Sunday, November 9, 2014

No Lucky Charms

Wandering through the streets of Harlem searching for a nook to squirrel ourselves into, my brain was full steam ahead on two separate roads. This lanky, Belgian boy was a model, that I knew on sight. I'd logged three years doing nothing but model identifications and though I couldn't place his name, I could clearly see his face in a spread I had posted. His name was the one road. The other, where exactly were we to have our after hours tryst.

"There's a lot of cops around here," he said breaking the silence as we crossed an intersection.

"Haha," I cast a glance over my shoulder.  "It's Harlem!"

"What does that mean? Is it not a good part of town?"

"Not so much." I responded. "There's a lot of drug dealing and stuff and the cops just want to be pretty close in case anything breaks out. Like if you're walking down the road sometimes a drug dealer will walk past you and keep repeating the same thing over and over. That's the drug they can sell you," I turned and pointed to the corner where my beloved Chinese shop was. "Last night some guy walked past me and kept saying 'sour, sour, sour.'"

"What's that?"

"Weed." We rounded another corner and again nothing but bright streetlights as far as we could see. We strode along, his strides a touch longer and my pace a touch faster, keeping in tune with each other. Every nook was lit and every cranny gated. And then: the park.

There are always stories about seedy after-hours get togethers and fondling in the parks of New York, and yet now, a year and half into it I was about to experience it first hand. The lights were there, but spaced further a part.
We made our way up to the first place that I remembered from morning runs long abandoned.

"That doesn't look like a good idea," was his response when he saw them.

There were two dark figures that disengaged themselves from the guide pole to look around the bend at us as we approached. We turned and retraced our steps. Then there was the ledge. The time between discovery and having his narrow body laid out in the lip of the rock, the tops of his Topman trousers unbuttoned and pulled down just enough to let himself hang free was mere moments. From there it was all my job.

I made short work of raising him to full mast. His cock stood up, definitely the translated 8 inches he claimed and more. I pulled back to survey and put some of my dreadlocks into a pony tail.

"It feels nice. You don't have to do that."

I smiled and went back to work. He moaned. He moaned again and a lock snaked its way into my mouth for some attention. I pulled off.

"I have to put some of them back." As I started, he froze.

"Someone's coming!" His pants were up, around his waist, the fact that they were unbuckled, unnoticeable in the 2AM dark and the shadows of his lap. We stared out onto Harlem from our post, our rock, making idle conversation.

"We should move." I acquiesced and stood.

It took about three minutes for him to change his mind, turn on his heel and in his lanky gait, stroll back to our ledge. At the last second he pointed to a tree.

"What about that?" 60 seconds later we were squirreled in the nook, his pants around his thighs, me working diligently.

"That's nice," he moaned. He repeated it a few times as I teased with my tongue and engulfed his length. I gently pushed and found him easily spinning around in my hands to brace himself on the tree. He was pushing back and down, his secret place clamping down and welcoming my tongue. I couldn't hear anything but if his nimble body and inviting nether regions were any indication he was enjoying it.

Only two minutes into spinning him back around to get back to the main meal before he was pulling me up, reaching for my own tool. A few jerks and it was me that was spinning around, his head probing behind. I spit in my hand, the perfect homemade makeshift Astroglide, and slathered it onto him before slipping him between my thighs. He gasped appreciatively. Every time his hips kissed my cheeks, that sigh returned.

His fingers ran under my dusty brown coat and thermal, "I want to fuck you." I gave him a few squeezes of my thighs before sliding off.

"I don't bottom," was my only reply.

I sunk back into my squat and two minutes later he was at his boiling point. I stood up and stood to the side, continually jerking him and watching him spray the two feet in front of him for a healthy nine spurts. And then we were off, back down the stairs, across the avenues and to our side of Harlem.

"That was really nice," his legs brought him over to me as he leaned, our shoulders bumping in that puppy love sort of acknowledgement.

"It was nice to meet you too," I demurred.

On his block we split, a little wave on my part, a smile on his. I walked up the three blocks to my apartment and just and I was going to turn onto my street, I heard it:

"Sour, sour, sour"

1 comment: