A gay story: Summertime Cruise ‘Cause there ain’t no cure for the Summertime Cruise
****
Barb’s reaction was hardly surprising. I had already pictured it fairly vividly many times in my imagination.
“You what?”
Her brown eyes bugged out, the expression was exasperation, wifely disbelief, maybe even disdain.
“You’re telling me you’re gonna buy a sports car?” She shook her head.
“No, that’s not what I said.”
“You said ‘Porsche’, for crying out loud, Clay. You’re going to insist that isn’t a ‘sports car’?”
“It’s going to be a project, Barb. Not going to cost a fortune. A fixer-upper Roger and I have plans for. A project.”
Barb puckered her lips. “Clayton Thomas, not a ‘fortune’ up front, you mean. Just over time, a few hundreds here, a few thousands there, I know how these guy things go, not just at your age.”
“You always said it wouldn’t hurt for me to have a hobby.” I felt defensive and always disliked it when she addressed me with my full name.
“Right. More up the line of model trains, or stamps maybe. Home brewing. Something simple and cheap. But this? If this doesn’t fit the description of ‘male midlife crisis’ I don’t know what does.”
She was frowning. I liked her even when she was annoyed, her eyebrows furrowed on that sweet face. I wished we made love more often, but that wasn’t happening much. At forty-four she was still fairly trim, dark hair now streaked a bit with gray, but her eyes would typically sparkle whenever she was amused.
But right now she looked peeved as peanuts.
“At least it’s not a boat.” This was more of a concession than it sounded. She turned and walked back into our farmhouse kitchen. I watched her sweet ass work its way from side to side.
She would be even more upset if she knew the real motive behind it all.
My down-the-way neighbor, Roger and I, had been an “item” all summer, all secret and hidden and deliciously subversive. Our summertime adventures had been a splendid discovery of gay sex, although we never said ‘gay’ and the word ‘bisexual’ only came up a couple times. Roger grew a bit uneasy whenever our sex talk got to that level of abstraction.
The immediate trouble was that our trysting times had mostly been outside, a particular thrill of ours (fresh. sweet, summer air on bare cocks and rumps, balls free, the excitement of outdoors in general) and with the Fall and colder New England weather just around the corner, it was going to be harder to come up with meeting places that would be suitable for our increasingly ardent adventures.
To tell the truth, our whole scene reminded me of being a teenager again, with all the obstacles to intimacy involved back then: dodging family members and having limited times and places for fun, squeezing in exciting, breathless sex whenever and wherever we could.
So Roger and I had contrived a reasonable winter-time cover for our clandestine encounters.
I’d spotted an advertisement for an early model Porsche 911, a Cobalt blue 1971 to be exact, which was just about perfect, since by then the engineering folk had relocated the rear suspension pick-up points for the axle rearward, minimizing the built-in oversteer all rear engine cars have, which had plagued earlier models. Pre-emissions controls, the model was retro enough that vehicle inspections wouldn’t be an issue, not needing to meet the stricter controls required of newer cars. Someone’s restoration had got out of hand, and the owner was ready to bail for a price. Not a low price mind you, but something I could afford.
Roger and I would be making the trek down to Chapel Hill, North Carolina next month to check it out and if we were satisfied with its condition, take delivery.
I had been putting off telling Barb, but it was time. She was predictably upset, but I also knew she’d get over it, and as long as I didn’t squander the family fortune on it, turn myself into an absentee husband, or burn the garage down, all would be fine. As long as she didn’t discover the real reason for my apparent profligacy.
This whole marriage thing is one tricky business, I tell you. Monogamy has more wrinkles than a cerebral cortex. I love Barb, we have been twenty-five years legal, and we had made a fine family with two grown boys, a sweet comfortable house here in the Berkshires.
But midlife horniness had intruded big time and landed a gut punch to me and my buddy Roger. A punch we were happy to roll with.
****
So one Saturday morning in October, Roger showed up on my doorstep before dawn, with his backpack and a flask of coffee for the trip.
Roger’s sort of a backwoods everyman: flannel lumberjack shirt untucked, sturdy northern European bones, bit of a beer belly, but taut and strong through the shoulders. Dark eyes, level gaze, dense but fairly closely cropped beard, easy smile. Passes for pretty much any regular work guy in our neck of Massachusetts. Working man, middle height, hair thinning, but as we joked with each other, we posited that the hair had just “migrated.” Plenty on his chest and elsewhere.
Although clean-shaven, I wasn’t all that different in appearance, just smaller, but between the two of us we had enough body-fur to cause nightmares for anyone in the “manscaping” business.
But Roger had a nice cock on him, especially when erect, as I knew pretty well at this point. Big hanger balls, with a sweet forest of dark brown hair surrounding. The sweaty smell under those testicles would give me an instant erection every time my nose was under there, if I didn’t have one already.
By midday we had managed to snake my Ford 150 and the empty trailer through the New York-New Jersey mess and across the various bridges okay, with the cruise control set at a comfortable 68 mph, the rental trailer riding decently in the back, even unloaded.
For the first part of the drive we hadn’t talked much, and not even about anything sex related, but just after DC we had inevitably gotten around to our favorite topics—the enjoyment our genitals liked best and journeys they had taken in earlier life.
