Restricted

Restricted

By siktici©2017

A Funny Guy's Biker Fantasy

 As I walked by a biker hangout, I thought of a scene from “Peewee’s Big Adventure.” Three rows of motorcycles arced like theater seats from the sign of a biker bar called Restricted. After I recovered from the giggles, I wondered why anyone would name a bar with a word that means prohibited. Wasn’t the goal to get people in the bar? Hearing some of the stories associated with the bar, Restricted seemed an appropriate name, considering if you stood under the wrong flag or sewed on the wrong patch, you may get your ass handed to you by loyalists.

“Can I help you?” was said so close to my ear that I thought someone had spoken with a megaphone. On jerking away, I was surprised by a rather tall man with a wedge head, scruffy face, and large gold earring dangling from the right side of his head. His smile spread from one side of the wedge to the other. He doubled over in laughter, as did the small crowd behind him, because they thought it pretty damn funny that I arced like a diver to keep from crashing into the bikes. But I over corrected and ended up falling to my side like a chalk outline. “Here, let me help you up,” Wedge said, still laughing.

“That shit was hilarious, man, but just between you and me, you saved yourself from certain death,” he advised while nodding to the theater of bikes. “You wrecked any of those suckers, you’ll have some big fuckers in there who’d rape you like an alter boy, then kill like a sacrifice.”

I was shocked: Rape me like an altar boy?  Kill me like a sacrifice? I stared at this tall stranger whose dark-blue eyes and horse grin hypnotized me despite the fear. I was stunned by how big God made some men. This one was about six-six, and had to weigh at least two-fifty. Yeah, that was how I like my men, but I didn’t know if this big fella played on my team.

Ask any gay man about gay recognition, when indicators are vague, and he would probably say, “That depends.” Well, in this situation, it DID depend, and the indicators were definitely vague; but being the cock whore that I am, I went for it.

“What’s your name, tall drink of water?” I asked, pushing out my best butch stance and squinting with Eastwood swagger.  Again, the tall stranger and crowd doubled over in laughter. 

“I can’t take it, I’m hurtin’. You really are a funny guy,” the stranger said and extended a hand. “Let me buy you a beer,” he said, as he pulled me toward the entrance. “By the way, my name’s Pete, Pete Jenkins; and that’s the gang. The small crowd waved, smiled, and went into Restricted.

“Jimmy Haze,” I said and followed Pete into the bar.

I sat at the bar looking around like a boob, but no one took notice; in fact, the bar looked like any neighborhood bar. It even had a pinball machine with Wonder Woman throwing her golden lasso at any one who dared play. The bar, made of scorched wood and shellacked to a high gloss, ran along the width of the room, where silver barstools with ripped upholstery sat equally spaced. Sawdust and peanut shells littered the floor and giant utility spools doubled as tables. An overworked and faded pool table sat next to an inoperable jukebox, but a DJ booth had been installed. Banners and flags of rendezvous past, present, and future, along with playmate-of-the-year pictures, hung on paneling.

“Yep, I bought the bar back in ’93 when I retired and told the army to kiss my short hairs,” Pete said before taking a swig. “I don’t worry about profit, I worry about having a good time!” he said and rang a bell, whose proximity was close enough to make me hop from my stool and spill my beer all over.

“Damn funny guy,” Pete said while shaking his head at my antics. “Damn funny” he said laughing and wiping up my mess. But his expression turned stern before leaning toward me. “You’re buying the next round, by God,” he said and flashed that horse grin.

After the crowd got their drinks, I relaxed a little, heard music from the DJ booth and chatter from the pool table. I had survived Restricted and I had made some friends. Feeling less jumpy, I felt free to look around some more: I hadn’t noticed at my first pass of the bar that there were numerous water stains on the ceiling or the warping paneling, nor had I noticed the leather silhouette at the end of the bar.

He finished his beer and counted the barstools as he neared. Chewing on a toothpick, he asked, “Do you come in a bigger size?” causing the bar to explode in laughter.

He wore mirrored glasses that recalled the gay leather god, Ledermeister, in that picture where he’s reclining on Kawasaki. Six-eight, about 280 pounds of solid muscle, this stranger—this hairy, leather Sequoia—leaned into me and examined me like a concept car. 

“You wanna look under the hood?” I asked, hoping that my trembling wasn’t noticeable. Laughter exploded again.

“Good one,” he said but he didn’t explode.

My trembling doubled.

