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.