I am waiting in front of my condo building when I see a blur of yellow come around the corner. I hear the screeching of brakes,
I start to get cold feet. I have never been picked up by a guy in an automobile or had car sex. I’m 19 and six months out of high school. I can see the dude’s handsome face as he parks in front. He is not catfishing me. He is the same guy I chatted with on Grindr.
As he unrolls the window, I get a closer look: He is perhaps 30, has short black hair, a closely cropped mustache and beard, blue eyes and full lips. I like his nose — straight and not too big. If a guy’s nose is too small or too big, it ruins the rest for me.
I breathe out a weak “hello,” but he doesn’t reply, just glares at me and once-overs my face and body. I’m not sure what to make of his smirk. Does he not think I’m good-looking? Does he think I'm too skinny at 5-9, 140 pounds? Does my baby face make him think I’m underage? That’s the thing about online pickup sites. All the descriptions and photos don’t necessarily convey reality or the full vibe of a guy.
As for me, I’m already hot for this beautiful hunk in his black leather harness.
“Get in,” he commands.
He is swigging a can of Rolling Rock, and we’re not saying a lot. I know this about him from his Grindr profile: he is looking for a young guy with a hot mouth for car sex in his yellow vintage Chevy Impala convertible. I also know from his photos that he has a flat belly and luxurious hairy chest.
On this hot night in Boston, I’m off for what could be the ride of my life.
He heads up the street, around the corner and onto the main highway and I start to wonder if this is a good idea. He senses my unease and tells me to relax. “There’s a cooler with cans of beer on the backseat. Get one.”
I could use some brew. Soon we are out in suburbia on narrow tree-lined roads, away from inner-city Boston where I live.
The beer helps calm me down. Suddenly he reaches over, grabs my left hand, pushes it onto his lap and tells me that I need to do what I am told.
I rub the fly of his Levis and wonder if I should proceed or wait to be told what to do. He tells me to rub harder. As I move my hand around in search of hard flesh, I can feel his penis. It is long and fat and I don’t feel a mushroom cap or ridge. He is uncut.
Surprising myself, I take the chance of asking if he has showered. I’m hoping he hasn’t. He isn’t startled by the question. "Not since yesterday. I’m nice and ripe down there, if that’s what you want to know. I guess you’re a pig." He is right.
I reach for his belt buckle and try to push the end of the leather strap out of the clasp, but he slaps my hand away and tells me to get on the floor. I do as I am told. My hands are trembling as I unbuckle him and now the challenge is to open the top button of his tight jeans, not that easy with him sitting. I persist until I can see the elastic band on top of his white briefs with the Hanes Classic label staring at me.
He makes a left turn and heads down a narrow road with no houses in sight. “Get my Levi’s down,” he says. I unbutton the fly and shimmy them down to his ankles with some effort. I am anxious to see his whole package.
I feel the shaft inside his Hanes tight-whiteys and am ready to inhale his pungent masculinity. “Pull it out of the fly,” he orders. It is about 7 inches long and fairy thick. The silky foreskin slides easily up and down the shaft and he is right about not showering. His briefs are sweaty and his foreskin scent — a pungent combination of dried piss and cum plus whatever makes an uncut dick smell the way it does — comes through.
His voice becomes louder. “What’s the holdup? Pull my briefs down, dumbass. Get your mouth on it. My dirty foreskin needs a tongue bath.”
I do what he says, wishing I could take his fragrant undies home to sniff whenever I feel like it. I use my lower body to leverage myself and move onto his lap. I’d prefer to go slow and sniff his crotch and take in his gamey scent. He is lusciously hairy, with a black pelt of pubic hair and a treasure trail that climbs through his belly button up to his hairy chest. But he’s impatient.
“If you don't get your mouth on my dick right now, I’m going to stop the car and push you out."
I have no clue what street or even what town we are in. I fill my mouth with spittle and push my head over the skin-covered crown. His dick smells so fragrant that I wonder if he can smell it himself.
While I am contemplating how best to suck him, I I learn that he has other plans. “I’m hurrying you because I have to take a piss,“ he says. “I have had five beers. You know what that means for you, right?”
I guess that means we won’t be stopping at a McDonald’s so he can use an actual urinal.
Before I can answer, he barks, “Didn’t you hear me? Get your lips on my dick, but don’t suck it, just hold it in your mouth.”
My stomach feels queasy. While I’ve watched watersports in porn movies, I haven’t had any desire to try it, especially so far as drinking it.
He grabs the back of my head as my lips are pursed on the head of his softening dick. It starts as a trickle I can barely feel. Twenty seconds later his warm stream is spraying my tonsils and filling my mouth.
“You better not spill any on my car seat. You are going to swallow all of it.”
The taste surprises me. It is a slightly salty but not unpleasant. The beers he drank must have watered it down.
Even more surprising is how much I love the feeling of him gushing in my mouth, making my cheeks bulge. I need to concentrate on not spilling any on the leather seat or else he’ll throw me out of the car. I make sure all of his piss slides down my throat and into my belly. That he is forcing me to perform this taboo act has me beyond excited.
After about two minutes, the stream lets up and I can taste it more acutely. It has left an odd flavor in my mouth – tangier than anything I have ever tasted. It tastes a bit like a vitamin pill with a slightly metallic flavor.
Rock-hard in my jeans I am about to shoot without touching myself.
“Good boy,” he says in a softer voice. “I think this is going to work out. Now hand me a few beers.”
While I am reaching in the back seat, he is on his cell phone speaking in a low voice. I can’t hear what he is saying. He stuffs four beers inside his jacket pockets and we take off.
“Where are we headed?” I say, apprehensively.
“You’ll see.”
(to be continued)