Roger had relayed some pre-Carrie adventures with a sweet chubby girl named Joellyn who would give him sweet hand-strokings as foreplay. He had gone on for quite awhile about how she had reluctantly come around to licking him, although never far enough, or long enough, for his liking.
“Not sure she even enjoyed it that much, to tell the truth.”
He looked over.
“So tell me about the first penis you sucked, Clay. You sure were more adventurous than I was, anyway.”
“You really want to know?” My eyebrows arched. He’d never asked this before.
“Sure. You can tell me just about anything at this point, Clay. Whose was it? Your old high school buddy Lenny?”
I had told him a little about my early messing around with Lenny, and it was a logical guess.
“Nope. Me.”
His eyebrows went way up.
“Yourself?”
“Yep.”
“You sucked your own prick?” He exhaled. “Never thought of that.”
I told him about how I had started taking a yoga class in college and that there was one position, “the plow” they called it, where you were flat on your back and put your feet back over your head, a big stretch for the spine.
“Of course if your eyes are open you are staring at your crotch in that position, and while I wasn’t that limber the first time, as I practiced more, my crotch got closer and closer to my face. Even with clothing on it was not hard to imagine the possibilities. It was strange, I tell you.
“So one night I decide to do my yoga poses naked. It was hot, and there’s my penis poking straight down at me. Just looking at it got me excited and the damn thing started growing on its own. Closer and closer to my face.”
Roger exhaled.
“I stuck my tongue out but it was maybe an inch away from the tip of my penis. I could get it a little nearer but not much.
“So I started working on my ‘plow pose’ a bunch more and after maybe two months, I was able to just barely touch my piss-slit with my tongue.”
“Okay, I can see the punch line coming. Sooner or later you got limber enough to do some serious damage. How far could you take yourself in?”
“At the height of my powers, I could take the whole head, no more. And while it felt great on one level, the rest of my body was not all that comfortable, to be honest.”
“Sheesh. Did you ever cream in your mouth?”
“I thought about it. But it was enough trouble physically I couldn’t hold the position for very long. I’d work my tongue and lips around my cock head and get myself real close, but then I’d just lie flat on my back and stroke the rest of the way. Sure was nice though, feeling what it was like to put my mouth over a nice eager penis. So that’s my first suck, Roger. I’ve never told anyone else.”
Roger’s eyes looked a bit glazed. He stared out the window for a bit and we didn’t say anything.
Finally I looked over, and he was staring right back at me. His penis was sticking up right out of the fly of his jeans. Like the proverbial flag pole during the Fourth of July parade in the town center.
We both laughed.
“Guess I got you worked up. Sorry.”
“Guess so.”
He reached over and felt my own erection, I had one too now.
He fumbled with my fly and managed to fish my own stiffy out.
“Hey, watch it Rog. I am driving after all.”
It did feel good. We hadn’t had a proper chance at each other for a few weeks. He pulled on my penis and ran his fingers over the head.
He gave it several strokes, looking at me the whole time. It was some effort for me to concentrate on driving.
“Just keep your eyes on the road, Clay, I won’t go too far.
“Although I am dying to do something sweet with that penis of yours tonight.”
His eyes gleamed. This had been a lovely change in our relationship over time. He had gotten more and more forward as we got to know each other, although I was still most often the instigator.
We pulled into Chapel Hill after dark, both of us pretty beat. Roger had taken a turn driving, for which I was grateful, but traffic plus the annoyance of dragging along the trailer (and parking the damn thing) had made us worn out.
But we settled into our Motel Six, grabbed a six-pack of beer from the store across the street, turned on the telly, and ordered a pizza. By the second beer we were feeling much better, after the pizza even more.
But of course the muscle memory of those erections that occurred earlier in the day came back. An erection is like riding a bicycle,— elemental, the damn thing never seems to forget how to do itself.
As Roger finished his last slice, I couldn’t help staring at his crotch. Imagining what it would be like when I finally fished his prick out from underneath his clothing.
Roger saw my look. Didn’t need any translating to understand the meaning.
“You still look hungry, Clay. Although you finished your last slice.” I liked his grin.
“I’m thinking dessert, Roger. A no-calorie one.”
Roger pretended to frown. “Not sure it’s strictly no-calorie.”
“You’re right, of course. Mouthful of semen is about one hundred and twenty calories, on average.”
His eyebrows went up. “You know this for a fact, Clay?”
“Only can tell you what I looked up, Roger. But it’s still less than what would happen with say, an ice cream cone. Or even a chocolate bar.”
I reached over and rubbed him.
“You want we should shower first?” he asked.
“Naw. I like your smell in general. Your balls in particular.”
I immensely enjoyed watching my bud remove his clothes.
Bottom stuff off. Prick dangling, those lovely balls hanging luscious in their holster.
I salivated.
By the time my clothes came off, my prick was already half hard. Not sticking straight out, but enough to protrude. Roger’s eyes were on it.
We pulled back the bed covers, settled in.
It was not one of our long extended sessions. We were both in high arousal. We hadn’t had any sexual contact in weeks.
We played with each other until both cocks were bobbing-stiff hard, the kind that stayed rigid and swung back when pushed.
So in our experimentations, one of the things we had learned was that my keenest arousal was when I could also see Roger’s cock waving around. Consequently, it tended to be more of a turn-on for him to do me first, so I could get the visuals. Roger didn’t care as much, and in fact, I think usually liked being second anyway. Then he didn’t need to be the one to ‘reciprocate.’ I understood this, and while we varied our routine a bit, we didn’t deviate from it this night.
