Married Men, Part II: Push, Push, In the Bush

Two days after my romp with the Josh Hopkins look-alike, I return to the same parking lot. This time my ass is clean as whistle and I am ready to roll. The air is a bit cooler than on my last visit, but that doesn’t keep me from hoping my prince will cum. I’m changing clothes in the front seat of my car – out of dress shirt and tie and into jogging pants, a t-shirt and this time, a nice Eddie Bauer thermal, long-sleeve shirt. It’s too cold to show off the guns, today. Still, I skip the underwear. Easy access makes for quick turnaround.

My heart sinks when my eyes light upon a familiar figure. I call him The Beave – because, not only does he remind me a bit of Jerry Mathers (taller, though), he also reminds of an actual beaver (he doesn’t have buck teeth, it has more to do with his posture). I fooled around with him once about two years ago. He couldn’t get it up and then when I let him suck me off, his technique was so bad, I finally, out of frustration, whipped my dick out of his mouth, jerked myself off (shooting all over his glasses and face) and then stormed off. Since then, he has taken the hint that I am not interested, but that has not stopped him from setting up camp at one of my favorite parking lots. And by setting up camp, I mean, once he arrives, he will not leave. If you or anyone else gets out of their vehicle to take a stroll he will shadow you and eventually hit on you. Rebuffing him is easy, but it’s also just sad. His whole affect is that of a puppy that is used to being beaten. What I don’t understand is why he is so determined to do something at which he is so obviously incompetent? It’s maddening, really.

So I temper my excitement and resolve to remain in my vehicle for the duration. Several men drive in, park and go for a walk. Because they’re not of interest to me, I stay put, but not The Beave. He pursues each one of them, to the point where the guys give up, return to their vehicles and take off. I watch as this same scenario is acted out three different times.

Suddenly a mini-van pulls in right next to me and comes to a lurching stop. The driver seems to be in a hurry, so I am assuming that he’s pulling over in order to answer his cell phone, get directions, or something. He’s in his early thirties, with a slight, fawn-colored beard and a nice face (from what I can see). I keep watching him just in case he glances my way. He doesn’t. There’s a deep scowl on his face, so I’m pretty sure he’s not here for fun. He glances to his right, the side of the parking lot the Beave is stationed at, turns back to look at his steering wheel, barks something harsh, but inaudible, and then puts his vehicle in reverse, making a fast, dramatic exit. I laugh. I totally understand people’s frustrations behind the wheel. I can only imagine what others have witnessed of me during one of my “I’m lost and I hate you God” episodes. Not a pretty sight, I’m sure. And while part of me is thinking his hasty exit might be in response to the presence of The Beave, I’m pretty sure it was simply a case of a guy having a bad day.

A few more dudes, all of them regulars, pull into the parking lot and then pull out just as quickly. I don’t know if it’s the sight of The Beave’s vehicle or mine that causes them to flee. I’m just starting to lose all hope that The Beave will never leave and that I will have to make a hasty retreat to another parking lot when in plows Mr. Mini-Van. His vehicle is still in full, forward lurch, when he gets out and slams the door. Without so much as a look in my direction, he makes his way up the hill and down one of the most popular cruising trails. As he passes my car, I take note of his hooded sweatshirt, which has a rather odd name inscribed on the back. I won’t share with you what it said because it’s much too distinctive, but it gave me the impression that either his wife hates him or he’s been doing a bit of children’s theatre.

In any event, I like what I see and decide that it’s now or never. I gather up my stuff; lube, condoms, poppers, cock ring, bottle of water, etc. and am just about to follow when, much to my disappointment, I look up to see The Beave walking in front of my car, off in pursuit of Mr. Mini-Van. I freeze. I don’t want to compete with The Beave or be anywhere in his vicinity if I can help it. Railing against the injustice of it all, I sit in my car and stew for about ten minutes. Part of me is waiting to see if Mr. Mini-Van, after dodging The Beave for awhile, will return to his vehicle. But that’s not the case. I then begin to assume that Mr. Mini-Van is letting The Beave have a go at his dick. The very perverse part of me decides that this is something I have to see with my own eyes and the other part of me, the pragmatic side, hopes that the sight of me might entice Mr. Mini-Van away from The Beave. I hate to poach another dude’s trick, but I will not tolerate ineptness – not when there’s another, more qualified cocksucker readily at hand.

Aware that a significant amount of time (in terms of outdoor trysts) has passed, I make a mad dash to the back part of the woods where the two of them are most likely coupling. As I approach, I see Mr. Mini Van making haste, fleeing from The Beave who stands, shoulders drooping, blending into the background. I come to an abrupt halt just to see if, as Mr. Mini-Van passes me, he will finally take note of me. Oddly enough, Mr. Mini-Van comes to a halt at the exact same time I do. I’m not wearing my glasses and he is just far enough away that, in the fading light of late afternoon, I’m unable to read his face. He turns about and storms down a different path, away from The Beave and myself. Thinking, maybe Mr. Mini-Van isn’t here for fun and games, but just to burn off some steam, I slowly walk forward, toward the mouth of the path that Mr. Mini-Van just disappeared down. Once again, I come to a sudden halt, for there, just a few feet down that path is Mr. Mini-Van. He’s standing in profile, not looking at me. His hands are in the pockets of his chinos and he is looking down at the ground. Not sure if I should approach or keep walking, I stand very still and wait to see what happens next.

The Beave can see me, but not Mr. Mini-Van, and I could care less, as all of my attention is centered on Mr. Mini-Van. Mr. Mini-Van has dark-blonde hair and a nicely trimmed full beard which actually serves to highlight his best feature, his chin. He’s either in his late twenties or early thirties; it’s hard to tell due to the beard. I think he’s quite good looking, and his body, though covered in bulky clothing, seems height/weight proportionate. I watch intently as he turns his back to me. Immediately, I recognize the motions of someone playing with the fly of their pants and I begin my approach. As I near, he’s turning to face me. My hand reaches out for and finds exactly what it expects; a dick offset with a nice set of balls. I give them a squeeze and then try to establish eye contact. He reaches out and grabs my crotch. With that, I’m now not sure which way this is going to go: is he looking to give or get head? We stand there rolling the other person’s privates in our hands for a bit, before, over my shoulder, at the mouth of the path, we both catch sight of The Beave.

“Let’s move back a little further,” Mr. Mini-Van suggests and I follow.

