He was bit of a scruff-bag really, in a hippyish sort of way (which is just the way I like my scruff-bags); dreadlocks down to his shoulders ( I could almost feel them brushing against my face), ring through one nostril (what would it feel like on my tongue), short scraggly beard (so nice against my balls), loose green singlet draped over his thin body (I could lose myself in those hairy armpits), baggy harem pants (don’t ask!).
He smelt good too, all sweat, sandalwood, tobacco and the great outdoors, which is where he was now, prowling about under some trees I’d asked him to cut back; after all, what good is having a garden if you can’t decorate it every so often with an attractive gardener? Besides, I’m way too old to be climbing ladders and fooling about with sharp implements.
Not that he was young; probably mid to late 40s, his face and taut body indicative of a life lived well but hard. He shared a house with his two teenage sons, somewhere on the outskirts of town, his wife having sadly died a few years ago; this much I had learnt from this taciturn man.
Of course I had a crush on him. Nothing serious, just enough to look forward to his irregular visits, supply me with a few hopeless fantasies for those early morning wanks. He knew that I was gay and probably also knew that I found him deeply attractive, but it didn’t seem to worry him and probably bolstered his confidence a bit; we’re all men after all.
I’d give him coffee and something to eat on the small porch after he’d been at it a while, and we’d chat about this and that; what his boys were up to, the price of fish, the state of the world, etc., etc. If he caught me looking too intently at him or (heaven forbid!) trying to make out the line of his cock in his baggy pants, he never made a fuss or shifted uncomfortably, and I did my best to be discreet and respect his boundaries.
I will confess, however, that I did like watching him piss, which he did on the grassed area at the back of the garage quite often. I’d caught him one day when I was mucking around in there and had spied him through the Venetian blinds on the back window, happily invisible to him whilst he was on full display to me.
I’d noticed him downing his clippers and removing his gloves, throwing them carelessly onto the lawn before undoing the cord on his pants and pushing them down to his knees, revealing a very beautiful cock and heavy smooth balls (did he shave them I wondered, and if so for whom?), all framed within an extraordinarily thick dark bush. The garage was set slightly lower than the raised garden area, so his groin was just about at eye level and no further than a metre or two away, providing me with a ringside seat.
My voyeuristic tendencies had already concluded that he didn’t wear undies, and I was pleased to see this conclusion confirmed. He stood there for a while in silent thought, the way you do in those moments before the flow begins. I was happy to see that he had a generous foreskin which he fiddled with but didn’t retract the way so many uncut men do when having a piss; a wise precaution when aiming at a bowl, but outdoors much more fun to let it splash freely through the folds of skin.
And then it started, yellow and thick and strong, steaming in the cold morning air. He stood with his hands on his hips, letting the water cascade from his soft cock like a garden hose, puddling in the grass and dripping down the retaining wall like a fragrant water feature. Some of the drips from his hood trickled down onto his scrunched up pants, but he didn’t seem to mind.
Enjoying himself, he took his cock in his hand and waved it about like a sprinkler before holding it up (was it getting hard?) and watching as the piss arced like a fountain at Versailles, a few drops even splashing against the window. I stood there enraptured, my stiff cock in my hand (it had begged to be released!), desperate to be out there with him but knowing that secrecy was the only option.
I watched enchanted as the torrent became a trickle and he casually shook the last few drops as they dribbled from his skin, before reaching down to pull up his pants, drying his wet cock with the fabric before retying the cord. He licked his fingers, tasting his piss before putting his gloves back on and resuming work.
I dreamt that night of stealing those pants and losing myself in their moist fragrant folds.