So we played a bit with the sixty-nine, Roger over me. He held himself off a bit with his arms, so I could tongue his cock-head and suckle at those marvelous testicles, take breaks while I watched him play with my penis in his mouth. Always an interesting perspective.
When my penis got aroused enough that he figured I was too close to ignore, he positioned me on the bed, head on the pillows and settled in between my legs.
The sucking didn’t take long. Some good juicy ball licking, holding my shaft up like a four-on-the-floor shifter, then a tongue traverse, balls to tip, lips over the cock-head, and I was so worked up at that point that it maybe took a dozen strong sucks before I creamed his mouth good. Five good spurts of pent-up semen went in.
He nursed for a few minutes, I often shrink real fast, until my penis had gotten small and oversensitive, and I pulled off. When he sat back on his haunches, I liked the way his tool was rock hard.
Another reason this way had emerged as our routine is that Roger almost always got real aroused when he worked me, although I am not sure he would even admit to this.
I pulled him over to me, raised myself a little on the shabby bed so my body was propped up a bit, and pulled his groin into my face.
This method we didn’t do very often, despite being unusually explosive.
Roger’s cock-head went into my mouth, I felt his ass cheeks with my hands, and he started pushing his cock into me, nice and rhythmic.
I didn’t want too fast a completion however, so after a couple minutes I disengaged and licked and suckled his balls, all drawn up alongside his shaft.
His hands were on the headboard, his head back, eyes closed. I knew he was enjoying himself.
Back into my mouth, the feel of that lovely strong prick of his sliding along my lips, pushing itself back into my throat, this was heaven.
Ten or twenty good pushes and he unloaded. A goodly amount, that enchanting sense of pulsing fluids as his cock contracted. I felt the clenching in his ass cheeks as he shot. Sweet.
His pushes got weaker and weaker, until he stopped. I sucked until he got soft, pretty fast it was, and he pulled out.
His eyes looked glazed as that wonderful penis slopped around, all wet and loose and spent.
I think we had both been hoping for a second round that night, but our energy expenditure, from the drive and our activities, put paid to that idea.
We cleaned up and slept good. Although at daybreak I did get a thoroughly lovely suck-off of his early morning erection, before we’d even gotten out of bed. This was my first chance at this sort of intimacy, as all our other sex events in the past had occurred in far less opportune situations.
Over the summer Roger had developed some squeamish feelings about our sex time together. This motel sleepover was the first time we had shared a bed, thoroughly delightful for me. But back home he had boundary notions about beds. More than once during our time together, there had been an opportunity to do our sex play in one or another of our domestic bedrooms, but he always demurred.
I remember one time at his place, when Carrie was away for the afternoon. I thought it would be exciting to suck each other off in his marital homestead, but he blanched. Too close for comfort, he said, and I could understand it. Too risky if caught. He’d spent plenty of time in the past doing nice things to his wife, and here we would be playing under the sheets that she normally inhabited. We settled for outside, which was our major thrill anyway.
So this motel night tryst was the first of its kind, felt very free for me—safe and impossible from wifely discovery.
We got to our destination okay the next morning, no troubles on that front. Big old farmhouse some distance off the road, gravel noises as we drove, overhanging trees, greenery everywhere. The guy, genial and casually dressed, met us at the front door. The Porsche wasn’t even in a garage, so we followed him to a barn-like out-building to one side.
It was both better and worse than we expected. The good news was very little rust, one of the advantages for keeping a car in warmer climates than New England, as there was little snow, and thus no salt on the roads, nasty winters, etc.
The body was a bit more beaten up than the photos showed, a couple fenders would need some work, and the upholstery was not so great either, not ratty, but not in good condition. The engine and tranny were removed, which we knew, so we had brought wheeled pallets to be able to winch the car into the trailer. Included were several boxes of miscellaneous parts that had been taken off and never reinstalled.
I am lousy at negotiating, but luckily the guy was fairly relaxed. Roger is much better at this sort of thing, so I let him do most of the talking. You could tell the guy was really hoping to unload this little project and make some space in his barn. Money was not of primary importance.
We winched the car into the trailer, and Rog and I were able to horse the engine-transmission unit in as well and secure it for the ride home. Extra-parts boxes went in the bed of the truck.
We shook hands with the guy and made our way home.
Barb eyed us warily after we’d pulled up and began the process of getting the thing into the garage.
She squinted at the body. “Nice color at least, Clay, you did good on that part anyway.”
She eyed Roger. “Guess I’m going to be seeing you a bunch this winter. There are worse things I guess.”
We all laughed.
We had been uncharacteristically crafty in our plans. The Porsche would be lodged in my garage, even though all the good tools—the drill press, grinder and MIG welder—were at Roger’s work studio. That way we could pretty much choose which place we wanted for a tryst, choosing either to work on the car or do machine-shop like work at Roger’s, depending on whichever place provided the most privacy. Doubled the number of trysting places, basically. We could play it by ear, whichever spot would work better.
Later that afternoon, everything unloaded into the garage, we stood around with the garage door open, a couple beers in hand.
“You figure we can get this done by spring?” asked Roger. He didn’t look confident.