“Frank Nesbit,” he said and extended a gloved hand.

“Jimmy,” I said, as electricity passed through me.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked with a drawl unfamiliar to me. It wasn’t a welcoming Dixie drawl or a lilt-y mid-Atlantic drawl. His smacked of southwestern swagger: phrasings to set him apart, diction to keep things brief.

He continued to study me like a chess move, then concluded, “Pete’s right, you are pretty funny,” he said and slapped me on the back.

“Y-Yeah, you know, I could use a whiskey,” I said and wiped relief from my brow.

“You a comedian or somethin’?” he asked.

“No, just fearing for my life.”

“You scare?” he asked and placed both hands to his chest. “Of me?” he asked further and searched the bar for rationale.

“Frank, you should brush up on your first impression. No offense,” I said, hands up, so he could see my palms.

“None taken. Hell, I’ve been told that,” he said and sighed, “but what can I do?” he asked and lowered his head.

“Well, you could—“

“A joke,” he said and threw back his whiskey. After grimacing, he explained, “I don’t really give a shit what anyone thinks of me, you know.  I’m too old, been through too much, and I just don’t have the time or patience.”

“How old is old? You can’t be over fifty,” I said.

“Well, thanks, but I passed that off-ramp twelve miles back. I’m 62,” he said and stood over me like a jungle canopy with arms outstretch. Compared to my 5-6/145-pound frame, Frank looked like a man of 40.

“Frank, you look great,” I said.

“Thanks, really,” he said in a softer tone before turning gruff. “Like I said, I don’t give a shit.”

As soon as Frank removed the mirrored glasses to reveal hazel eyes, my balls crawled against me. His meaty, dimpled face with the military buzzcut sent teletyped messages to my cock. Yet, he intermixed a somber smile with a fierce expression, as if hinting to an internal struggle. Will the real Frank please come to the mic? I thought but quickly pushed it from my mind.

“Yeah, I used to be a beach bum when Big Sur was a hippie hangout, but I can’t party like I did and take on killer waves. Oh, I paddle over a few good ones but I leave the killers to the young guns.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Frank; you’re sporting a body guys half your age wished they had,” I said, which didn’t begin to describe Frank’s body. Even wearing leather from head to toe, Frank looked like an ad for California tourism. He looked like a blonde Arnold Schwarzenegger but more ruggedly handsome. A few scars in his face marked his dances with death but they only added to his masculinity. And he had a way of looking at me that made me look away momentarily, as if I didn’t want him to discover my secrets. That gaze, that let-me-fuck-you gaze, affected me much the way a dog is cowarded by a gaze. It was about dominance, it was about intention.

“Say, I was just about to go get something to eat. You wanna take a ride with me?” he asked. Did I actually see Frank lick his lips? I was definitely in lust but was I hallucinating?

Even in my suspicion, I only managed, “Sure.”

It was my fantasy to speed down the highway on the back of gruff biker’s hog. With hands holding on to Frank’s massive torso, I imagined laying my head on his back while my cock raged at his ass.

I know that most bikes have seat that separate the driver from the passenger, but a boy can dream. I imagined Frank as a real flipper like me who felt my hard cock press against his ass. I imagined he was hard, thinking of how great my cock felt, sliding in and out of his hole. I imagined he had many fantasies dancing behind his blacked-out wrap-around glasses.

Once we were outside, I said, “Wow, Frank, that’s a big bike,” while thinking: a big bike for a big man who probably had a big dick. But I calmed down and took it all in.

“Yeah, I like her. I call her Sidewinder,"  he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Got your helmet on?  Well, hold on to me,” he warned.

“Okay, but why—“

I grabbed the side of Frank’s asscheeks to keep from falling off the Harley and heard Frank say, “Funny guy,” before the wind rushed past my ears. We rode until I saw fewer and fewer cars. The outskirts of the city cleared of smog. Fresh cut grass and the occasional rush of manure, mixed with honey suckle to bring back childhood memories.

From a single asphalt road, we turned onto a dirt road that split two large gnarled trees, where a small farm house sat peeling in unforgiving sun, alongside a pink barn that used to be red.

Frank pulled up next to the house and announced, “I was born here,” as he climbed off the bike.

I stumbled off the bike, rubbing my sore ass from all the bumps Frank hit on the way. I pulled my helmet off and let the warm wind dry the sweat. My tee stuck to me, enhancing the tingling of my nipples.

