The Return of Mr. Bookends: Spring Has Sprung (Boing)

This spring got off to a slow start.  Especially in light of the early one we had the previous year.  I was out there tanning at the end of March last spring.  But not to worry; I now know that spring has finally arrived.  For, just as the first robin and the budding lilacs signal the rebirth of Mother Nature, so, too, does the appearance of a certain swarthy man signal a rebirth in me.  Or an awakening, I guess you might say – but not necessarily a spring awakening, more like a sexual one.

Wednesday, I sat in my car, as I like to do, at my local, favorite cruising park.  Doing so has been problematic lately.  The cops and park police have been patrolling like crazy, typically showing up around 5:00.  They like to sit behind parked cars, write down license plate numbers, and glare at the drivers from afar.  But they keep their distance, because - they have to.  Sitting in one’s car is not a violation of any law.  And when they confront me when I’m walking around, asking me what I’m doing there?  I simply shrug and say, “Walking around, enjoying Mother Nature.” – you know, like people who go to parks generally do. 

But the weather has not been good, so sitting in my car has become more common than walking.  And not hooking up at all?  That’s become rather common, too.  I simply don’t feel it.  I have no desire to hook-up with men that I am just not that into solely for the sake of getting off.  I find it a bit worrisome, but then I also think: why not?  Why fight it?  Why not embrace that diminishing light?  Still, old habits die hard. And it has been my habit to hang out at this particular park and get it on with strangers.  I had a great time sunning there last year and plan on doing so this year, as well - every day, Monday through Friday, weather permitting. 

On this day, the weather is not permitting.  It’s raining, just slightly.  Complete cloud cover.  I sit in my car in a remote parking space and check out things on Grindr  and Scruff, not really looking for anything.  A dude hits me up to text him, but he’s 20 years old and still has yet to tell me what he’s into, so I’m not feeling it; too young, too vague. 

The rain stops, so I decide to go for a stroll.  Walking, I check out the river bank, where I spy one of the regulars; a dude who can’t get it up and gives me the creeps.  I keep walking.  I spy another dude.  Belly, in dark peach shorts, looks like a total poindexter.   Not feeling it.  I make it all the way to the next parking lot, look at the sky and figure, that’s it.  End of game.  I walk back to my car. 

I glance at my dashboard clock.  It’s too early to go home, but I contemplate doing so anyway.  This day does not seem to hold any promise.  Plus, I have to say, I’m not really up for anything.   I’m about to head out, when a giant, silver truck pulls in.  Initially it pulls into the handicap stall behind me and I think it must be one of the really old dudes that troll the place.  But then it backs up next to my car, facing out.  Typically dudes will do this so vehicle doors match up in a way that makes for easy conversation, but this truck is so big, I can’t even see into the cab, so I have no idea who it is.  I don’t recognize the truck at all, so I sit and wait. 

Eventually the dude in the truck gets out, lights a cig or something.  He’s standing on the opposite side of the truck, so other than getting a vague sense that he may be bald, I still have no idea who it is.  Still, something in the ballsy way he parked beside me makes me think he might know me.  So I get out and head toward the main path.  I glance over my shoulder and it’s a thin, bald black man with a scruffy, long goatee.  He’s rather ageless and sexy, and something about him gets my heart racing.  I keep wondering: is it him?

Him: a certain black man who appears in the spring and in the fall of my life – just once each season – and fucks the hell out of my ass on the shore of the Mississippi. I call him Mr. Bookends because I see him at the beginning of the season and at the end.  I am praying history repeats itself.  I’ve written about him in a couple of posts, the most recent being last fall.   

It all started two years ago.  Since then, each day that I visit the park, I wonder… is today the day he will appear?  Last year he drove a different car than the previous year.  Could he have upgraded to a truck?  I can’t be sure.  The dude is wearing brown, flat pants, dress shoes and an over-sized white golf polo.  What with his bald head and the long scruff on his chin, it makes him look older than I remember.  I take off down the path, walking toward a certain picnic table that looks straight onto a path that leads down to the shore.  It’s where I got fucked by this dude last fall. 