“Probably. It will go slow. Two items. Money and time. I know the money is going to increase, we’re going to find stuff to do we didn’t expect. Time will be up to us.”
We did okay with the engine rebuild, although it was way more complicated than the old air-cooled VW engines I had rebuilt, which I could do almost blindfolded. But the complicated Porsche flat-six came with overhead cams, a long timing chain, a pile more fiddly parts to keep track of. I lived with the Haynes manual practically under my pillow. We couldn’t afford a complete restoration, didn’t even want one anyway, just a final product that looked and drove good. We figured it would be about a three-quarters effort.
We decided not to do the transmission, hoping it was okay, figuring we could attend to it if there seemed to be any real problems later.
One splurge on my part. The engine was equipped with the Zenith triple-throat 40TIN carburetors, which weren’t original, and must have come from a 1970 or 1971 911T. I located a new set of Webers, the 40IDA3C series. The thought of trying to get the Zeniths into working shape was beyond me. But the Webers were a cool three-grand of expenditure beyond what we’d thought. Maybe I’d be able to short-sell the Zeniths and recoup some of the expense.
Our sex times turned out to be more frustrating that winter than we reckoned. Sometimes a few weeks would go by without us being able to spring the time to work together. We farmed out the cylinder heads to a local machinist, got the valve seats ground and new guides put in. Roger could do some stuff at this place, but holidays always seem to interfere, and we just weren’t able to get together as much as we wanted.
Lots of times it would just be a furtive cock fondling and frantic mouth-work to get a much needed payload of sperm from each other, but even in Roger’s semi-heated workshop, it just wasn’t as comfortable as outdoors in summer, and typically we couldn’t have a relaxed setting for extended pleasures.
Roger had also developed some odd feelings about our time together too, not something either of us were all that good talking about.
Carrie had expressed some annoyance at the amount of time we spent together, and Roger’s extended trips in his workshop. But as a couple they still weren’t making love all that often, so I was happy to be the recipient of his excess sperm production.
More than once we took breaks in Roger’s kitchen, snow on his yard outside the windows, warming up in a nice heated house. Carrie often would make coffee for us and we’d all chat. She was a thin, handsome woman, with bright eyes and shortish blonde hair. I would like to think she liked me, but at least her toleration was good enough.
I’d look at her and know that I had had more contact with Roger’s manly appendage in the last few weeks than she had had in months. I looked at her mouth, knowing her lips hadn’t touched his penis in ages. All because Roger had told me. I couldn’t understand—if our places were reversed, I’d have been sucking him off every day, at least. But I am no good at diagnosing marriages or relationships of any sort.
By the end of February we were closing in. We were stripping as much as the body as we could before trailering it off to the paint shop. Like I said, not the full business (we decided not to dismantle the dash for example, or pull things like the wiring harness), but we’d get a pile of things removed so the paint job would look good.
One Saturday, a day we had picked since Barb was going to be in town all afternoon, we were set to pull the seats before sending them to the upholstery shop.
We got out our tools and arranged them suitably.
We hadn’t had a shot at each other for awhile.
I looked longingly at Rogers’s crotch.
“You ever do car sex when you were young?”
Roger shot me a quizzical look.
“Some. The family station wagon was the best, back seat anyway. Not so easy up front.”
We both looked at the Porsche. Back seat here was basically a joke, big enough for a couple bags of golf clubs or a pair of eight-year old kids.
“Rog, why don’t you take your place on the passenger seat, let’s see how far it reclines. I don’t actually know how much travel these seats have.”
He raised his eyebrows but got in. The seat could go back a fair way.
“I think we gotta christen this beauty, at least for the first time.”
I began stroking him through his jeans. He lay back, eyes closed, one of those saintly expressions of beatitude on his face.
I fished his prick out, soft but just starting to harden, now that he had some anticipation going.
And it had been awhile.
We had the garage door closed, the lights were fluorescent, good enough for the workshop area.
But his prick looked real fine.
I waved it around, played a little while it began its hardening business.
I have to admit that since we had gotten together, I never forgot just how sweet a privilege it is to have two penises to play with, one besides your own. Best of all worlds.
I eased his jeans off, had to get his boots off to do the deed, but he looked marvelous stoked out there bottom-less on the seat.
I took my time, rummaged his balls good, sticking my nose under them and licking them slick. We had decided, like good detail oriented guys that we were, to put a clean shop towel underneath him, so there’d be no worries with stray fluids.
“Seat’s going to the shop anyway,” he snickered, but we didn’t want to negatively modify the seats’ condition any more than necessary.
He got ramrod hard fast, way too fast. It had been awhile.
But I made it last a good half hour. Took my time, lotsa breaks between strokings and lickings. Time to watch and observe his cock go through its phases. Let it get soft while I stroked the inside of his thighs, put hands under his shirt to rub his belly, tweak his nipples.
Roger never actually said he liked nipple play, never did it to me, but I knew from just how he reacted that it was an occasional treat for him.
After about three or four hard-to-soft, soft-to-hard cycles, I knew his cock was dying.
Balls all drawn up, one egg on each side of his shaft, unlike me, my balls get drawn up into one lump. Dark forest of hair all around his crotch, his legs splayed.
He’s laying back, eyes closed, jeans off, his prick pointing straight up his belly and hovering over his black tee shirt.
