Ain't Enough Time: A Short

I got to bust this nut. Spray this cum. Milk this bull. I spent the entire night in a hot, sweaty room with a large hand that has proven again and again to be an unsatisfying lover.

It is near the brink of darkness. No longer night, not quite near daybreak either. I am scouring the bushes of the park across the street to find something decent—purely ridiculous. I am too rich and too damn handsome to be on the prowl like this. I am too old and slightly graying to be doing this anymore, and yet I am too full of a youthful sex drive not to. I know exactly where to look. I know exactly where to cruise. I know if there was a police sweep earlier, there is nothing out now but the second-rate prostitutes earning bail money for their first-rate friends and lovers. If not, I can have my pick of the litter, free of any monetary charges.

I cannot hit the bars because of the damn city ordinances drastically rolling back the club hours. I cannot hit the baths because they are frequently raided now by undercover officers. I cannot phone someone to come over—ain’t enough time. I have an important business meeting in the morning, which means I cannot have my usual free-for-all without the smell of condom or ass whiffing from my dick hours later.

There is no moonlight, just a streetlight from the far distance. I cannot see. It has been a very long time since I have done this, too damn long. I make my way through the maze based on the pure carefree memories of yesteryears. Once I know I am in a safe space, listening to the subtle rumblings of wet mouths against moist skin and pounding flesh pounding into more flesh, I unzip my pants and let my swollen dick swing through.

The old parade route, I remember, peeling back my shirt behind my head to show off my home-gym body.

A hand reaches out, followed by several more as I pass through. A touch here, a touch there. One hand is too hard, too rough, too callused, and too manly. Another is too soft, too gentle, too smooth, and too girlie for my tastes. Even if I find my right fit right off the bat, I cannot immediately pull over to make inquiries. The point of the strut is to get as many interested men out of hiding to check me out, having the boldest of the bold pursue my dangling participle. As the dust settles, I come across some of the most beautiful fucks; a number of them too beautiful to be hiding in the darkness and shrubs. Others are so grotesque that they should never have left the zoo—much less the wild. As I mature into a salted goatee, I know that some of the best headhunters in the world are men who should never see the light of civilized day.

I do not flinch when this skinny eighteen-year-old kid with bad skin and buck teeth crosses my path. He reaches over to caress my piece, touching it like it is the first time he is touching another dick: no technique whatsoever. Again, this is not where I am looking for technique. I am very patient with him, although he proves to be trying. My final straw comes when he tries to press his cracked lips against mine. He is a guileless newbie looking for love in trade. For his benefit, I boorishly blow him off for this short, attractive bulldog-built guy.

He wastes no time stroking my meat. Technique. He does not even fall to his knees. He just bends down to give it a quick tongue swab, turning around and bend over to expose his fine-looking fair-skinned ass. He wants some dick; bareback or safe, he doesn’t give a shit.

Any other day, man, any other day, I think, shaking my head. I would take it over behind the bushes and mark it as my territory before the glorious sunrise.

I don’t have time to explain. I move on.

My many prospects from before dwindles into nothingness. I am left with a hard dick, dubbed by the peepers as being too choosey.

As the seconds morph into a multitude of minutes, finding someone to suck my dick becomes increasingly hard. Deep throats and mouths for some reason have gone on strike, and asses have become their new union scabs. Never in my life have so many bastards wanted to come off their asses rather than their orals.

Time is running out.

I need to shoot some cream. Empty the trash. Haul some ashes. Get over that mountain. Paste the glue. Spew a load and jizz on a creamsicle dream.

I am pulling at my dick as if it is a war cry. It is soon heard by this stunning guy with a phenomenal paunch that looks becoming. He will go down on me then and there, but I cajole him over behind the bushes just in case. His mouth is like a wet dream. He needs no extra coaching about working the head or inside the piss slit or thoroughly tongue-bathing the balls properly. He knows what he is doing. I just need to lean back against a tree and enjoy the ride. He receives even more encouragement when I put my hand on the top of his head.

“Damn, I want to fuck the shit out of you.” The words slip through my lips.

“I don’t get fucked,” he announces, sorrowing.

“I didn’t mean it. I can’t have any ass on me.”

He sucks me for a short while, then suggests, “Getting it between my thighs isn’t getting ass.”

I take his words into consideration. After some tender fondling I have him posted up against some old tree, humping away between his clamped thighs. The only thing that is stopping me is this small bit of hanging ass on the other side that I proudly blast my wad against. I am satisfied. He seems satisfied because I am satisfied, but I want to make sure that he is satisfied by tugging on his dick. He tells me that he is all right—because there ain’t enough time.