Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
This recounts a first meeting between an older man and a younger one, seemingly to explore a smoke buddy connection with another gay guy. The story is true, and is the opening to the longer story of how smoke buddies became lovers looking to build a future together. Errors are mine, the memories we made together.
Fall was underway. The air had that cool crispness, and foliage was brilliant. These sensory messages would, typically, capture my mind and arrest my attention. Today, well, today it may as well have been midnight in some steamily tepid southern clime. Nothing about the weather was registering on my senses.
Not that my senses are what they have been. I’m 53 now, somewhat worn by life, and at this time, living through the struggles that face typical American families with teenaged boys and girls. By anyone’s standards, I’m tall at 6′ 3″ and “overweight” put it dishonestly but nicely. When I first met Preston, I am sure I pushed the scale to 280 pounds.
My senses, you see, were overloaded by a young man sitting in the passenger seat next to me. Billy, name slightly changed to preserve modesty, a 22 year old Floridian attending the local community college, had responded to my message to him on Grindr. We chatted about a couple of interests we had in common: weed and sex. As for the sex, Preston’s profile pic and our grindr conversation convinced me that I’d enjoy gazing up to his face as I went down on his cock. It may have intrigued Preston when I warned him off, telling him he would never forget getting blown by me and would want more.
So there we were, meeting in the parking lot of our local member discount club. Preston parked his Mazda a good distance from the main entrance to the store. I found him by circling, and repeated texts on Grindr, and parked in the spot next to his car.
While still seated in his car, we made eye contact. I swear that handsome young man fairly grinned his greeting, while, in my car, my heart was skipping beats in anticipation of what might come. Quickly, he exited his and entered my car. I shifted into first gear and pulled away.
As we exited the retailer’s parking lot, I inquired, “would you mind if a light a cigarette? It’s no problem, if you would rather I didn’t.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Preston explained, “I smoked all the time before moving up from Florida.”
“Well, cool, thanks,” I responded, “if it does bother you I can pass.”
I grabbed the pack of Camel Crushes from the center console of the car, tapped one out, and, as I place the pack back in its resting place, I offered, “You’re welcome to have one if you care to.” He hesitated. It didn’t take long, however, before he reached for the pack and, as I had done, he tapped out a smoke and lit it up.
As we smoked cigarettes, we were making our way onto the Interstate, heading south to the bedroom dump, Dumfries, located near Washington, DC. Having smoked weed for nearly two years, at this point in time, I had a few favorite spots from smoking in and around the National Capital Area. In Dumfries, I had resorted on many occasions to a parkland that was set aside as a wetlands exchange. That bahis firmaları park had rustic and modestly developed trails and paths, and at the furthest distance from its modest parking lot, there was a nice, well enclosed observation blind, looking out onto a swampy marsh.
Like such encounters often go, there was a vibe developing. Preston was garrulous, and I was quickly being hypnotized by his voice as he told me about school, the roommates with whom he lived, and the life he left behind in Orlando. In Florida, Preston had worked both for Disney World, and for the Orlando Universal Park’s Halloween Horror Nights. Preston could see, I think, the obvious enjoyment I was getting from him recounting stories, so he led our conversation as I planned our time at the blind.
I had weed in my pocket, and a couple of White Owl cigarillos. In addition, my box of Camels was nearly virginal. My plan was simple. Get to the wetlands exchange, take Preston on a walk through the park and to the observation blind. Then, gut a couple cigarillos and roll them into blunts, put some music on my Evo, and see if Preston would allow me to offer him a special favor, on my knees.
A habit I’d developed smoking with a broad variety of smoke buds was to have the passenger in the front seat take charge of music while we drove. Preston rose to the challenge, and began my education in an eclectic but hilarious, fun, and wonderful selection of songs from his iPhone. I would, as time passed, learn to love seriously gay musical performances excerpted from The Book of Mormon, other recent, off Broadway shows, classic rock, country, pop, dubstep, and other genres.
That first day, I fear, other than possibly an introduction to the music of Infected Mushroom, I was lost in a reverie that combined Preston’s sonorous recollections of life as an amusement park employee, with snippets about growing up, and school, mixed with the sounds of the songs he played for me, and my own effort to make a beeline to our smoke spot destination. So I couldn’t swear if, other than some tunes from Infected Mushroom, he played a few, many, or all of his top musical choices.
We exited the Interstate, and in a few short cuts we were pulling up and parking.
They say the mind is the first thing to go as we age, so I double and triple checked: weed, check; roll ups, check; lighter, check; Evo, check; horniness, check; handsome young man, check.
I stepped out of the car and Preston followed. Like most parks, there was an informational bulletin board at the head of the trail leading into the park. This one had a map of the park. We stopped and I showed Preston the lay of the land before we began walking into the wooded parkland.
Easy conversation, led by Preston, followed us through the woods and along the path to the observation blind. Being a good bit older than Preston, I needed no invented excuse to fall slightly behind him as we walked. I immediately became entranced by the visual of this gorgeous young David walking before me on the woodland path. Preston wore blue jeans, and a red jacket over a nicely fitted tee. His easy gait hypnotically drew my kaçak iddaa eyes to his bottom. My eyes and my imagination shifted into overload.