I took one last look at the scene in front of me, my own jeans off, cock out and bare, bobbing with its own desire. If I wasn’t careful, I might ejaculate spontaneously while working Roger. So I had to keep my own excitement in check, to some degree.
A lick up its whole length, my right hand in his balls, pulling, rummaging, feeling their insistent swelling desire. My lips over his cock-head, cupping the ridge, a little in and out, teasing enough to make him squirm into me.
Licks along his length, as much as I could reach, my knees just starting to complain from their contact with the hard garage floor. I should have put something soft underneath them, but hadn’t thought everything through far enough.
Lovely smooth prick into my mouth, as far as was comfortable, then back to just working the head exclusively. Taut slippery skin, I could feel the head start to expand ever so slightly, the sign he was just about ready to erupt.
Working the head, my tongue in heaven, and then the first burst. I sucked strongly at the head, willing his semen forth, and got five good strong streams of sperm out of him, his hips pushing frantic, the whole car seat shifting around under his movement.
I nursed as long as I could at his quickly sagging member. Roger’s cock-head always got smaller first, then his shaft would lose its pressure and get soft. I always knew, just by his body language, when he didn’t want any more contact, so I pulled off.
Such a handsome depleted penis it was. All soft in the middle of his crotch, slobbery wet and satisfied.
Roger finally opened his eyes and looked at me.
“If this is any sign of how well this car is going to turn out, we got a winner.”
He rested a moment longer, then said. “Your turn, bud. This seat gets a double christening.”
My duration was a fraction of Roger’s. My cock had stayed hard the entire time I sucked him. I had been aware of it waving around while I attended to his.
I laid back on that lovely, soon to be reupholstered, seat. I wondered if it had served as a place of pleasure for former owners. It seemed possible this was its first time.
I like first times.
Roger knew the moment his lips went over my prick-head that I was close, so he detached and spent a goodly amount of time suckling my testicles.
I liked to watch his head down there, even though the sight heightened my excitement enough to shorten my rapid arousal rate. I had spread my legs, right one off to the side, to give my buddy good access. I liked the way he took each sensitive testicle in his mouth, noodled them around, slicked them up, all the time my own penis bobbing with the movement. He’d stop sometimes and remove a pubic hair from his mouth, an occupational hazard for both of us.
By the time his lips were back over my prick-head I was already seeping fluid.
A few minutes of work was all it took. He kept his lips on my cock-head, tongue flicking my frenulum, and my hips began to heave. His lips made a tight noose around my ridge, coaxed a good pile of sperm from me.
Once I had creamed, Roger didn’t linger as long as I did on him but pulled off straight away.
And we both watched while my penis shrank back into its normal self—the soft lifeless slumber it held for most of the time.
Clothes back on, groins all damp and depleted, we got the seats out and put them in the bed of my truck, and off to Ralph’s Auto Interiors in Great Barrington they went. A good project day.
By early May we had gotten the body back from the paint shop, and had put the engine together and installed it along with the tranny back into place. The paint looked good, although I managed to put an ugly scratch on the back left quarter-panel, despite desperate precautions while working on the engine. I felt terrible, but some touch-up paint from the dealer, amused at our retro-project, and some rubbing compound, and it was barely noticeable.
The old wheel rims were in lousy shape but I’d found a set of those classic big five-spoke alloys that defined the early 911s and we had mounted them with some new Michelin rubber. It was starting to look good.
So one Saturday we were ready to go. Battery charged and connected, the oil topped up. With the spark-plugs removed we cranked it over until the oil pressure gauge registered, long enough to prime the carbs with fuel too. I’d carefully futzed with the linkage, double checked everything. Plugs back in, everything electrical attached, we gave an expectant look at each other.
“Ready?”
Roger sat down in the driver’s seat while I stayed at the back, pumped the throttle a few times and got ready to run the beast.
“Go!”
It almost started on the first try, took a second crank to catch, but then it was going.
I love the sound of that flat-six. Roger hurried back and we checked for fuel and oil leaks. I got the idle speed and mixture set easily enough after it warmed up, synched the carbs, and it settled into a nice purring idle.
We took it out for a couple thrilling miles and then pulled back into the garage.
It had sounded good. We had stopped once to check the belt tension on the fan/alternator, make sure there weren’t any oil leaks that had developed. The transmission, to our relief, was fine, the second gear synchro a little touchy but entirely workable.
We broke out beers for a celebration, and then sucked each other off at the back of my garage, cocks and balls sticking out of our jeans, for an encore.
Of course we wanted a longer drive the second time and settled on Sunday the next weekend.
So that day we drove out on a sunny late morning to the ridge above town. Green was back in the forest after a long winter, the hills soft and verdant in the distance.
Earlier that winter, when the trees were still bare of leaves, we had noticed a sweet little clearing about a half mile off Bayard’s Road up in the hills. It was on the old O’Leary homestead, which hadn’t been farmed for over a decade, as the old guy had pretty much abandoned that section of his property.
Nobody would bother us up there. Now that summer was here and the leaves were back, it was impossible to see the meadow we’d spotted earlier, but we still knew it was there. We’d figured a quick hike out there would be easy enough, and far away from the road and activity, not that there was much of that anyway, and we’d have outdoors and privacy to beat the band.
