents. It would vary from sentence to sentence, so the entire time you’re listening to him, your mug would be making that ‘Huh? WTF?” face.

When he’s not baffling you with bullshit, he stands about three yards away from you and just… stands there. Looking at you. It’s kind of creepy, but it also incites something in me, causing me to want to run up and attack him like Karen Black assaults Donald Sutherland in ‘Day of the Locust’, screaming ‘You big dummy! You big stupid piece of meat.’ But I discourage my inner actress from engaging in such outbursts. It would not be pretty and would not be in keeping with the calm of the Prairie. That… and it would be pointless.

Bottom line… he’s another one I wish would go away. I’ve even gone so far as telling him to on several occasions. You have to do so very deliberately and distinctly, as though speaking to a small child, a small, slow child. The guy doesn’t take hints well, nor does he take suggestions or barked orders quickly. Maybe there’s something actually wrong with him, but I doubt it. Embarrassingly enough, I must confess that I play with him once a year because I feel sorry for him – that and the fact that there’s no one else around. It’s never any fun; I get bored and abandon the activity after about ten minutes. Afterwards, I always feel guilty, like I’ve just molested someone who’s mentally challenged. Doing this only encourages him and I probably shouldn’t encourage him; this is one of those cases where I get what I deserve. He’s already hit on me once this spring, stalking me about the Prairie. I end up feeling like I’m in some life-sized version of a video game; with me as PacMan being chased by those stupid ghost things.

Something tells me it’s going to be a long summer.

The FlashEach time I see this one coming I run the opposite direction. His body is the color of boiled okra with the texture of melted wax. Yes, it has seen better seasons, but then haven’t we all? His hair is this mass of oily, silver and grey and as unkempt as the mustache which hangs on his upper lip like a deceased Lhasa Apso. Wearing only a pair of black jogging shorts and white tennis shoes, he haunts the many trails that snake their way through the woods. He’s an exhibitionist; a pursuit I normally applaud, but in his case it leaves me colder than Tiger Woods wife the day the sex scandal broke. I think it’s because he’s so… dishonest about it.

I like honest exhibitionists. The honest ones share their ‘gifts’ with the world with a sly wink and a sense of adventure. The Flash has a tendency carry out his fun with all the grace of an oil-slick-covered sea gull. He never allows you to get closer than 30 feet (not that you would want to), nor are you allowed to get an actual glimpse of his tepid little member (yeah, I’ve seen it – not that I wanted to). Loping about in such an obvious and driven manner, he has a tendency to creep people out. Add to that, the obnoxious, sadly futile way he jerks off and it’s enough for you to sic the dogs on him. He never cums, and he never gets hard. So what’s the point of it? Of him? Usually, I err on the side of live and let live, but in his case it would be nice if he did his living somewhere else.

The Pale RiderI’ve written about him on this blog in the past. He was one of my first encounters this season and while I’ve played with him in the past on occasion, his mode of operandi more or less leaves me feeling a little used and unfulfilled.

He’s cute: bald, mid-twenties, nice eyes, nice body, with a decent dick (small, very serviceable). He’s one of those who wants to touch you all over and get you off, however, you aren’t allowed to touch him at all. And while he may beat you off, he rarely cums and if he does it’s by his own hand. Again, I don’t see the point. It’s so limited and boring. Where’s the connection? It’s like something two cub scouts do in their tent their first night in the woods – only not as exciting.

Read more about the Pale Rider here:

John DeereJohn Deere has been mentioned on this blog before. Last year he ground my face into the dirt as he fucked me, then faked an orgasm and tried to dispose of the condom so I wouldn’t catch on. But I did. And I have… caught on. John Deere? I’ve got your number.

I call him John Deere because he always wears a t-shirt with the tractor company’s logo on it. I’ve run into him several times this spring and fucked him once (I filled my condom.). He also weaseled his way into some fun I was having with one of my regular buds. This time he wanted to be the top, even though fucking wasn’t on the menu. He wanted to fuck me and the other guy bareback. We both declined, despite his gay porn actor bod and archetypical appeal, but he persisted and actually slipped inside the guy I was playing with before being told no again. There’s something thick and stupid working inside that head of his. Or evil. Maybe it’s evil.

He’s like serial rapist or something, except when he wants to bottom, and even then, you the top, end up feeling assaulted. He’s pretty blunt, in a mono-syllabic manner, about what it is he wants out any given encounter. In all the time I’ve known him we’ve never had a single conversation. I suspect engaging in such banter would make his victims seem too human. He’d rather view them as objects to be abused for his pleasure. Once he discovers his sex partner has a personality it probably ruins the whole fantasy for him. They advise you to tell your kidnapper as much as possible about yourself and your loved ones so they start to see you as a real person and not merely as a piece of meat to be disposed of. I’d tell John Deere about myself, but he never sticks around long enough. It also surprises me, given our history, that I don’t know anything else about him.

