Undated - Fall/Winter 2009

Ah, the restaurateur. The well-known restaurateur. The one with the TV show. And the wife, who's all over the restaurants (which really are worth the fuss - I'm a good customer) and the TV show. Watching him, you can't but conclude he likes boys - his manner is unmistakably sodomite. Indeed, there's vigorous debate on the interwebs as to whether he likes boys. And I have the answer. He does.

The restaurateur goes to my gym, occasionally. One of those occasions happened to be a dreary Sunday afternoon late this fall - or maybe early this winter - somewhere in there. The restaurateur was heading into the gym just ahead of me, close enough that I was able to spend a few moments mulling over 'which way does he go, anyway?' Frankly, I can't look at him, be it on TV, on the street or in his one of his restaurants, without mulling that important question. Little did I imagine today was the day I'd get a rock solid answer.

In the locker room, he undressed and appeared to head straight for the shower/steam/sauna. A good sign. Nice slim, athletic bod - particularly for a guy in the food business. Nice I suited up and headed for the weights. Call me virtuous (or, read some more of this blog and see if you can still say that with a straight face). Half an hour or so later, it was my time to shower/steam/sauna. The place was fairly empty, it being a dreary Sunday afternoon. I settled into the sauna, where I chatted with Mr. Taste Free for a few minutes (he and I now chat in a familiar way that pretty much rules out any more anonymous blo-jobs). Then I made for the steam and was surprised and delighted to see the restaurateur passing by toward the showers looking well heated and sweaty. Maybe he eyed me. 'Ha, spending a lot of time in the company of other sweating naked men, Mr. Restaurateur? Got ya!' I thought to myself. In my mind, at that point, he was as busted as could be.

I settled into the steamroom with one other guy sitting by. A few minutes later, in walks the restaurateur. And he sits down next to me, to my left, but at a respectable distance. On his towel, not wrapped up in it. Wow! I switch on my full telepathic communication capability and start beaming the message "exit the steamroom, now!" at the third guy in the steamroom, while simultaneously beaming the message "the other guy will be out of here in two seconds" at the restaurateur. And sure enough, my telepathic systems were in good working order, as the third guy left pretty much on cue.

Then began a few moments of awkward mutual checking out, and the sending of self-groping signals. But progress was swift, with no unnecessary face-saving gestures of disinterest. He wanted it. He wanted it in a sad, guilty, but very passionate kind of way. He was the first to actually take hold of his cock and start stroking. He reached for me before I reached for him. And he reached first not for my cock, but for my right nipple, which he wanted to stroke. I responded in kind, with my tongue on his nipple (safe bet he was a nipple guy) and moved on to the side of his neck. And he responded with a happy shudder, and began groping my cock as I reached for his. This was a lot of body contact, and a lot of passion for steamroom sex. My right hand (by this time I was completely turned toward him on the bench) found his cock - long, skinny, with short trimmed pubes - and stroked gently. He was clearly enjoying himself hugely.

I whispered in his ear, an inch away: "do you want a blo?" to which he responded with a quiet, husky sound that I took for a 'yes'. I bent down, and took one long slow gentle stroke. We were suddenly interrupted by the door opening. "It's OK, don't stop for me." Mr. Taste Free! Very considerate, thank you, pal. I went down on the restaurateur again, and he lasted but about three more strokes before urging me off his cock. Two pumps of his own hand and he spewed - good distance and quantity for a middle-aged guy, I might say. I went back to nuzzling his neck as he caught his breath.

He gave me a long look, with actual eye contact, that was tinged with what I think was sadness. Or maybe straight out guilt. And then he was out of there. When he was safely out the door, Mr. Taste Free asked me, with his charming Spanish accent: "you do know who that was?" I played dumb.

11/11/09

It should always be this easy.

Early morning visit to the 'burbs. Really early - my errand is done by 7:00 am. And I'm in the vicinity of the recently rediscovered bookstore. As I'm heading south down the big six-lane road it's on, I come to the bookstore and see its parking lot is all but empty - about the only vehicle in the place, a Dodge Dakota pick-up, is idling at the mouth of the parking lot waiting for traffic to clear so he can pull out. Darn, only one guy there, and I'm just missing him. I pull a u-turn and head back north again. The Dakota guy pulls out just as I round my U-y, and catches my eye. Yes, catches my eye. No way. That would be way too efficient.

But it's also way too good not to at least follow up. I wind up just behind him in traffic, then maneuver my way next to him at the next light. I glance casually his way, and he mine. But too casual to really draw any definite conclusion from. Good enough, though, that I'm not going to give up. I fall in behind him, and sure enough a couple blocks later he's got his signal on for a left turn. And he activates the blinker early, giving me plenty of warning he's going to turn. This is looking promising.

I follow him around the turn (and catch the above pic) and he goes on about a quarter mile into an industrial area. And then, again with plenty of signaling, he pulls into a parking lot along the side of a warehouse/office building and proceeds slowly down the long narrow parking area. I pulled to the side of the road, not being quite confident enough in my judgment to follow him. He pulls head into a parking spot, sits a second, then backs out again and continues to where he had to turn around behind the building. When he turns, he stops long enough to give me the idea he's looking. I plunge in.

On the other side of the building, I find him backed in in front of a freight forwarder's office. I nod, he nods back. My first clear look at him. 40ish, heavy-set, a working man. Married, with ring. Not particularly attractive in any noticeable way. I pull in and park. He nods again, and I'm out of the car and over to his passenger window directly. No games: just a simple "You looking for a blo?" "Yeah, hop in." As I haul myself into the passenger seat he says: "I thought you were looking for something back at the bookstore." "Pretty amazing we got this worked out, huh?" He heartily agrees.

He's got his hard cock out already, and pulls aside his shirt to show it off. "Nice!" It is nice. Short, but really fat. Cut. And plenty of unruly untrimmed pubic hair. He gives it a good wag and urges me forward. His crotch smells sweet and soapy fresh. Two minutes of good vigorous sucking, and some purposeful thrusting from him and he's spilling a big sweet load into my mouth. He thanks me heartily as I swing out of the cab and spit his hefty, tasty load. I give him a salute and thank him back, noting for the first time the kiddie car seat in the back of rear seat. Daddy needed to nut.

He dropped his idling truck into gear and was moving out of there before I even started my car. End of story.

Undated - Fall 2009

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