We’d packed a folded blanket in the front trunk (not a whole lot of room for much more) and put a small cooler of beer and sandwiches in the back seat.
We parked on the side of the road, took our gear, hiked through the first bit of forest and underbrush until we got to the clearing, the grassy bits still low to the ground this early in summer.
Unrolled the blanket, sat down with our beers and sandwiches, looked at each other. Quiet, slight breeze, sun felt good.
“It sounds good Clay, that sweet six makes a lovely sound as the RPMs go up through the gears.”
“Yep. Turned into a fine project. Got us through the winter.”
We looked at each other, probably thinking the same thing.
It was summer again. Nice weather. Outdoor sex again a possibility.
Each of us caught the other looking longingly at our respective groins.
My penis had gotten hard with anticipation.
I had managed to pull one leg of my shorts up a bit, so my erection stuck out the side, visible in plain sight to Roger.
He got the stupidest looking grin on his face.
“Not sure I am going to be able to hold out ’til lunch, Clay.”
He unfastened the belt on his jeans and with just a little fiddling his own penis pointed straight up out of his clothes. I salivated.
I leaned forward, straightened his legs out and pulled his denims and briefs off.
Hairy legs, still in our hiking footwear, shirt on, but my eyes had total focus on his prick, standing stiffly erect.
“I been waiting a good long time for this, Rog. All winter.”
I gave his prick-head the lightest of licks, then couldn’t stop myself from putting lips around his cock head and giving it a nice, short suckle.
My right hand went under his balls. Those balls churning away, making sperm for a nice appetizer-mouthful before lunch.
He pushed me off, got me to stand while he pulled my own lower clothes off. Gave a quick look around, as if maybe someone might be able to spot us from somewhere, then took my own erection in his mouth.
On his knees, me standing, warm Berkshire air on my rump in the sun.
My buddy going to work on me. I couldn’t imagine how heaven could be an improvement on this.
I watched my penis go in and out of his mouth. I liked it when he detached to lick under my balls, spreading my legs to give me a good slobbery work-over.
I think he knew I loved seeing him on his knees, since I could both see him suck me and simultaneously watch his own penis wave around while he attended to my excitement.
As far as I am concerned, the only sight in the world better than an erect penis is two of them. Unless he had just climaxed himself, Roger would always be hard when he stroked me, sucked me, did anything to me. I think one of the greatest arousal mechanisms in the world involves arousing someone else.
So he’s got one hand under my balls, cupping them, squeezing them, and his lips are staying mostly at my cock-head.
Sun out, breeze feels good on the skin, not even any insects around to spoil things.
I feel my balls begin to tighten, my hips starting to push back into Roger’s face. His tongue is doing lovely things to the very apex of my cock.
Off I go. Hips pushing frantic, sperm pressure impossible to resist. Roger keeps sucking, pulling a good pile of sperm, more than a couple full swallows, out of me.
His eyes are closed, he continued to nurse.
I deflated fast, it had been an urgent explosion.
Roger finally withdrew. His cock is pointing straight out from his groin thicket, looks marvelous in the sunlight.
At the moment, I didn’t even want to savor the afterglow of my climax, but stretched myself on my back on the blanket.
I gestured for him to straddle my chest. I want his cock up close and personal.
Big heavy, well furred thighs on each side of my chest and ribcage, I feel the heat of his legs’ confluence.
He pushes his prick along my sternum, then along my face, while I try to lick him going by. Dangles his balls, those lovely furry orbs, into my mouth for a good slobbery suckling.
The smell is intoxicating. My face is engulfed in the heady aroma of male—male Roger—his most important parts. Forest loam, powerful, fertile, potent.
He wiggles his hips, moving his testicles around inside my mouth.
He holds himself off me on all fours, prick pointing straight down, and I take it in, pulling on his ass cheeks with my hands.
He’s worked up, we both are at this early stage of the afternoon, we’ll do two times for certain today.
He starts thrusting. I love the way I can feel his ass cheeks clench with each push, feel their indentations as they squeeze.
He is aware enough to go careful, not too far into my throat, I am quite at his mercy at this stage.
My tongue delights with the sliding of his cock, feeling the smooth raised ridge of his sperm tube, that passage that soon will be pulsing with semen.
Hips frantic now, getting him to the edge, then over with a crescendo. I feel his ass squeeze mightily, that first spasm of sperm jets into my mouth, then another, and another until he gets five or six good pushes worth of fluid home.
We sit back, exhausted. We are so familiar with each other now, there is nothing awkward about our post-orgasm behaviours.
We look at each other, then check out the soft, wet limp penises we both have.
He laughs. “Good one, bud. That sure felt sweet.”
We look out around the meadow, peaceful as can be.
The beers come out, we are mostly quiet, although we shifted our blanket into the shade. Last thing we need is sunburned privy parts today. And we’d gone and heated ourselves up.
Out of the sun, the air felt nice on our bare skin. The beers were still cold, we took our time with them and our sandwiches. I kept looking over at Roger’s bare body, that protruding but taut belly above well-furred legs while he sat cross-legged. We would not be leaving this field without another round of semen from each of us. Can a summer day get any better?
So we finish our food, and our eyes meet. I run the fingers over my cock, just beginning to gather itself due to the scene—a naked Roger in front of me. I’m thinking about what I wanted to do to his penis, the prospect of another sperm launch.
