Wednesday, Aug. 27, 2003 - 5:42 p.m.
The Tree and The Root

Speaking of distractions, this was fun.

He sat there near a tree on the hill. It was dark, but he looked young and cute. Red ball cap. Leaning against a big backpack. He looked out of place, unsure of what this patch of hill and lawn off the beach was all about.

Cautiously, my gaze returned his. Emboldened by his impassive yet steady stare, I strode over under the tree. Still couldn’t see him very well. Still couldn’t get a read.

I went away. But not far. Plunked down on a granite ledge across the way and watched him less intrusively.

Boys were pussyfooting around me, around him. Everyone seemed skittish.

But not me. I knew who I wanted. Just needed a feel for his desire.

An attractive East Indian guy was one of the pussyfooters. Were I not betrothed in my mind to Mr. Red Ball Cap, he’d have done just fine. Mr. Red Ball Cap, by the way, was now lying right down under that tree, his head resting on his backpack. The East Indian fellow walked over to him. Stood there looking down at the reclining boy, waiting for a sign. None came. He kneeled, however—bolder than I had been—and I squinted to make out what followed.

What followed—a minute or two’s worth of the East Indian guy handjobbing Mr. Red Ball Cap—was furtive, but at least confirmed on the most basic level the latter’s proclivities.

From what I could see, Mr. Red Ball Cap did not appear to be reciprocating in any way; the East Indian guy soon walked away.

I bided my time. I was all set to make my way over again when Mr. Red Ball Cap picked up and left. My dismay was short-lived, however: he looked back at me as he wandered away. A few steps later, he looked back again.

I followed him in the dark, at a respectable distance, as he made his way through the park. Jittery and inflamed, I lit a smoke. He descended into the belly of the grounds, down a steep hill, and lay down under a mammoth, probably three hundred year old tree. We were yards and yards away from the cruisy part of the park.

I walked over, stood close by, unsure of what to do. He stared straight up, the same inscrutable face.

“Hey, do you have an extra cigarette?” he suddenly asked.

Flustered, I admitted that I’d just run out. “But here,” I added, “you can finish mine.”

“Wow, thanks,” he said, stretching out his hand towards mine.

I stood back a few feet, not wanting to be presumptuous. He puffed on my smoke. Finally, I said, “So, um, you’re a hard guy to read.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, his voice grinning, beckoning.

I sat down, his slim boy body laid out like a banquet. I asked his age. 28. “Wow, you look about 18 to me,” I exclaimed.

I reached out, slipped my hand under his t-shirt. Flat, slightly hairy tummy so warm I imagined steam rising off it. He groaned, a sharp, excited intake of breath.

I undid his belt, his zipper. Grey boxer briefs, a protuberant bulge half exposed. I traced the floppy length of it over and down the cotton.

I traced and I traced and I traced.

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. He laughed, then resumed his moanings as I finally reached the end of that cotton trail, yanked down his underwear and watched his humongous cock spring up into the night air.

Lest that delectable pillar get cold, I immediately sucked it up. It was one of those huge penises that God had to have used my throat to mold. It filled me up, yet I didn’t gag once. He squirmed and he writhed, and he patted my hair. I cupped his warm, smooth balls in one hand as I pulled his underwear all the way down and grabbed at his buttcheeks with the other. Had we not been so exposed—we were right the fuck in the middle of a busy park, busy even at this time of night—I’d have liked to inspect more closely, and at length. As it was, the moment my finger veered over his hole, Mr. Red Ball Cap began bouncing up and down on it. I felt the top of my wrist on the cool grass, my outstretched hand embedded deeper and deeper into the crack of his ass, one digit poking inside.

His moans got louder, my own dick spasmed dervishly, his balls danced in my hand—and with a gasp he exploded in my mouth.

Wow. I relished that huge, briny load a while, then spit it onto the other side of him. I wiped my lip, still tasting him. He tucked that still-throbbing cock back in his pants.

“Hey, thanks,” I said.

“Thank you!” he said.

And I wandered off into the night, sniffing his ass on my fingers, my throat and crotch vibrating, tasting, celebrating: the synesthesia of desire.