Once we move, The Beave takes the hint and heads back to the parking lot. Mr. Mini-Van finds a nice little niche near the back of the woods and turns to face me again, his dick shooting out of the open fly of his chinos. As I approach, I decide to put an end to any and all questions regarding who will be blowing whom. Shucking my jogging pants down to my ankles, I crouch before him and take his dick in my mouth. It isn’t quite hard, though in a matter of moments it comes to life, filling out to a nice 7.5 inches. It’s not thick, but it’s not thin either. In many ways it is a picture perfect cock.

Deepthroating him is no problem and he seems to like what I’m doing. I’m itching to grab my poppers and take a hit, but decide to concentrate on giving first class head instead. With his hands on either side of my head, he’s guiding his dick in and out of my mouth while I make it nice and sloppy. At this juncture I don’t have any other expectations except to make him cum. To my surprise, he reaches over my back and furtively, tentatively touches the pucker of my ass with his index finger. Since I’m ready to roll, I stick my ass out slightly and give a moan of appreciation. If he wants to go there? I’m game. With his dick crammed down my throat, he swiftly wets his finger in his mouth and retests the readiness of my hole. Since I have his dick held in my mouth, down to the root, I don’t need my hands, so I use them to spread the cheeks of my ass. As his slick finger comes in contact with my slightly pre-lubed hole, I let out an earthy moan to let him know that he is right on target. Pressing past the point of initial resistance, he opens up my ass and really begins to make me yearn for something bigger and deeper.

Some small prayers get answered in record time.

Still not believing my luck, Mr. Mini-Van pulls me to my feet and moves around behind me. He crouches down, spreads my cheeks with his hands and tongue-dives my ass big time. I bend over, not only to allow him full access, but to pull out the poppers, lube and condoms in my pockets. I take a deep hit of poppers and begin to quietly, verbally encourage Mr. Mini-Van. His tongue is awakening all sorts of nerve endings back there and it is clear that this man knows what he’s doing. In no time, I’m good to go and really feeling the need for some hardcore penetration. I guess great minds think alike, because, once back on his feet, Mr. Mini-Van is all set to slam into me. I ask him, nicely, to take it slow and am taking another hit of poppers as he enters. Based on the manner of his initial thrust, one has to question whether or not he’s acquainted with the whole concept of “taking it slow”. It hurts like a motherfucker and there’s a part of me wondering if the dude did it on purpose. The pain has me huffing on my little brown bottle like it’s filled with oxygen and I’m a drowning man. Still, something clicks, because by his second thrust my ass has warmed to the feel of his form. In no time he’s flowing in and out of my hole like liquid sunshine and I am in heaven. His hands grab me by my hips and he uses that leverage to pull me back and forth on his dick. Soon, I pick up the rhythm and begin taking over the driver’s seat, bouncing my ass and fucking back onto his fuck stick.

With a sudden halt, he pulls out of me and steps back. I’m thinking… oops. Big mess? But, no, he simply wants to undo his pants and pull up his shirt. It’s then that I notice, or realize – oops – no condom. Mr. Mini-Van is taking my ass raw. In no time we pick up right where we left off. I’m taking yet another hit of poppers and talking up a storm (for some reason), telling him how great it feels. I wish could stand behind him in order to watch his ass cheeks flex while pumping my hole. I bet it looks hot. His arms are now forward and completely outstretched, his hands gripping my shoulders. That’s when the slamming gets real ugly. Mr. Mini-Van is taking all his anger out on my butt. Who knew fucking could be so therapeutic?

There’s something about going raw in the great outdoors that seems so natural. The entire time I’m begging him to breed my hole. To seed me, fill me, use me. Not that Mr. Mini-Van needs any encouragement. He has his own agenda firmly in mind (and stuck up my ass), and since he does, I decide it’s time to work on a project of my own. I slick up the palm of my right hand with saliva and start working my dick. It’s already semi-hard, despite the poppers, and between the sensation of my spit-soaked hand and the pounding my ass is taking, I’m rock hard in no time. One of the reasons I like this cock ring so much is that it puts my balls under tremendous pressure, a pressure that increases with each body slam from behind – and there is nothing I like better than having a dude fuck the cum right out of me. Mr. Mini-Van lets out a small noise, which my ears pick up on right away. He keeps pounding away for another couple of minutes before pulling off of me again. Pretty sure that he’s shot his load; I work out my own load and send it spilling onto the leaf-covered ground.

I check in with him right away and sure enough, he tells me he came. The second he pulls out, I whip around, crouch down and take his dick into my mouth. It’s clean as a whistle and I suck out whatever cum remains from the head of his dick.

As I stand, I start laughing, still giddy from the poppers and having just shot my own load. I’m a little amazed that a married dude would be so careless as to bareback a total stranger, but, hey… who am I to judge. He’s all smiles as he zips up and takes off; pausing just long enough to tell me that he hopes to see me again. With that, he walks off into the haze of the darkening woods.

“Anytime,” I say.

Anytime.

He disappears from sight and I immediately crouch down and push his load out of my hole. I grow giddy all over again at the sight of his load; it’s so fucking huge; we’re talking major baby batter. Grabbing the bottle of water I brought with me, I place it over my recently fucked hole and, squeeze the bottle from the bottom, causing the water to shoot up inside me. Then, I push the water out in order to flush out my ass. Hey, I do my best to run a clean house.

As I move down the path, back to my car, I am more than a little titillated that a married dude just pounded the fuck out of my ass and majorily spermed my hole. The guilt that I know will come later has yet to dim the exhilaration I’m feeling, and for the moment, I allow myself, unburdened by the facts of this situation, to bask in the afterglow.

Ah, married men… there’s nothing more tantalizing than tasting the forbidden.

Married Men: Part I

There was a time when I was dead set against fooling around with married men. And by that, I mean those married to women. Those gay guys who cheat on each other? As long as there is an understanding between them, I’m cool with it. Hell, I’d even give it up for those gay guys on the down low. But, married men? In that situation there’s a third party involved who, in all likelihood, has no idea her husband is beating the bushes at the local park hoping to unload in some willing faggot’s mouth. I realize there are probably those who enter a marriage knowing exactly what they are getting into, but I suspect those cases are few and far between. More than likely the guy is leading a double life, getting away with it, and very pleased with himself for doing so.