“Rog, what do you say to a ‘no hands’ afternoon? Our fingers been plenty busy with the car and maybe need a break?”
He had a big goofy grin going. “Yah, sounds good. We didn’t perform any mouth action on the Porsche, but I bet your own fuel lines need a good cleaning.”
“I’ll make sure to drain your fuel pump, buddy” I reply. He is starting to laugh.
“Test the limits of suspension?”
“Good thing the motor’s not a two-stroke,” I went on. “I like a delay between the intake cycle and the exhaust.”
“And no emissions controls!” We both cracked up.
I stood up first, my penis stirring.
I walked over and planted myself in front of Roger, my prick right at head height. Spread my legs a bit to get just the right altitude.
He touched the tip of his tongue to my piss-slit, then closed his eyes.
I watched as he tongued and licked me, he wasn’t even looking at me, just going by feel. Tongue under my balls, contorting his head a little to reach my undersides, while my prick rested on his face.
I watched while his own penis got hard, in there between his legs. I wasn’t about to make this a quick afternoon, we had plenty of time before we would need to return home.
So I backed off, had him stand, got down on my own knees.
Roger looked at me with that gleam in his eyes I had come to expect, then edged his way closer to me til his penis was eye-level.
I did the same to him as he did to me. Closed my eyes, took his prick head into my mouth, going slow, licks up and down his shaft, under his balls, rubbing his now slick penis all over my face. How in the world could anyone not like this sort of thing?
But neither of us were in a hurry.
I stood again, we looked at each other, then our crotches, then batted our pricks together. No hands.
It wasn’t that the rest of the afternoon went by in a blur, because I have a clear memory of everything we did, only that we indulged ourselves with a range of activities, never did any one thing for very long, always took time between lickings and suckings to let everything subside, so we could stay in that expectant zone. Once hard, we never let the other’s penis get entirely soft.
If Roger’s began to droop a little I would sidle over and tongue him just enough to get it stiff again, then take a step back and admire it in the afternoon light.
The “no-hands” thing, which we had done a couple times before, is great fun. It has a certain amount of tease to it, since I would look over at my buddy’s erection, have the most intense desire to run my fingers over it, but the “rules” didn’t allow it, so had to do all the touching with my mouth and tongue.
I had him lie down on the blanket, spread his legs so I could nuzzle his balls, nurse at them for long intervals, then run my tongue up and down his shaft.
I would concentrate on just one area at a time. His balls. His shaft. Worked his cock-head, although by the end he was so sensitive I could only to it for a few seconds at a time, before backing off to enjoy seeing it bobbing in the afternoon sunlight.
We did the sixty-nine position, first with me on top, holding myself up by my arms, then Roger on top.
I liked the look of his balls from underneath, at one point the sun was behind his scrotum and gave the hairs a wonderful back-lit look. Wish I could have managed to take a picture then.
The sixty-nine is splendid, my only complaint, just about the only one anyway, is that it means my tongue can’t reach Roger’s sensitive frenulum spot, my lickings perforce have to go around the back side of his cock-head ridge.
So towards the end I had him lie down on his back and spent a good ten minutes on his frenulum alone. Kissed it. Flicked my tongue over it til his hips were absolutely urgent. Blew on it with my hot breath, poked it with the tip of my tongue. Up close, it was the most gorgeous frenulum I had ever seen. I told him so.
“That’s just because it’s right in front of you Clay. Put someone else’s there and you’d say the same thing.”
I told him no, and as far as I was concerned, there couldn’t have been a more handsome penis anywhere in the world than his.
To prove it, I took him in fully with my mouth, finished him off with a lovely working of just his cock-head, no further, while his hips pushed and sperm filled my mouth. I nursed as long as I could, while Roger lay there on the blanket, with his head back, eyes closed.
He finally pulled off and gave me a look. I saw his eyes dart to my own cock, pointing straight out between my legs while I was between his.
“Clay. Magnificent. Stupendous. My penis won’t stir for a week now. You done drained the whole swamp of my gonads.”
“Give me a minute and I’ll do you.” He looked hard at my erection.
I laid back, in that splendid world of anticipation and expectation that only an insistent erection can produce.
The shade on our blanket had shifted, so I was in full sun at this stage. It was warm, but not uncomfortably so.
Looking down, there’s my lovely erect penis hovering over my torso. The light above us gives it a shadow on my belly. Balls all drawn up, my naked buddy just about to attend to me. I like that his own prick is wagging soft, means I did him good.
Roger never looks at me while he pays attention to business. I can guess why but really don’t know for a fact. He clearly enjoys the immediate physicality of man-to-man sex, but the idea of it maybe doesn’t sit square with him. Seeing is reinforcing in his head our bisexual natures? Or perhaps he just likes to close his eyes to focus on touch, smell, taste?
And I don’t care. It means he is totally attentive to my own pleasure. So he kneels down and plants his face under my balls. I spread my legs, lifting a little, for good access. Like me, I know he really wants to use his hands, but today is no-hands day.
So he licks.
He licks softly. He licks wetly. I feel his tongue running all around my ball sac. I feel his tongue pressing my perineum, causing all manner of lovely sensations. He hasn’t even gotten to my penis.
He kisses my inner thighs, the feel of his beard grazing my balls is wonderful.
