I was slowly cruising the narrow shady roads of Franklin Park. It was a little past four in the afternoon. There seemed to be more vehicles than usual, many with deeply tinted windows. Pickups outnumbered sedans, SUVs and convertibles. I drove with the window down, my flexed left arm resting on the padded door ledge.

I had started my search near the boat ramp. Besides the F-150s with boat trailers, there were five passenger vehicles scattered around the lot. On my first circuit of the oval roadway, I spied a forty-something sitting in a minivan near one of the trailheads. I tapped my brakes as I drove by. He answered by tapping his.

I made my second pass, then parked a half dozen spaces from the Chrysler. I slipped my cock and balls back into my cargo shorts, but left the zipper down. I had developed a habit of airing it out while cruising. I grabbed my walking stick and headed to the trail. I turned briefly toward the minivan and cupped my privates.

But first, a little about me:

I’m a sixty-one-year-old divorced guy who is bored and horny on a daily basis.

I retired from my nine-to-five desk job last year. I really didn’t have a plan. I spent most of the morning drinking coffee and most of the afternoon and evening drinking Jack. My wife of twenty-seven years got sick of me and filed for divorce. Clearly, separation does indeed make the heart grow fonder. All the togetherness killed our relationship.

Truth be told, we didn’t have a ton in common. Connie was an avid golfer, trying to play at least once or twice a week. It didn’t help that Rob, one our golf buds, was banging not only Connie; but two of the other wives. Yep, I was the proverbial cuckold.

After the divorce, I tried getting back into the dating scene, but it seemed like just too much work. After a half dozen disastrous dinners or meetings for coffee, I called it quits.

I settled into a routine of getting up around seven, drinking a pot of coffee and watching the morning local news. I consistently fantasized about hosing the big-titted weather girl. By eleven I was on the computer, surfing porn sites.

I started with strictly guy-on-gal hetero videos and slowly transitioned to two guys on the same chick. I found my attention drifting away from the skanks and progressively toward the guys; not just the guys, but their throbbing cocks.

I came upon (no pun intended) bisexual porn, two or three young males not only using all three holes of a buxom lass; but additionally sucking each other. It was only natural progression to remove the girl from the equation.

I honed in on cruising porn. I was amazed that a guy could seemingly get off by just driving around a city or state park. I never dreamt of sex in the back seat of a truck or at the end of a woodland trail. I told myself I wasn’t gay. I just needed an easier way to get warm lips around my meat.

One morning I was scrolling through gay porn sites and a banner popped up advertising a GPS-powered cruising site. I set up a profile and launched the app.

I was nearly dumbfounded.

The map revealed seven hookup places within a radius of only eight miles from my home. Each site was described in great detail: layout, best times to cruise, pros and cons.

At least twenty guys were logged on, looking to play. All it took was a single click to review the profile of the horny guy and start a chat.

I was hooked. I reminded myself again I wasn’t gay, but I couldn’t stop thinking about getting sucked. I was so obsessed that I began hitting up one or two hookup sites each time I was out of the house on errands. Home Depot buying a faucet? Drive by the boat ramp at the dam. Leaving Kroger’s? Drive through Grant Park. At each cruising location there seemed to be at least two or three possible cock suckers.

I’d drive home and jerk off.

The present:

I walked slowly down the meandering trail, heading deeper into the forest. I’d stop every five yards or so, hoping to spy my prospective cock sucker. No such luck. Had I misinterpreted his flashing brake lights?

Just as I was starting to call it a day and head back to the pickup, I heard the unmistakable sounds of a car door opening and closing.

I saw him tentatively enter the trailhead. I nodded, he returned the acknowledgment and we walked farther into the shadows. I could hear him brushing aside branches, keeping pace with my hike.

Up ahead the trail circled around a hundred-year-old oak. The far side seemed like an ideal place to pause and to get a feel for his intentions.

After a minute or two, a clean-cut soccer dad rounded the tree. He smiled, edged closer, and brushed the bulging front of my cargo shorts. My “oh, yeah” gave him the green light. He leaned in and attempted a kiss. I turned my face slightly, directly his passion to my cheek. I reminded myself once again that I wasn’t gay. I was simply using this guy to get me off, just one step from jerking off at home.

He kissed and licked his way across my cheek to my left ear and then my neck. I involuntarily moaned and pulled him into an embrace. The warmth of his chest was like an inferno.

Tim (as I would later learn) took the reins. He moved a half step away and undid my canvas belt and button. My shorts plummeted to my ankles, my zipper already down. He dropped to his knees.

My seven inches was in full salute mode, already with a string of glistening precum dripping toward the forest floor. Tim harvested my juice with his right index finger, then sucked it into his parting lips. He looked up and smiled.

Without even thinking, I extended my arms and placed my hands behind his head. I directed his mouth to my throbbing sausage. He got to work.

I didn’t know it then, but Tim was some kinda talented cock sucker. I’m not knocking the guys who would subsequently service me; but like the James Bond song, nobody does it better.

Tim used his left hand on my right thigh for balance. With the right, he slowly jacked my rod up and down the shaft, adding a rotational component like wringing out a dishrag. He bobbed his head up and down, slurping the bottom of the mushroom with his wet tongue.

My pelvis seemed to have a mind of its own, rocking forward as I rested my upper back and shoulders on the oak behind me. I applied more pressure on the back of his head and neck. I could feel the unmistakable bristle of his Nashville fade.

Within only four or five minutes I felt that difficult to describe rumbling sensation deep inside my taint. I knew I was close to shooting. I didn’t want to cheat my lover (luster); but I needed a release, the sooner the better.

I closed my eyes and growled, “I’m close, baby. I’m gonna cum.”

His response was to look upward and utter as best he could with a mouth of meat, “Uh-huh.”

I tensed, stopped pumping my pelvis, and held my breath for what seemed like an eternity. I grasped Tim’s head firmly. Just as I was starting to see stars, I gasped for air, moaned an unintelligible phrase, and heaved forward, blasting rope after rope of steaming hot jizz into his mouth.

I collapsed forward over Tim’s head. I eased my pelvis backward and withdrew my semi-flaccid spouter from his mouth with a plop.

Tim rose and smiled. Before I could thank him, he simply placed his left hand on my shoulder and patted. “I’m here most Fridays, same time.” He left without another word.