Frank walked to back, through a waist-high picket fence. “There it is,” he announced and raised his hand to a pretty solid tree house. “My daddy built that when I was twelve or so,” he said. “I keep it up now. Just can’t seem to let it go,” he said looking around . “Come on up,” he said.

He had more than kept the treehouse from falling apart. He had installed windows, insulation, and sealed any gaps. The wooden slats leading up to the treehouse were fashioned so you could step onto a landing at each step which provided excellent stability.

Inside, futons line the space with two coffee tables in the middle, and one more off to the side that hosted a coffee pot, a lantern, and a hot plate.

“I come up here when the city drives me crazy, you know,” he said and began undressing.

I stood near the door not knowing what to do; that is, until I saw Frank’s huge hairy ass come into view as he pulled down his boxers and took off his socks.

“Get out of them things” he said and patted the futon where he sat. “Now, you see why I called my bike Sidewinder,” he said and stroked his incredibly long cock that hooked moderately to the left.

I didn’t hesitate, I threw everything to the floor and went to my knees between Frank’s legs to worship his huge saber. I seemed hypnotized by its length, girth, and curvature. Although I hadn’t seen many angry cocks that were extremely hard, I can say that of those cocks, Frank had to be the thickest and most severely curved. Like any fledging bottom (I would later enjoy flipping much more), I worried that physics was against me.

“You know,” he said, slowly and gently, as possible, “I see that expression from guys and think I’m sort of freak.”

I took his cock in my hand, felt the warmth of his desire, and said, “It’s not you that has me worried; it’s me. If we go slow, it’ll be okay,” I said. “Besides you’re my gentle giant.” After a while he seemed relieved and caressed my face as I continued to suck his cock into my mouth as far as I could.

“Come up here,” he said and brought me into a kiss of heady passion. Reclining, he looked deeply into my eyes. The big biker daddy, with drowsy hazel eyes, whispered, “Will you be my boy?”

“Absolutely, Daddy,” I said in safety, because the moment meant as much to me as it did to him. Some daddies believed that boys become theirs after a breeding, but a wise daddy taught me that the making of a boy and of a daddy is much more meaningful when the daddy proposes and the boy accepts.

Frank turned me to his glossy hazel eyes and deeply searched mine for truth, because I certainly saw truth in his.

“I needed to hear that,” Frank admitted, “because everything will feel so much better."

I felt his finger ease into me as he drew me into a softly passionate kiss.

“Give that hole to me,” he said, causing my ass to respond. I felt my initial sphincter slowly open to Frank’s probe. “Yeah, that’s my boy,” he whispered, his breath on my cheek, his beard on my neck, and his warm chest hair meeting mine. I tingled with wanting and desire, and pushed my asshole out to meet his second finger.

“Breathe and loosen up for me,” he said and moved my hand to his throbbing cock. “This is waiting for you.”

Just feeling his cock, breathing its own lust made me relax and open deeper. The second sphincter slowly opened to Frank, who said, "Yeah, boy, that’s it.”

He smiled so widely that I felt pride at doing what he said.

He put me on all four, positioned his throbbing cock, and used spit to lube his cock and my hole..

“I’ll go easy,” he said, as I felt his cock poke my entrance. He slowly and tenderly slid into me in one smooth motion until I felt a plop. Bracing for pain, I was surprised by the far-off ache that came and quickly went.

“Ahhhh,” we said in unison, as he began to slowly rock me into his loving rhythm.

“Reach back and pull your asscheeks a part. Uh-huh, yeah; that’s nice,” he said and lengthen his strokes after gaining more clearance.

“Oh, Frank, you’ve got me so full; it’s amazing,” I said, without feeling awkward or inappropriate. And by the guttural sounds of pleasure from Frank, I felt comfortable in articulating every pleasurable sensation that hit me.

His speed increased and his grunts moved to growls, then on to sounds of futile resistance. Increasing even more, he urged, “Stroke your cock—Shoot that load, which was just the thing to send me into a blind push of sheer pleasure. I shot countless arcs of cum on the  futon and beyond to the treehouse floor.

Faster and faster, Frank pumped his cock into me, then reverse the order and intermittingly added corkscrews and mini-thrusts to pummel my asshole into a slacking maw.

“I’m gonna cum. Oh, Man, Ahhh,” he yelled and pitched and carried me into his roiling pleasure as I felt his hot seed brand me with love.

And as the moon chased the sun across the sky, we cuddled while listening to night sounds.