Finally, finally, he lifts his head up enough to run the tip of his tongue along my penis, drawn-up ball sac to trembling tip. My watching doubles the pleasure he is causing. It is a long, languid trip his tongue makes, just the pointed little wet tip.
My piss-slit has a clear drop of fluid at its aperture.
Another long lick, the whole wet flat of his tongue now, bottom to top, he avoids my oozing fluid, but it increases into a larger drop.
He knows I am way too close, so he goes back to nuzzling my expectant balls until my erection loses just a bit of stiffness.
He does this. Over and over again. Licks along my shaft until my hips are quivering, then back under those testicles anxious in their tightly stretched home.
Sun is shining behind him, I am only barely aware of insect noises, the rustling of the meadow grasses in the breeze, just enough to cool the surface of my sweaty skin.
But his excitement is nearly as great as mine, and he finally cannot keep himself away from my cock-head.
A lick to the seeping fluid, his tongue pushes it all around my glans, along that sharp ridge, up and down my shaft.
Then lips over my cock-head, no movement as they make a tight, wet noose around my shaft, just below the ridge, and he holds me still in constricted lips.
Involuntarily I push into him. The wet friction is intense.
He goes down as far as possible, but then comes back to just grip my cock-head. His tongue is doing a little dance on my frenulum.
And then I can’t hold back. The moment I start to push hard, Roger starts some serious suction, just around the head.
My hips heave. My ass tightens. I feel each pulse—one, two, three, four, five good ones as the hydraulic cycle finally lets loose. Each burst short and intense, each one slightly less urgent than the one before. Barely endurable. Eminently enjoyable.
He keeps sucking, his cheeks indenting, until I am drained and a warm glow radiates from my happy groin.
He stretched himself down next to me, and I put a grateful hand on his thigh. We napped a bit.
Our little lapse of exhaustion posed some problems, however. Our sleeptime, however short (a little over an hour perhaps) was enough to cause a bit of sunburn on our white, winter-pale lower regions. Upper bodies had gotten some sun and a little tan from yardwork in the Spring months, but nothing below waists. After getting home and taking a shower, I didn’t like the reddened look of my thighs. Both of us worried that wives would notice and make a comment or ask some embarrassing question about why those areas looked like they’d had some sun, but perhaps a testament to the index of our domestic relationships, neither of them did.
****
A couple weeks later, feeling like a couple young bucks, we drove to town in our flashy new ride, did a hardware-store run and a couple other errands. When we got back to the car, there was a note under the windshield wiper.
“Ha!” I muttered.
I unfolded it. It said “Nice vintage car you got there. If you ever want to sell, give me a call. I’ll pay top dollar. Looks clean and sleek,” along with a name and number.
We looked at each other. Sell it? No way. Not until the end of the summer anyway. We’d only just finished it.
But Roger had a gleam in his eye.
“Okay, maybe not such a bad idea, Clay. Summer is our time now, whether we got the car or not. With warm weather back, we got our normal outdoors time stuff possible again. Backyards. Hikes. But if we can sell this thing and make some money? Wouldn’t Barb be pleased? Make some money out of this stupid project they’ve been complaining about all winter?”
He had a point.
It would make our next project that much easier to stomach.
“Look Clay, I’m better at the business side of all this sort of thing. Frankly you’re a disaster when it comes to the financial parts, price negotiation, all of that.”
I had no argument with this.
Well, we called the guy that evening, or Roger anyway did, put us all on speaker phone at his place. After some description, answering questions about the work we’d done, (he was particularly pleased at the brand new carbs, to my pleasure), he tossed out a price that made Roger’s eyes bug out. We exchanged exultant looks. We made plans for him to see it. He was a summer resident, sounded like big city money.
Next weekend he checked out the car, examined it from head to toe, complimented us on our work (I had to thank Roger’s welding skill and attention to detail) and after a breathless test drive paid us an amount of money that almost embarrasses me.
Both Carrie and Barb were amazed and happy. “You made twenty grand? Never would have thought it possible,” Barb said when we reported to them.
Out in the now empty garage, Roger and I grinned at each other like a pair of bankrobbers.
Roger started to get ambitions. “Maybe we can launch a business? Roger and Clay’s Restoration Service. I can see it now. Great future.”
“It would sound better as Clay and Roger’s Restoration Service though,” I pointed out. “Got the alliteration thing going then.”
“Right And YOUR name then comes first.” He shot me a mock annoyed look.
“I almost always come first,” I replied. He snorted.
But my own mind started churning too. “You know? I suddenly got an idea. I’m better at the old Volkswagen stuff, a lot cheaper for parts and availability than the high end of the German market we’ve just experienced. I bet we could buy and rework one of those old two-window VW vans, pre-1968.”
Roger frowned.
“Why a VW van? Those things were terrible cars.”
“Cheaper initial investment, parts easy to get, and I know that world a lot better. I’ll make a nice hot little two-liter motor with two 42DCNF Webers and a cam. It will be super.”
He still looked puzzled. “But a van?”
“Enough room in the back to put a mattress down, bud. Think of the possibilities.”
The smile I got back from my favorite penis pal would have warmed up the Arctic.
We’d have another winter project. We’d have a mobile bedroom for our antics. Even after the summer looming ahead of us had gone, winter time fun would be more possible than ever.
“You’re on.” We shook hands.