For me, for the longest time, this remained a moral dilemma. What if these men bring something home to the wife in the form of an STD? Keep in mind that these men consort with other promiscuous men. It is all done covertly, and usually quite quickly – so discussions about status, safe sex, testing, etc. are probably not the highest priority on their list. Because of that I believe these men are more likely to bring something home and unwittingly pass it along to their wife. The wife is probably clueless and has no idea as to why her face is suddenly aflame with cold sores or why it hurts when she pees. The idea of there being this faceless, unwitting victim bothered me for the longest time and, in a way, it still does. However, the part of me that likes sex overruled that part of me that wanted to be on the right side of this particular issue. Why? Because the sex is usually good. Real good.

Last week I happened to visit a certain park where I did not spend anytime this summer. Location-wise it is a tad inconvenient and the trolls that work it have been there so long I am surprised I am not on a first name basis with all of them. Still, every once in awhile someone new will stumble into their midst and I like to be there when they do. Who knows, maybe this fresh meat has been hanging around there for quite some time and I just never had the pleasure of running into them. If it’s new to me, it’s new to me.

Tuesday, I leave work early in order to keep an appointment. After the appointment I have no desire to return to the office, so I decide to check out the action at this particular park. As I sit in my car another vehicle pulls up next to me. From what I can make out, the driver is quite a handsome man, however, due to the glare our car windows I can’t be certain. We play the “Are You Looking at Me?” game for a good ten minutes. I am pretty sure he is checking me out as I change, in the front seat of my car, out of my work clothes and into some jogging gear, but can’t be sure. Eventually he drives off and my heart falls the tiniest bit. I’ve learned that if something doesn’t happen in the first fifteen minutes of cruising, you might as well pack it up and go home. While hoping that he changes his mind and returns, I decide not to hold my breath. Instead I get my stuff together and hit the trails.

I follow a winding trail back to a certain section where I know there will be some action. It is a bright, dry, cool, fall day, so weather is not an issue. In fact, it is so nice, I eventually strip down to just a t-shirt and jogging pants. I always go commando when hiking around, cruising, so I’m definitely feeling the elements when in the corner of a small clearing, near a fallen tree, I make out two figures. Thinking they might welcome the help of a third, I move closer. But once close enough to make out their features; I quickly realize that they probably aren’t my cup of tea.

Yes, I’m becoming rather selective, actually choosing quality over quantity. That day – I opt for quality. There is something just-this-side of ogre-ish about one of the dudes, and while the other is a cute, older Hispanic, I choose to let them keep all that fun to themselves. Walking in the opposite direction, I’m about to head over to the other side of the parking lot, when I hear the rustle of leaves. It’s too much of a commotion to be just a squirrel or the wind, so a little investigation is in order. Walking swiftly past me, on an adjoining path, is a darkly, handsome man who bears a passing resemblance to Josh Hopkins, the actor who plays opposite Courtney Cox in “Cougar Town”; in other words, the type that rarely ever gives me the time of day. He glances in my direction, but apparently the sight of me is not enough to slow him down. I know the path he is on winds down past the two men I just walked away from and then circles back to this particular path, so, on a hunch, I walk a bit further on the path I’m on and decide to wait for his return. My hunch? This is the guy who was cruising me earlier in the parking lot.

While waiting, I decide to slip behind a large tree, drop my jogging pants and put on a metal cock ring. Recently I have fallen in love with this particular ring. It requires a bit of baby oil in order to slip my nuts (one at a time) and then the head of my dick through it. Then, grabbing the tip of the head of my dick, I am able to pull the rest of it through. Without the baby oil, I would never get the first ball through it, and even if I did manage both balls, I would risk hurting the skin on my dick without the aid of lube. It took me a few tries I realized that, but since I’ve solved that problem, it has become my cock ring of choice. Just as I’m pulling back on the ring and pulling down on my cock and balls in order to make the fit nice and tight, I hear someone approaching on the path. The leaves are down and it’s impossible to walk anywhere in the woods without creating a commotion. I pull up my jogging pants and step out from behind the tree. It’s the dark and handsome stranger, as predicted.
This time I make a point of saying ‘hi’ as he passes by, which barely elicits a response on his part and doesn’t slow him down one iota. Watching as he disappears behind a line of shrubs and trees, I weigh my options and resolve to stand my ground. I listen carefully to the sound the leaves make as he works his way along the path until, suddenly… I hear nothing. Maybe he’s stopped. Or maybe he’s run out of earshot or leaves. I wait, my heart pounding just a bit. Soon, over the top of the brush, what to my wandering eye should appear? But the moussed-do of Josh Hopkins’ doppelganger.

He moves slowly back to the crossroads of the two paths and stands, looking at me. Normally, my first instinct is to play it cool, just in case the other dude’s a cop, but seeing as how he just stumbled onto the Ogre and the Hispanic in action and didn’t bother to arrest them, I am thinking it’s safe to conclude he’s looking for a little something something. Could I be that little something something? Please? I notice that we are wearing almost identical clothing – same jogging pants (his are black, mine grey), same t-shirts (mine white, his pale blue). I also spot the beginnings of a wicked smile breaking across his handsome mug as I slowly slip my hand down the inside of my jogging pants and adjust my quickly-coming-to-attention rod.

It’s at this moment that an older, silver-haired gentlemen appears on the path to the right of “Josh”. We both freeze as he slowly passes, moving onto the same path that Josh had circled around previously. He, too, will stumble upon the Ogre and the Hispanic and then make his way back around. I watch warily as he disappears. While he isn’t a bad looking sort, I‘m in the mood for a little one on one time with Josh; that is, if Josh is interested.

He moves towards me and from the look of the little something that precedes him, I am pretty sure he is indeed interested. Did I say “little” something? Oh… little has nothing to do with it. Of course, it’s cloaked by the material of his jogging pants, but it still looks mighty jaw-dropping. Bravely, I grab on to his lusty prong and guide him to behind the tree. Once there, he grabs hold of dick and we take turns squeezing more life into each other’s engorging chambers. Crouching before him, I slide his jogging pants down just enough to free up his member. It’s a glorious 8.5 inches and thick as hell. My lips expertly wrap around its large head as my tongue starts working my saliva onto the underside of his shaft. This is going to take some doing and my mind immediately contemplates halting the proceedings long enough to take a hit off of the bottle of poppers burning a hole in my pocket.

