Someone needs a tongue bath.
June 1983. Tucson, Arizona.
I had taken my truck into TuneUp Masters (or whatever the chain was called at the time) one Saturday morning and was sitting in the waiting room waiting for the service to be completed. I glanced out the window and noticed a convertible Firebird pulled up and a drop-dead gorgeous stud got out. Blond, tan, hairy, around my age…probably a frat boy from the University, he casually tossed a basketball in the back seat and came into the waiting room. My eyes must’ve burned a hole into him as he walked past.
After he’d spoken to the attendant, he sat down on the row of chairs on the other side of the room directly across from me. He was dressed in a tank top, sneakers, and those infamous short nylon athletic shorts that left nothing to the imagination and were so popular at the time. Even though he kept his sunglasses on it seemed we were making eye contact over our respective magazines with increasing frequency.
In one of those moments when time seemed to stand still, we suddenly found ourselves alone in the waiting room and I noticed the tip of his cock beginning to poke out the leg of those shorts. As my gaze locked on, it continued to lengthen until it was obvious I wasn’t imagining things. I was wearing jeans, but by this time I was also quite…aroused…so I sat to make sure he got a full view as well. His hand casually moved down and started manipulating that beautiful thing and I returned the gesture.
Our cars ended up being finished at the same time, so we paid and walked out together. I don’t remember how the conversation started, but we ended up walking over to behind the bleachers at the nearby high school. This did NOT afford the degree of privacy we needed, so we ended up back at my place.
The rest, as they say, is history. His name was Mike (didn’t get a last name), and I never saw him again. He never appeared at any the gay bars (and at the time Tucson didn’t have many), so he may have just been one of those many horny “straight” college boys looking for release.
…oh wait. Never mind.”
I had to do a triple-take when I saw this last guy. I thought it was someone I’d worked with at DISH, but it’s not; the ink’s all wrong and at least as of two years ago, he didn’t have a pierced septum.
Just watched him in Devil. And because Daddy!
…because every other picture I’ve seen of Mr. Hardwick shirtless indicates he’s either shaved to within an inch of his life or naturally smooth as a baby’s hind end. But it’s still nice to fantasize.