I suppose that the entire walk, from park entrance to the observation blind at the trail’s end, took 10 to 15 minutes. The last 100 yards to the blind took us over a narrow walkway made of two runs of plank wood, laid end to end, allowing passage along a foot path that laid so close to the water table that, when rains struck the area, the foot path would be flooded (that’s a story for another time). That boardwalk provided a key advantage to any couple that might use the observation blind for a tryst: virtually any approach on the boardwalk transmitted a series of creaks, snaps, and others noises with each footfall that being snuck up on was virtually impossible.
Entering the blind, Preston took a quick look around, taking in the breathtaking sweep of the view over the marsh, as well as the graffiti decorating the walls of the blind provided by its prior users. I took note that blunt wrappers, improvised water bongs, and other evidence indicated both my own prior presence in the blind and that of a variety of other smokers. We sat on the bench along the back wall of the blind, facing the open wall and the marsh beyond it.
I began breaking up the bud, gutting the cigarillo, and attempting, as well as a 53 year old newbie can, to roll a nice blunt. Our easy conversation continued, and developed a soundtrack based on Preston’s broad musical tastes. Finally, no thing of beauty, I finished the task.
I handed the blunt to Preston and invited him to enjoy the greens. As weed will do, our easy conversation passed into moments of easy quiet as the effects of the THC began to work their magic on us. At a point, we both boosted ourselves up onto the ledge of the open wall, so that our asses hung just slightly over the swamp, passing the jay back in forth in a leisurely chase of the green dragon.
While rolling, and again while smoking, a thought kept invading my mind: I wonder, will he actually allow me to go down on him? Will it be the hot kind of fun that rapes the mind and leaves you addicted, or the regrettable evidence of a lack of judgment? How will my new smoke bud view things when they reached their climax, so to speak?
The blunt gone, we were sitting side by side on the bench.
I cleared my throat, and reached a hand over to caress Preston’s outer thigh. Then, more brazenly allowed my hand to rise up and over to the inside of his thigh. I began that telltale lowering of my head toward Preston’s crotch that signaled my desire and yearning to pleasure him orally. As I began the near approach of my face to his personal heaven, I was thunderstruck by the most amazing scent, a scent I’ve come to know is both amazingly erotic, and uniquely Preston. I believe the jeans were button fly, and it took some doing but then I could see something that made me smile.
Preston was going commando.
His manhood was an easy reach inside his jeans and I made the play for it, drawing it out to the delight of my eyes, the inflaming of my lust, and, I hoped, our intense mutual kaçak bahis pleasure. Preston’s cock was beautiful: six inches, uncut and attached to such a handsome guy. I kissed the foreskin. I’m cut, and hadn’t a lot of experience with uncut cock, but Preston’s cock laid tantalizingly across my palm and I lost any battle that might ever have threatened, over whether I would give myself fully to the delight of pleasuring this handsomely cute boy-man.
I went down on him. Three ways from Sunday. I leaned in from the side and licked and sucked his pleasure pole. I got between his knees, kneeling on the floor of the blind so I could take him straight down my throat to maximum penetration. He stood, took my head in his hands and slowly face-fucked me. All the while, Preston overwhelmed me with his amazing scent, one I’ve never scented before or since, but instantly recognize as his unique scent now.
The time, leaning in, kneeling before and being face-fucked by him, all began to run together. The pleasant high of some quality ganga had attenuated my visual and auditory senses. I was in overload and loving every moment.
Preston chuckled an apology about the time it took for him to climax. I chuckled at the apology because every minute his cock was in my mouth, I was in heaven. I am no spring chicken, so there was some shifting of my position from time to time, but I had no complaints about the pleasure I was experiencing, and heard none from Preston about the pleasure I was providing. But the moment was building. Preston’s breathing became shorter and shorter. His responses to my tongue sliding easily along the length of his shaft, and circling his cock head, told me it would not be long before his balls churned an eruption of hot jizz. I planned, though he didn’t know it, to swallow his cum.
Then it happened. Preston went over the edge and fell into an explosive orgasm that coated my mouth and throat. I remember looking up, showing him some of his own cum on my tongue, and then swallowing, so that he would know that a guy could derive serious erotic pleasure from sucking his bone and swallowing his jizz.
Well, we were new acquaintances. And we had that common interest in cigarettes. The weed gone, our sexual drives sated for the moment. I drew two Camels from the pack, offered one to Preston, and light both. We dragged an easy smoke out of the moment, enjoying the afterglow and each other’s quiet presence.
“I guess we should head back,” Preston mused, “I’ve got to pick up my roommate at the Metro at 6.” We walked, stoned, back to my car and we retraced our path from Dumfries to the membership discount retailer’s parking lot. I parked next to Preston’s car.
“Mind if we smoke another cigarette and chill for a bit before I cut away,” Preston intoned, selecting yet another song from his varied and often hilarious catalog of songs. “Not at all,” I replied, lighting up cigarettes for me and for him.
“So,” I inquired, “was I right or wrong? Was that the kind of oral you’d want to experience again?”
“And again, and again,” he replied, his eyes, no joke, sparkling with his evident easy humor and easy way.
This, I thought to myself, is the kind of guy with whom I’d really like to spend serious time.
As it turns out, I did, and I have, and I will. Keep reading to follow this love story along its serpentine path!
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32