But I don’t. And soon the silver-haired dude rounds the bend and spends the next ten minutes staring in our general direction. He doesn’t step any closer, so I figure we’re cool to go. I work on Josh’s dick for a bit and then decide to stand up and let him have a go at mine if he wants. Instead, much to my surprise, he wants to kiss. And what a kiss it is! He’s good and I’m a bit blown away at how passionate he’s getting. After ravishing my lips, he kisses my neck and then tongues my ear, making me moan like a conchita in heat. The entire time he’s kissing me, I’ve got one of my hands wrapped around his fuck stick at the same time he’s grasping my naked rod. In spite of the fact that my eyes are continually being sent to the back of my head out of joy, I want suck more dick. I’m about to kneel down and give some more love to that fat piece of man meat when we are both startled to hear the sound of a child. On the path below us, where we can see them, but they have yet to spot us, a couple and a child of about eight are walking, talking, and enjoying the autumn leaves.

Both Josh and I pull up our jogging pants as fast as possible. Josh crouches down low by the tree as I slip to it’s other side. We watch as the family below cluelessly passes us by. I wait for Josh to stand before approaching again. He is majorily tenting the front of his jogging pants and I am relieved to learn that skittish is one thing he’s not. We smile at each other and resume kissing, but I am feeling distracted. The silver-haired man has moved in closer and I am concerned that he is going to want to join in the fun soon. I can’t help but keep looking over my shoulder, from side to side, due to the presence of silver-haired man standing behind us and our recent visitors. Josh picks up on my vibe and, surprising me once again, says, “I’d rather be alone with you.” Well, melt my heart, he needn’t say it twice. With a wicked smile, a last glance over my shoulder, and a bit of laughter escaping my well-kissed lips, I make my way down the hill to the main road where that family had just been walking. I know a place.

Josh is fast on my heels and soon we are walking side by side along the well-worn road. Both our dicks are hard and making their presence very obvious. In my glee, I reach over and grab hold of his and play with it through the cloth. Without prodding, he returns the favor, that is, until we realize we are being walked up on by a couple of men. As they draw near we both realize that they are an older, gay couple, so while we do our best to conceal our hard ons, I take a bit of a secret thrill in knowing that, despite my best efforts, I totally fail. They’re onto us, so thank goodness they’re gay. Once they pass, Josh makes a comment about me showing off and I laugh. Caught. Guilty as charged. I grab his dick again and ask him if he wants to go follow me to the other side of the parking lot. He agrees.

As we walk he tells me that he is married and that he only plays safely, blah, blah, blah. I commend him for his honesty and carefulness and compliment him on his kissing skills. We’re about to head down the road that leads to the other side of the park when I suddenly remember that there is a place nearby where I have fooled around before, undetected. I see the path, and using Josh’s dick like a steering wheel, reset his course. The under brush is a bit sparse due to the time of year, but I manage to find a very secluded spot between a set of low hanging branches of a tree and a group of very tall, dense weeds. I pull out my poppers and drop my pants. Josh moves in and resumes our kiss, which has retained all of its magic. He starts pulling at my t-shirt, so I whip it off dutifully, carefully keeping my hat in place. But Josh is having none of that. He whips my cap off my head and runs his hands over the top of my chrome dome. I’m always slightly relieved when a dude sees my baldness as a turn-on. We kiss again, as my hands cup his face and then find their way to his hair. “Don’t mess the top of my head,” he says. I see what he means. He has a lot of hair product in it and I can tell that he has spent a good amount of time getting his spikes to stand up just so. Rather than risk distracting him, I abandon his hair all together.

My hands move the waistband of his jogging pants down, until our dicks are flesh upon flesh. Pressing my body into his, the heat of our dicks meshing is magnificent, matched only by the intensity of our kissing on this cool, autumn day. Then I crouch down before him, taking his big, fat cock into my mouth. It is so thick, that I am not sure I can actually deep throat him. I reach for the poppers, take a big hit, and resume sucking, determined to test the limits of my throat. It is a super tight squeeze and I almost back off, out of fear of causing him pain. But somehow I do manage to get his dick past the narrowest part of my throat. Josh lets out a sexy moan as I hold him there. I have a feeling he doesn’t find many cocksuckers who are able to swallow his whole cock. My mouth is down to the base of his cock as I struggle to breath through my nose. Playing with his balls a bit with one hand, I reach around with the other to check out his ass cheeks.

Josh is in good shape that is damn sure. He is probably in his mid 40’s, but he sure looks good. My hands begin to run over his body, as my eyes water from the pressure of his thick dick lodged in my throat. Sensing I want more, Josh lets his jogging pants drop to his ankles and lifts up the bottom of his t-shirt. My busy hands have my mind racing and suddenly I realize that I have forgotten to breathe through my nose. I pull of his dick and gasp for air. However, the moment his dick leaves my mouth, I realize I want it back exactly where it was, as it was. As quickly as I can, I once again manage to push his dick past the point of resistance in order to luxuriate in the sensation of my throat being filled with cock. I repeat this same process five more times, each time it gets a little easier and a little harder. The entire time, Josh simply leans back and closes his eyes in a repose of ecstasy.

Even though I’m crouched before him, I resist the urge to offer up my ass. Number one: other than grabbing on to the mounds of my ass as we pressed our dicks together, he hasn’t made any indication that he’s interested in fucking me. Number two: I don’t have any condoms with me; and there’s a reason for that. Number three: my ass is not prepared to receive visitors at the moment, so it’s best that I not push it out there where it might grab his attention, because I have no intention of giving it up at the moment.

Now, when playing outdoors it is always wise, no matter how lost in the moment you become, to keep aware of the amount of time passing. Trysts in dicey situations like this are referred to as fast fucks for a reason – you have to be fast or you risk getting caught. Sensing that a chunk of time has passed, I decide to give up on my desire to get him off using only my throat and resort to my favorite hooker trick; the suck and roll-over jerk. That’s when you grasp the base of his dick with one hand as you go down on his dick. As your mouth pulls back off the dick and your hand follows up the shaft, you quickly run your saliva slicked up palm over the top of his dick before moving your hand back down the length of his shaft to the base of his dick as your mouth again engulfs his dick. Quickly repeat and repeat and repeat. Hookers use this method to get a john off as quickly as possible. It also comes in handy when wrestling with the well-endowed in the great outdoors. Whenever I switch to this method, it never ceases to elicit some kind of verbal response from the dude I’m working on and Josh is no exception. He loves it, and his love keeps getting the tiniest bit louder with each stroke. Soon he announces that he’s going to come. I keep up the suck and roll-over bit until I sense that his eruption is eminent. Then I drop my hand and jam my throat down as far as I’m comfortably able onto the full length of his dick. I just love feeling the wild pulse and expansion of a dude’s shaft as they unleash in my mouth. Once the first three squirts are history, I begin sucking like a vacuum in order to help all that love cream find its way into my mouth and down my throat.