I stand at the mouth of the path, on a tiny hill that’s right in front of the picnic table, with the path falling between.  I watch.  Sure enough, eventually, he follows.  He’s always a bit cagey, cautious, careful.  Winning him over is part of the game.  I wait and then move in a bit further.  Puffing away on his little cigar, he takes a seat on the table and faces the path.  He acts like he’s not looking, but I suspect he is.  I’m starting to think this is the guy, and I know of one way to find out for sure.

I step up to the hill again and stand with my back to him.  Undoing my pants, I let my jeans fall just a bit, hiking down my underwear, too.  Oh, yeah, it’s not short-wearing weather yet, so I am still dressed in my work stuff:  jeans and underwear.  Shorts make this kind of fun so much easier, but you work with what you got, am I right?

But wait.  Someone is coming down the path.  It’s the dude that gives me the creeps.  Typically, if he sees that I’m interested in someone or someone is interested in me, he will stick around and try to watch or horn in.   But today, he walks on by.  In retrospect, I wonder if it’s because the other dude is black and not his thing.  Anyway, Mr. Creepy keeps walking.  I get braver, and move a little closer toward the path, so I am now on the apex of the hill, the perfect view – for him.  I start to drop trou again, but hold the phones: it’s the dude in the dark peach shorts.  I retreat down the hill and ignore him, hoping he will walk on.  Amazingly, he does.  Maybe Mr. Dark Peach Shorts has a thing for Mr. Creepy?  In any event, I don’t see either of them again for the rest of my time at the park.  Yay!

That crisis past, I remount the hill, drop trou, bend over, and show my spring fling my moneymaking thing.  Does he appreciate it?  I can’t tell.  Dude has a poker face that would serve him well in Vegas.  He just keeps puffing on that little cigar in his mouth.   I pull up, zip up, and retreat down the hill a bit to wait for a reaction.  A sign.  Anything.  And then I panic.  What if this isn’t Mr. Bookends?  I move quickly up the hill and start down the path toward my car, turning back just in time to see Mr. Bookends rise up, cross the path, and mount that tiny hill. 

It’s him!  I just know it. 

So, I’m torn.  If it’s him, then he is going to want to fuck me.  In order for that to happen I will need a big boy condom, some lube, and, just to make it easier on me, some poppers.  It’s also been a good hour and a half since I last checked my hole and I’m thinking, considering how big this dude is, it would be a good idea to do some housework before inviting in this particular guest.   On the other hand, if I walk away without nailing this thing down, I’m pretty sure this dude is skittish enough to bolt.

I decide to find out exactly what I’m dealing with here and head back in the direction Mr. Bookends just went.  By the time I get to the little hill, Mr. Bookends is already down near the shore, where there is this dead tree lying on its side, the same one he bent me over in order to fuck me last fall.  Without sufficient leaf coverage, the area is pretty exposed to the other side of the river or anyone that might be standing above us on that little hill.  Mr. Bookends realizes this and takes off due south.  Like the good little cocksucker I am, I follow suit.  Soon he’s standing facing a big tree that blocks the view from the other side of the river.  There is also sufficient brush up the hill to prevent others from accidentally seeing us.  I slip in between him and the tree, hunker down, and simply stare at the crotch of his pants.   I think they are the same ones he was wearing last fall.  They ride low on his hips so the waistband of his silky boxers (a brilliant blue) is visible.  He hikes up the front of his oversized polo and shucks those pants and boxers mid-calf, revealing a most breathtaking sight.  No, it’s not hard, but it is beautiful.  I love this man’s cock.  I can’t help it.  I take it in my mouth, breathing in his irresistible funk.  Amazing.  Better than poppers.  There’s also a beautiful pair of low hangers for me to caress and play with.    With his dick in my mouth I look up into his eyes.  He’s smug and happy.  Me? Oh, yeah, I’m happy, too.

