2001-03-09 - 01:01:45
Stairwell To Heaven

Stairwell To Heaven

One cloudy afternoon during my recent visit to Toronto, I walked over to a University of Toronto library to find an article for my Malcolm X paper. My route took me through Queen's Park, site of more than a few raunchy adventures while I lived there. As I approached the park, smiling at memories of past exploits, I recognized the red brick house: the university's Religious Studies department. My grin deepening, I detoured behind the building, grabbed my camera out of my track bag, and snapped this picture:

(insert appropriate flashback music here)

It's a sultry Friday night, the end of May 1998. After a couple frustratingly unproductive hours on the GayTorontoSex chatroom, I head out into the night about 12:30. Instead of going to my usual haunts, I opt to check out Queen's Park. I've never had sex there before. Tonight, I decide, is a night for al fresco lust.

I am shocked at how many men are wandering through the park. It's fairly well lit, but big droopy tree branches cast ample shadows, pools of darkness throughout the terrain. Beneath almost every big tree, once my eyes adjust, I see men commingling, cruising, circling.

I wander back and forth, back and forth, growing more and more excited. Finally I notice a cute, stocky, strawberry-blonde guy in a jean jacket. He looks back at me. I cruise him more intently, follow him. He sits down on a bench, and I soon join him. We chat. His name is Stan and he's 27, I learn.

Stan says he comes here every so often, but he is skittish about actually having sex right here in the park. "I was here a couple weeks ago and a bunch of cops showed up, eh? There must have been 20 of them. It was just like a raid! Thankfully I was heading home for the night anyway so I didn't get caught."

I am getting such a kick out of his bubbly, neurotic personality: it doesn't much matter to me if we do the nasty. "But hey, I know of a spot nearby that's a little more private, if you're interested," Stan says.

I am interested.

We cross the street on the east side of the park. Stan leads me into the parking lot behind a red brick house, and down a few steps leading to a basement entrance. Out comes his big cock. I fall to my knees: open-mouthed, expectant, grinning.

A minute later Stan anxiously whispers, "Someone's coming!"

I stand up; he does up his pants. Two women in their 40s walk by a few feet away, chatting and laughing, oblivious to us.

The coast is clear. The big cock is back at the back of my throat. The big cock soon explodes.

I am delirious. I don't want to cum. I thank Stan, give him a hug before he wanders on home. I head straight back across the street to the park.

Within minutes, I see the outline of a man perched on a picnic table underneath a tree. I veer in closer.

Oh my god. He's hot. Oh my god, he's so fucking hot! Probably about 30. Short brunette hair, khaki shorts, white t-shirt, big brown eyes that pucker my asshole. Muscled biceps spilling out of that t-shirt.

Once I see how gorgeous he is, I feel stupid for walking up to him so brazenly. I'm probably not his type. I freeze.

He stands up, walks up to me, pushes me against the humongous tree trunk, and grabs my crotch. Next thing I know, he's on his knees with my dick in his mouth. A few other men are starting to wander in for a peek. Hot Man stands up; I fumble with his khakis. Out flops a juicy, thick, beautiful cock. I might just faint. Instead, I gag. And gag. And gag.

Hot Man kisses me, roughly, tongue scoping all the way down my throat. His shorts and underwear are down around his ankles; I grab hold of rock-hard, smooth buns. I must be dreaming: this guy has a porno star body.

There are three or four men standing around us. One guy has his cock out, stroking along as he watches. Another guy walks right up to us, starts grabbing for Hot Man's dick. Hot Man politely but firmly shoos the hand away.

"Um, this is getting too crowded for me," he says, looking at me with those big brown eyes.

"Hey, I know of a place nearby where we can get some privacy!" I reply.

We do up our clothes. I lead him across the street to the stairwell behind the red brick house.

"Cool," he says, as his big dick flops back out into the night. We kiss; I hook his t-shirt behind his neck. He sucks my dick, twists my nipples too hard. I fall, again, to my knees. I am in fucking heaven. I don't ever want to forget the perfection of his cock.

"Rim me," he commands. I almost squeal; as I twirl him around, I say "You don't have to ask twice!" He rests his hands on the cement ledge as I worm my way in between those stubbornly muscled mounds. My favorite kind of challenge, and well worth the effort. His tight spongey butt suffocates me; I am drowning; I am falling down, down, down. I slurp my way to God.

"I want to fuck you," he says. Hmm, now this I hadn't anticipated. But oh, he's so fucking hot!

I ask him if he has a condom. Yes, he does. And lube, too, thank god. He pushes me against the black metal rail. I claw the cement ledge as he slowly splits me open. A porno star is fucking me, I think. And he does.

Does he ever.

Then, I glance over to my left, into the parking lot. Reflected on the window of a parked car, I see the unmistakable image of a grey-haired security guard. On his rounds.

"Someone's coming!" I hiss.

"What?" Hot Man exclaims, sliding out of me and back into his jeans in three seconds flat. I do mine back up. We wait. No security guard, or anyone else, comes around the corner.

I feel dumb. "Sorry," I say. "I'm positive I saw a security guard in the car window, about to come around the corner."

We pick up where we left off. He plugs me up again. But good.

Then he pulls out, we jerk each other off and I don't care who might be coming around the corner: I scream bloody murder as I shoot all over him. He is impressed.

The instant I've cum, I'm intimidated by his beauty, his porno-star perfection. I can't quite believe this has happened.

"Well, um, thanks," I say, as we're about to part. "I just have to say, that was the best sex I ever had!"

"It was?" he said. "Well, okay, I'm glad."

As soon as I said it, I knew it wasn't true. This al fresco tryst had been hot, but it was not the best sex I'd ever had.

It was the hottest man I'd ever had sex with.

But not the best sex.

There is a difference.

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