Once Josh is completely spent, I get back on my feet. My big, old, cock-ringed dick is just aching for release. I know this game all too well, and have no expectation that Josh will volunteer to help me out in any way. Surprisingly, he does cup my balls as I jerk my own, which is something I really enjoy. This puts me over the edge, fast, and my white goo is soon decorating the foliage. We put ourselves back together, both flush with the exhilaration of our exertion. Our small talk is very small, our grins huge. Knowing that discretion is always key to ending a successful tryst with a married man, I stay behind as Josh makes his way up the path, back to the parking lot. He glances over his shoulder and gives me the wistful look of one who knows all too well that they have to get back to their real life and the real world.

I doubt I’ll ever see him again, but that won’t stop me from hoping. Good kissers are hard to find.

However, married men, are not…

End Part I
Next Week: Married Men, Part II: Push, Push, In the Bush

For Ugly Duckling Boys (Like Me): Queer Eye for the Old(er) Gay Guy

As I’m fast approaching something-something years old (and not hating it), I decided it was time to share a little grooming advice. I see a lot of you naked and clothed, and some of you could use a few pointers. Some of what I have to share is just plain common sense, but you would be amazed how fear of aging can cloud our ability reason just when we need it the most. This is advice, straight up. Take what you need, leave the rest.

Who am I to give advice? An ugly, older dude who still manages to get laid on a regular basis – and sometimes by other, much-hotter dudes. I don’t know what they see in me (probably just a crime of convenience), but I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

I remember Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. During it’s heyday I never gave it the time of day because fashion queens, in general, always give me the heebie-jeebies and that goes double for mincing, gay stereotypes proclaiming that they are representing my peoples. Ugh. Ick. I avoided that show like the plague it was. In the back of my mind, I also kept thinking – doesn’t charity begin at home? Shouldn’t these queens be helping out members of their own before helping save straight America?

Well, metrosexuality aside, they are not around to do anymore damage or help the hygienically challenged. But I am, and I’m here to help out my own. So, here a few things I have learned about looking your best, especially as you begin to approach your gay shelf-life expiration date – which begins right around the age of 30 and gets more and more dire the less you take care of business.

Hair

Face: Shave twice a day. Going out or hooking up after 4:00 pm? Shave. A smooth face is a younger looking one and whisker burn is never comfortable or pretty. If you have a beard, unless you’re going for that funky coal miner/creepy biker look, I suggest keeping it trim and neat. And don’t use that stupid beard darkening crap; it makes it look like you drew a beard on your face with a magic marker. Keep it simple and natural.

If you have a mustache, keep it clean and neat, even if you’re going for that Sam Elliot look. Wait, let me clarify – especially if you’re going for that Sam Elliot look. As we age, nothing looks worse that having food stuck to our face, so pay attention to that stuff.

Body: Trim it. Seriously? I love fur. Love it. But as we get older, so does our fur. It takes on a life, shape and color all of its own with odd patches of varying lengths and textures becoming part of the norm. Pubic hair should not be mistaken for dental floss or a chia pet. So trim it. Keep it pretty. Shape it on your body so it flatters and does not detract. Think silhouette. Doing so may not hide the fact that you are getting older or, (God forbid) out of shape, but it may confuse the young enough to get in their pants. Fur can be used as camouflage, yes, but you still want them to make out that you are human and not Sasquatch in origin. Bears? Bears can get away with almost anything, but I think the wilder you let the body fur go, the smaller the population that will be attracted to you. I like my bears neat.

As for your ass. I like a hairy ass. Love those plumb, firm globes nicely covered in a fine pelt of beautifully splayed hair. But a hairy asshole? That’s just a toilet tissue nightmare, if you know what I mean. For daily use as God intended, I shave mine once in awhile in order to keep my sanity in the john. As for photographs, getting fucked or showing it off? I personally think it looks better if there is a small clearing around the pucker. You’re more likely to have someone dive in if the buffet is clean and orderly looking.

Head: If you are blessed enough to have hair, keep it trim, short and in a style that befits your age. No Justin Biebers, please. Leave that to the lesbians. And none of that gooped-up, upswept, spiky shit either. Hair product is for dumb-as-a-post Jersey boys and the clueless young. On anyone over forty it looks exactly like what it is: hair product. And that is not sexy. That is just a goopy turn off. Keep it short, trimmed, age-appropriately styled and natural.

For those of us not blessed with a lifetime of a head of luscious, full, lustrous hair? Get a cheap head clipper at Walgreens and buzz your dome to 1/8” inch. Or, if you have the time, like the look, and were born with a pristine shaped skull – shave it. This goes for those of you with that eagle’s nest thing going on. You know, those dudes with the balding dome peaking out of a mountain of side hair? Do yourself a favor and stop looking ridiculous. You will save a lot of money on hair cuts and increase your chances of getting laid. A large portion of the population finds bald/buzzed heads very masculine and sexy. Hair Club for Men? Don’t waste your money. The moment my hand grazes that ridge where you hair goes from what God gave you to what man hath created for the insecure, for me, the romance is over. Sorry, but it never looks quite right. Where a ball cap instead.

Hair Length: Keep it short. Long hair doesn’t look good on anyone male. Period. Okay, so you can get away with it up until say, age 30, if you the top isn’t thinning. But after that? Might as well prepare a turd salad and wear it on your head. And speaking of turd salads – dreadlocks? No. Not on anyone at any age. That be the opposite of sexy, mon.

Nose/Ears: As we get older, this becomes more and more of an issue. I have gone from trimming said hairs from once a week to three times a week. They sneak up on you, so pay attention to them. Every time you shave your face, check out your nose and ear holes. This stuff, unchecked, adds years to your appearance. And the odd, weird-ass hair is not isolated to only the ears and nose. They can sprout anywhere. So be on guard. I would also like to recommend that you buzz your eyebrows to ¼” inch. It helps keep that owly, crazy Andy Rooney look from becoming part of your look.