Within a minute I have him rock hard - and I mean: ROCK HARD.  Amazingly, (or maybe this just comes with practice) despite how thick and long he is, I’m not gagging or having any difficulty holding him down my throat.  Of course, I can’t breathe (not even through my nose!), but I can keep him deep in my throat for as long as I can go without a breath. 

Ten minutes go by.  We’re having a good time of it.  And then he asks, “You got a condom?”

Oops.  I tell him, “Yes, but back in my car.  I’d have to run and get it.”  And I do; scrambling up the hill, I hightail it back to the parking lot lickety split.  I grab two big boy condoms, my poppers, a cock ring (which I never put on), and a packet of lube.  Then I run into the porta potty and do a quick clean out.  All systems go; I head back, amazed at how quickly I can get things like this done.

Returning, I see Mr. Bookends has moved further down toward the shore line.  I make haste and join him as quickly as possible.  He’s chosen a group of trees in a small alcove.   Again, I crouch between him and the trees, this time, with my pants down around my ankles.  His dick has gone soft, but I enjoy my work, so it’s a true pleasure getting him back to full mast, which takes a matter of moments. Part of me, wanting to prolong my time with him, doesn’t want to stop sucking his cock.  But eventually he indicates he’s ready for the condom. 

While he’s putting it on, I lube up my ass good, before applying the rest to his weapon of mass destruction.  Rising, I turn around and bare my hole to him.  When I do so, I find my head poking in between a ‘V’ created by two of the tree trunks.  It makes me feel like I’ve been put into one of those prison yokes/shackles things (and it kind of turns me on). 

Mr. Bookends makes a stab at my hole and I beg him to go slow.  My ass is no stranger to big dick, but the size of his (nine plus) gives me pause, and requires a little getting used to on my part.  I reach down and grab the poppers.  After a couple of mega hits, I feel my hole relax and Mr. Bookends glides sweetly inside me.  He ramps up his attack, and I just keep hitting the poppers.  Feeling fully lifted, I cap the bottle and focus on that magnificent man fucking me deep and hard; so lost in the moment, I don’t even worry about someone seeing us.  

He changes up his style a couple of times (the man knows how to fuck), and even allows me to fuck back on him for a bit.  But the ending comes too soon.  It always does.  He fires one off in the condom and then just allows his massive member to throb deep in my hole.  Slowly, I slide off, but only because I absolutely have to.  As he unfurls the loaded condom, I kneel before him.  Taking his spent dick in my mouth, I clean and worship it a bit more.  Surprisingly, he’s in no hurry. 

His shirt is still pulled up over his head, exposing his chest and his collection of fading tattoos, remnants from a misbegotten youth.  I love looking at him: his face, his eyes.  He’s stoic, but there’s a light there when he looks at me, and it’s that look that keeps me wanting more.  His lips look so inviting, but since no invitation is forthcoming, I know better than to ask for a kiss.

From my crouched position I explain to him how I’ve been waiting for his appearance and that I’m not sure if he’s aware of it, but I get him once in spring and once in fall.  I then tell him, as I have in the past, that he can have me any time.  And I mean it.  I’d go anywhere to be with him.  Does that make me come off as desperate?  Needy?  Probably. 

Maybe it’s the poppers talking, but I don’t care.  There aren’t many men I would allow myself to be this vulnerable with, but perhaps the fact that I won’t be seeing him until late September or October makes me act like such a dumb cluck.  He’s always nice about my gushing and, I think, just a bit flattered. 

I let him walk off by himself, remaining to pick up all my stuff – the spent condom, the wrapper, the lube, the unused cock ring.  I even brought wet wipes, which I use once he’s vanished up the hill. 

I want to relive the experience.

This is what I wanted.  This is what I needed.  This is all I really need.  Quality speaks volume over quantity and waiting for the right ones…

…makes it all the sweeter.