But then again, anyone can surprise you. Yesterday, I spent the day at the Prairie with a new found friend – a real cutie who is over-the-moon sexually and has that hunter’s instinct that I admire so much. John Deere hit on us twice… with the last time resulting in my friend taking it up the ass from both John Deere and myself. It was quite satisfying and John Deere actually spoke more than the occasional syllable. I guess I should keep an open mind where he’s concerned.

Read about one of my encounters with John Deere here:

Rude DudeFuck this guy. In the ass. With a dirty toilet bowl scrubber. What a total dick.

He’s tall and somewhat, classically handsome. Red hair, great features and a bod, that while lacking definition and in need of a few weeks at the gym, is pretty acceptable. People tell me he has a huge dick. I have to rely on what other people tell me, because I’ve never seen it. He’s not into me. That is not a problem for me, I take rejection fairly well – I’m used to it. But this dickhead is friends with people who I consider my friends and every time I join the group or he happens upon the group and I’m there, he huffs away like a giant wussy.

I don’t get it, because I’ve never done anything to him. I take hints well, and could tell immediately that I, for whatever reason, was not his cup of pudding. It’s not like I’m his stalker or anything. He truly dislikes me.

So the other day, I am lying on my blanket catching rays with this nudist who recently befriended me. The nudist is a college student who gets off on being naked in the great outdoors. We like to jerk off lying next to each other. On occasion he will hump or smack my ass, because he likes the looks of it, but that is the extent of our fun. Along comes Rude Dude, who sees us, pauses and then continues along the trail to the shady area dotted with trees just behind where the nudist and I are laying. As he passes, the nudist and I say ‘hi’. We get no response, but something tells me he’s interested in playing with the nudist, mainly because, after about five minutes of waiting in the shady area, the Rude Dude makes a point of reappearing on the trail to get our attention before returning to the shady area.

The nudist dude does not leap at this opportunity. In fact, it is only after the Pale Rider (see above) appears and floats back to where the Rude Dude is that the nudist dude starts to pay attention. The nudist dude is sort of a jerk-off only enthusiast, so I am thinking that he and the Pale Rider might hit if off. The nudist takes his bike and heads back to the shady area. I trail behind at a distance because I want to see what is what without upsetting the apple cart. The Pale Rider can be quite skittish. From at least 12 yards away I can see that the Pale Rider and Rude Dude are doing something together. I never go any closer. The nudist trails past the spot where the other two are playing and within seconds the Pale Rider abandons Rude Dude and follows. The Rude Dude stays in hiding for about five minutes before he reemerges.

This is the first time this year I have seen Rude Dude, and figuring that it’s a new year and an opportunity to make a fresh start I say ‘hi’ and ask how he is as he passes me. He storms off and disappears on the other side of the Prairie. Of course I’m offended, even as I do my best to talk myself out of taking it personally. Rejection always sucks, but an ill-mannered rejection has that extra sting that moves through your body like anti-freeze. As I’m walking away, I glance over to where the Pale Rider went and sure enough, he and the nudist are messing with each other. Good for them. I decide to take a stroll and give them lots of privacy. On my stroll I pass by the outer edge of the other side of the Prairie and spy, standing in the bushes, none other than the Rude Dude. That’s when I make a decision; it’s time to say something.

And I do. Remaining a good six yards away from him, I confront him. I tell him he needs to be cordial. He tells me he’s not interested. I explain that I know that, that I can take a hint (especially one so tactlessly delivered). I then tell him that when somebody says hello, he might want to consider saying hello back. When they ask how he is, maybe he should say “I’m fine.” We don’t have to be friends, but being cordial never hurts anybody. Then I walk away.

And now I’m done with it. Him. Maybe what I did wasn’t cool, but mean people suck and I won’t have that kind of sucking going on at the Prairie.

The Hispanic StareI touched upon this one in my blog re: the black dude who fucked me early this spring. He’s an early 20’s, very boyish looking, Hispanic. I’ve seen his dick: uncut and simply okay – like a large size tootsie roll wrapped in a whole wheat tortilla. What bothers me about him is the way he hovers around on the fringe of things, wanting in on whatever action is going on without ever putting himself out there – as in, never participating.

I guess he wants to watch, and yet, he’s not nearly as benign as your average, respectful, voyeur. He always manages to stand just close enough to make his presence known which is enough to ruin whatever intimacy might have been achieved by me and my sexual partner. Adding to the weird vibe, he never speaks. Not even to say ‘hello’.

Learn more about the Hispanic Stare here:

Quite a circus, huh? But then what do I expect? Hang out with a bunch of freaks and you’re bound to meet a couple of real ones. Eh, we’re all freaks in our own way. I don’t mean to judge, and I do my best to refrain from condemning others for their bad behavior. However, some things are beyond the pale and people need to be held accountable. In the end, I’m simply sharing my point of view – tainted and flawed as it is. I’m sure if they were to write about me in their blog what they would have to say would hardly be flattering.

It takes all kinds to build a village – or in this case, a Prairie. To quote one of my all-time favorite songs, written and sung by that gorgeous earth-mother Melissa Manchester: “We need gardens to grow in, and there must always be room enough – for all of us.”

Still, based on the above list of characters, you can see why some yearn for the shelter of a gated community.

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