Bottom Line?: Run a clean house. When you are young – and I mean under the age of 25 – you can get away with that “I-don’t-give-a-fuck” look. Grooming is not high on the priority list because if they are reasonably good looking and in shape, they can pull it off. But after the age of 30? You have start developing some grooming habits that will sustain you well into your 60’s. No need to shave everything you got. After a certain age, nobody is going to mistake you for a 19 year old boy no matter how smooth you are. So keep it looking sharp, but natural – that is the essence of a sexy, older man.

Clothing / Jewelry

Too Young for You: No A&F. Hell, don’t even be doing the Gap. Get real and get classy – not trendy. Trends are for the young – of body, not spirit. Preserve your self-respect by buying age appropriate clothing with a timeless, classic flair. Keep it simple. It doesn’t need to be designer labels, either. In fact, avoid clothing with logos, brand names and the like. You are not a billboard. The young can get away with that, you cannot. The sole exception to that rule would be sports wear where a Nike swish can help balance your own swish.

Pudgy and Bald?: Multiple, conflicting patterns may make you think you’re being fashion forward, but in the end you just look like a sweaty, pale, dumpling in a clown suit. Tasteful pin stripes (button down) or a single, broad stripe across the chest (sweater or polo) is something we can all get away with, but beyond that look we should all be looking for solids in colors and fabrics that will have some shelf life. After a certain age – color can be a good thing, if carefully selected and tastefully done.

Got a Belly?: You can go one of two ways, depending on your comfort level. You can do the layer thing and try to hide it, but really, why? If you do go that route, be sure your clothing is clean and neat. Avoid sloppy, dirty, soiled, stained and worn. The other way you could go? Put it out there for the world to see. Some of us find it sexy. On occasion and depending on the dude, I do, find it sexy. It is not my bod of choice, but I am not immune to the allure of a nice firm furry belly. I was watching this documentary about the Bear Nation, and there is a legion of fans out there waiting to worship at your feet. Not comfortable with the Bear title? Then change your diet and get to a gym. Or change your diet and start walking everywhere.

Clothing Fit: Avoid tight clothing, unless you absolutely have the body for it. Nothing is less appealing than an overstuffed sausage past its prime. Think in terms of ripples (sexy), not folds (not sexy). Got muscles? cool, show ‘em off. Got man boobs? Get to the gym and hide those mothers in the meantime.

Active Wear: Rule of thumb: just because you think it looks sexy on others and gives you a little chubby just thinking about wearing them, it may not be right for you.

As with day wear – tight is rarely right. And skimpy is rarely appropriate for gay men of a certain age or proportion. I personally get a thrill when I see a dashing man on a hot summer day, jogging, wearing nothing but a pair of those tiny flimsy, high-slit, running shorts. Dark fur on those legs… grrrrr. He doesn’t need to be handsome (I like flaws), but he does need to be in shape. But if you are just starting a work-out regimen after having not been to a gym or active for over six months, please do us all a favor and keep it modest. Once you’re all height/weight proportionate, trim and firm – then let your outer sexy show, a little. Until then? Loose fitting jogging pants and a loose t-shirt fit the bill.

Some work out clothing, especially upper-body wear is only meant to be worn by steroid popping body builders. So leave those neon, skinny, no-sleeve tops to those that look good in them (personally, the roid look is a total turn-off). You? Stick to the basics so you don’t embarrass yourself. As for bottoms (I mean pants), lycra is also only meant for those already in shape. It may give you the impression that you are wearing a magic girdle, but in reality? Not so good. So leave those bike shorts to those that have been biking hardcore for a lifetime, they are the only ones with the ass, thighs and abs to pull them off.

Jewelry: Too much is too much. If you are wearing more than one piece of jewelry on your hands, you are wearing too much jewelry. Bracelets? Never flattering on a man. Necklaces? Rarely flattering on a man. Multiple piercings in your ears? May work if you are shaved bald and built like Mr. Clean, but otherwise… it just gets confusing. Keep those earrings tasteful and small. Also: one is usually enough. Yes, taste is a subjective thing, but it is also something that can be acquired… mostly by learning from the mistakes of others.

Body/Skin

Skin: Yep. You know the drill. Moisturize, moisturize, moisturize – especially after shaving. In the summer, not so much, but as winter approaches and our skin dries out you are going to need to pay some special attention to your legs and arms. The face? Leave a coat of cream (you know the kind I mean) on it all day. Think of it as a layer of protection between you and the world.

Brush Your Teeth: It is the only way to guarantee fresh breath. I avoid onions and excessive garlic when at all possible. Those come out your pores and nothing is worse than an older dude who reeks like Grandma’s root cellar. Mouthwash? I like it straight and to the point – Listerine basic. Kills germs, but will not guarantee fresh breath. Oh, and brush that tongue. Nobody wants to stick there dick in a mouth with a coated tongue.

Exercise: Okay… in this day and age? Nobody has an excuse. We are the best educated bunch a gay fucks ever. We have access to more gym equipment, diet advice, work-out plans, television networks, motivational speakers, trainers and food plans than every before, thanks to the internet and cable television. We all know that 20 minutes a day is the bare minimum we should be doing. Everybody has more than enough leisure time, flex time, quality time, and my-time to accomplish some kind of exercise on a daily basis. Make it a priority. It pays big dividends.

We also know that diet alone is not going to keep gravity from winning. You can be as skinny as a stick, but if that muscle is not firm then the likelihood of you inspiring somebody else’s muscle to get firm is, pardon the pun, slim to none. So move it. Groove it. Get up and dance, dance, dance. Is it hard work? Well, it should be, or you are not doing enough. Will there be days when you don’t want to do it? Hell, yes. Bottom line? No excuses. Bad back? That does not mean you cannot exercise – in fact, your physician will probably be able to design an entire work-out for you that will help strengthen your back. That’s core, baby. That’s the part that keeps your tummy and posture in check.

Paunch - Sit-Ups and Diet: You booze, you lose. That paunch? You can keep that in check with a little effort, a little exercise and a little restraint. Educate yourself about what foods will bloat you and avoid. Bloat makes you look older than you need to. Also – mass quantities are something you could afford to consume prior the age of 30. Your metabolism changed after that and if your diet did not, then you are asking for a tire around your middle. Can’t see your dick because your belly is in the way? Well, that belly will also prevent others from wanting to see your dick. So do something about it, unless you are comfortable being a Bear, which is a very valid choice. Bears have a rabid following. Comfortable with that? Than work it, baby. And fat does not a Bear make. Firm it up.

Crunches? Sit-ups? OMG. They are so uncomfortable at first. Everything will be so sore, you will want to quit, but don’t. Because it gets easier. It gets better. You have to be committed and you have to be consistent. Use good form, don’t over-extend, over-do and don’t ever tell yourself you can’t do this. Yes, getting rid of a gut, even a tiny one, takes a lot longer than we wish it would, but not taking action today just compounds the problem. Sure, there are chubby chasers out there… but there are way more chubbies (and I don’t mean hard dicks) than there are chasers. Yes, on occasion, even I am in awe of and not immune to the allure of the hot, furry, firm, round, belly of a put together Bear. It is a look I have spermed all over a number of times, but it is a look and fantasy that will work for me only once. After that? You become a human being and the fantasy is over and so is my fascination with your gut.

Fake Tans: Fake tans look fake. Orange is never a color your skin should be. Keep it natural and don’t over tan outdoors, either. A glazed ham is not something anyone wants to rub their dick on.

Food: Fast food is the devil. It is evil. Bar food is fast food. If it is deep fried it is a bad idea. Just say no. Eat real food – not processed crap. Don’t be a pussy – eat some non-breaded, non-fried fish. Fresh and simple is best.

Socially

Let Them Come to You: Hard lesson to learn. We see something hot and tasty – we feel we must act. We must possess it. It is our God-given right to cruise. Reality? If they are younger than you there is a good chance they will not be all that into you. If they are into older men, or more specifically, if they are into you, they will let you know. Aggressive chicken hawks are a total creep out.

Your Brand: After a certain time in the arena, every gladiator comes to know their strengths and weaknesses. Our consumers are our best source of information – they will tell us if we were not blessed in the looks department, if our body has seen better days, or if sexy is something that never visited our building. Listen and learn and react. React by taking action and doing what you can to improve you as a product – reinvent your brand – not by trying to be something you’re not, but by making the most of what you got and who you are. Not a looker? Get witty. Be informed. Learn to be charming. Get smart. Get a great job. Make a lot of money. Got hit by an ugly stick – work that body at the gym. Hone that fucker until it doesn’t matter that your ears are bigger than Dumbo’s or that you are bald and ugly as any alien any UFO every puked forth. Work what you have. Improve what you can. Don’t get lost in bitterness and depression. Got no self-esteem? Then manufacture some. Self-esteem is just like a smile. Maybe you’re not happy, but I have found there is truth to the adage that if you smile, pretty soon you’re feeling better. And nobody likes a Bitter Betty or a Mopey Mary; both are real dick-killers.

Drink and Talk Less / Listen More: You do not need to be the center of attention to be the life of the party. Listening is a vastly underrated and underutilized skill. Asking the right questions of another person can keep a conversation lively and personable. How do you know what the right questions are? Listen to them. They are your best resource for what is right for them. They will tell you what you need to be asking about. And keep the alcohol to a minimum. Not only is it bad for your head and heart, but it creates loose lips and I can’t think of a single activity, socially or sexually, where that is a plus. Again – you booze, you loose. Nobody wants to fuck a drunk or risk waking up with one in the morning – except another drunk.

Keep Your Shirt On: Men of a certain age… unless they are hitting the gym for over an hour a day, four days a week, need to keep their shirts on in bars, on the dance floor and at gay pride. There is a difference between pecs and man boobs. Learn it. Man boobs are not sexy. Neither is the undeveloped chest of a 14 year old boy – ever – but especially when it is attached to the torso of a man over 40. So leave ‘em on.

Sex

Don’t Promise What you May not be Able to Deliver: You tell me you are a hardcore top and you want to fuck the devil out of my hot hole. Oh, yeah? Bring it on – exorcise me. Bring it, but don’t bring me any excuses. I want what’s coming to me. Don’t make the mistake of overselling your abilities. The buyer is always going to be the only opinion that ultimately matters and you may get away with coming up short in the action department once, but you will never get that buyer to return to your store.

Also, don’t tell me you’re a top and then expect me to come over and shove my dick up your ass. Homo don’t play that way. Bait and switch, my ass. If I top, it is because I plan to top or knew that it was a least a possibility. Flip-flopping is a skill that needs to be prepared for and is not a given.

Poppers are Not Pretty and Tina is Just Plain Ugly: That says it all.

Poppers, when done in the right amount and timed correctly can make a beautiful thing totally outrageous, but too many poppers and the excuses start flowing. And doing more isn’t going to fix it, fool. So relax and do only enough to enhance the experience; not overpower it. And yes, been there, done that, know better, will make that mistake again – I suppose (I’m stupid that way). But I know not to do them if I want to top. And I know not to do too many too quickly if I want to bottom for more than twenty minutes.

Tina? Here is the be all and end all - don’t be a stupid motherfucker. Don’t do Tina. Ever. It makes for the worst sex. The older you are? The worse it gets. And nothing is less sexy than a strung out, can’t get it up, older man, dripping with flop sweat and desperation, not making a shred of sense, who is acting like he has drunk 14 pots of coffee. That is ugly, not sexy. You can fool yourself on Tina, but those of us immune to her charms, we know what’s going on, and we are not having any of your sorry ass.

Well, there it is. For what it’s worth. This is part of a formula that seems to be working for me. I am still able to land some really tasty treats from time to time. And in between those times, I do alright for myself. I am so not perfect. I am so flawed and damaged. I have made so many mistakes. And my body is not all that and it never will be all that. Life comes with built-in limitations. As I’ve stated on here before – I was not blessed in the looks department. What I have learned is that ugly boys become even uglier older men, so I have had to figure out how to make the best of a less-than-gifted situation. I’ve become quite disciplined about it, especially my work-outs at the gym as well as the time spend walking outdoors (it’s called cruising, but frequently, when there is nothing cruise worthy in sight, it becomes a hike). On occasion I will overeat. I acknowledge it and do my best to correct the behavior, examine the source for said behavior and take action. But I do take action.

So this concentration on and determination to improve myself would lead one to assume that I am a pompous, full-of-myself, inflated ego bearing, narcissist? But, no. I don’t have all the answers. Not for anybody. Not even for me. You and the world around you – the one you interact with on a daily basis - are your best resources. Listen. As for me? I remain empathetic. For I remember all too clearly those days when…

“Dreams are all they gave for free
To ugly duckling girls (boys)…
…like me.” - At Seventeen by Janis Ian

I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve been given, I’m happy with who and what I am, and know that I don’t need more than I already have. Life is good. It’s a gift. Enjoy it.

Be kind to yourself.

Lost...

This is the sound of the planes in the night
Coming out of the darkness
And into the light
Shining alarmingly
Curiously bright

This is the sound of those murderous drums
The marching of footsteps
The twisting of thumbs

Over and over

Again here it comes

I’m on my way to San Francisco. An opportunity came up to travel with a group of people, some of whom I know quite well, and I decided to go for it. I have no specific plans in San Fran… I just want to go experience it. In spite of the fact that I lived in Cali for a period of time, I never made it to San Fran. I’m excited. I thought it would be the perfect closure to a summer that defied all my expectations.

I really expected to spend most of the summer on the Prairie, getting my brains fucked out, but that was not to be. The summer started out promisingly enough. I managed to get to the Prairie at least four days a week. It was shaping up to be my most social summer ever, with people talking to me like never before. I felt part of a community and while I wasn’t necessarily attracted to all of them, we all seemed to get along well. I thought I was really making friends for the first time in a long time. It wasn’t simply pleasantries that were being exchanged. Copious amounts of information regarding the gay community and what was going on in Minneapolis and Chicago was shared. The conspiracy theories were always my favorites, followed by gossip about any given individual that happened to appear on the radar of the Prairie die-hards. There was also a great deal of speculation as to the motivations of the Parks and Recreation department (or as I liked to call them, Parks and Wrecks) and their plans and maintenance of the Prairie. They mowed it once early in the season and everyone was up in arms about it. Fortunately that was the only time they chose to do that and, last I checked, the Prairie grasses were as high as an elephant’s eye.

For me, everything changed on June 7th, with the death of one of my Chihuahuas, Paco. I wrote about that in an earlier entry, found here: http://wonderlandburlesque.blogspot.com/2010/06/hearts-stop.html

His passing shook me in a way that I had not experienced in a long time, if ever. I rarely cried before that date, but since then tears have become an almost daily thing. A month later, I thought I was feeling better, well enough to return to the Prairie. But my return would be short-lived.

Mona, my three and half year old Deer Chihuahua had a genetic abnormality that needed surgical attention. Two weeks later, she had recovered sufficiently and I thought things were about to return to normal, but complications set in. Then she developed a series of severe reactions to the drugs she was taking post surgery, and then complications to the drugs prescribed to counteract the symptoms of the original reactions. Then she lost the use of her back legs.

Spoiler alert: It doesn’t end well.

It all came to a head at 3:00 am, on August 7th – two months to the day since Paco went away. I’m not going into details, but the experience – its tactile elements (the humidity, the stark of night, the silence, the terror) – haunt me to this day. She was only three and a half years old. I felt cheated. She was only in my life for six months. She was the most beautiful dog I have ever seen. The few photos I have of her simply don’t do her justice.

She came into my life at a time when I wasn’t sure I had room in my heart. Paco’s enlarged heart and faulty valve had just been diagnosed and I was hopeful that the drugs prescribed would delay the inevitable and improve his quality of life. Mona came with a lot of emotional baggage. She lived in an apartment and was never allowed to go outside, except to do her business. Her owner had to give her up because there was a three year old in the house who was hell bent on terrorizing the poor dog, to the point where injury to the animal was a distinct possibility. Naturally, she was less than thrilled when she first arrived at my house. She had never been around other dogs before and there was a definite period of adjustment. She was terrified of being outside, and walks were a new experience undertaken with great trepidation. But she did adjust. In fact, she and Paco got along quite well.

Then things began to go badly for Paco, which took a lot of attention and time from Mona.

In the end, it isn’t so much that I feel cheated because I lost her so soon, but I feel horribly guilty for having cheated her out of a great deal of quality time. She deserved more. Her beauty and elegance astounded me. I loved to watch her move and sit. In my mind and soul, she remains this beautiful ghost, an enigma I never got the chance to solve.

In the end… I will never know what exactly went so terribly wrong. It was a series of unfortunate events that seemed to feed on each other to the point of total annihilation. I will never know the true cause of her deteriorating health or if I made the correct decision when I put her down. That guilt kills me. It eats away at me, gnawing on the corners of my psyche. All I want is to have her back. All I want is a second chance. And so, I lapsed into silence, unable to write. Not really living, so much as existing while questioning that existence all the while.

For a brief time, it was just Beau, my 13 year old Chihuahua and I, left to sort through what remained in the wake of our losses. After Mona died, I told myself, no more dogs. Beau and I began to reconnect in a way that we had not been connected since our early years, alone, together. After all the drama of Paco and Mona’s deaths, I felt such relief, although I also felt the house had gotten much too quiet.

And then, along came Millie.

She’s two years old, weighs 4.8 lbs. and is blind. It’s a rescue that one of my sisters has been working on for over a year and a half. The circumstances and events of Millie’s first 2 years are rather horrific, to say the least. My sister was aware of the situation and kept asking if she could have the dog. Finally the owners relented and a week after Mona had died, I got a phone call. The timing sucked, but I couldn’t say no. I’m glad I didn’t.

Considering she is a full-blood Chihuahua and all that she has been through in her short life, Millie is an absolute sweetheart; so loving and sweet. I didn’t realize she was blind until three days after her arrival. I knew something was up, but it took a visit to the vet to confirm my worst fears. Amazingly, her condition seems to have no impact on her enjoyment of life and the people around her. She relies on her heightened senses of smell and hearing to navigate and her memory of spatial configurations is astounding..

I’m glad she’s part of my life. There remains a huge hole in my heart, but Millie now occupies a bit of it.

The night I took Mona to the emergency vet, as we descended into what felt like, not death, but the beginning of a lack of life, an Annie Lennox song came into my head and a month and half later, still has not left…

This is the sound of a baby’s first breath
The dying of foot steps
The touching of flesh
To hold in your memory
To keep by your chest

We’re lost…
And, now… we are found.