“It was good to put your weight on someone else, even if it was just for a short while”
– Douglas Stuart, Young Mungo –
The appeal of living dangerously is the myriad possibilities of captivating stories you can retell. It’s a memory that marks your presence in the world, a footprint of your desire to explore the infinite parallel universes life can offer. And isn’t it a beautiful thing? To be able to tell the world you’re courageous enough to walk the roads less traveled? To allow yourself to feel the thrills and sorrows of life? And who am I to say no to such an alluring mystery when it’s presented to me by a smoldering hot gentleman riding a Harley-Davidson bike?!
Tucked away three miles west of the Starbucks on MacArthur Boulevard, across the I-580 highway, Lake Chabot is a man-made water reservoir formed by the damning of San Leandro Creek. It was a serene Wednesday afternoon; the water rippled gently as around two dozen high school seniors reveled in the warm summer breeze of the East Bay, splashing fresh lake water at each other while paddling their kayak boat. I glanced over my right shoulder and saw an older lady strolling the paved trail holding a navy-blue dog leash in her right hand, walking her seemingly old golden retriever furiously wagging its luscious tail. To her left, a slightly chubby Latino man in a bright orange tank top was slowly pushing a black baby stroller, appearing to be in a heated argument over the phone, a private matter I couldn’t comprehend as he blurted out a plethora of Spanish words in rapid succession. Facing me was a giant body of water and lush green hills as far as eyes could see, a sight so wondrous it was hard to believe humankind played any part in its creation. From the corner of my left eye, I observed the equally majestic thing I held in my left hand with pride, an eight-inch throbbing penis, ready to burst at any moment.
Let me backtrack to before how I ended up in that particularly risqué situation.
Continuing my journey in the East Bay as one of the most sought-after commodities on Grindr, this story begins just like how most of my stories in this blog started, with boredom and desperation. One mundane morning on an equally mundane Wednesday, this 32-year-old messaged me on Grindr (or did I message him first? My ego refuses to believe this was the case). He’s slender and tall, with a thin layer of stubble covering his sharp jawlines. There was a slight weariness on his face that’s quite apparent from his shirtless bathroom selfie, but I subconsciously decided it was a minor detail I could overlook. After all, do you often observe your hookup’s facial features in minuscule detail during a one-night stand?
He suggested meeting at a Starbucks in the family-oriented city of San Leandro. When he brought forth the idea of our first encounter being at a coffee shop in broad daylight, I was not expecting anything scandalous or raunch to occur. Because who does that? Certainly not me; I’m a respectful gentleman with the utmost respect for my dignity.
I parked in the designated parking space and waited in my car for my date’s arrival (because sitting in a coffee shop alone waiting for a potential hookup was way beneath my moral standard). Five minutes into scrolling through endless headless torso pics on Grindr, I looked up to my car’s rear window to glimpse a man in a leather jacket riding a Harley-Davidson motorbike. I struggled to keep my jaws closed after catching a glimpse of a said anomaly until the man parked his motorbike, took off his green latex helmet, and waved his hair as if he was a goddamn supermodel.
Holy shit, that man was my date.
I waited another five minutes to make it look like he arrived at the coffee shop first (because my dignity, as mentioned earlier, precedes everything else). After ensuring I was confident enough to make an impactful entrance, I brought myself out of my car. I made my elegant entry into the fateful Starbucks, gracefully walking the walk I had practiced for years for average Joes to gawk over. The walk was probably not as classy as I imagined it to be.
Upon our first meeting, the Harley-Davidson hottie shook my hand as if we were about to sign a million-dollar business deal. We chatted for a bit, discussing conventional things people talk about on first dates, like doing an orgy in a hammock-filled dome at Burning Man and bathhouses in the Bay Area with the most attractive-looking patrons. It was there when I learned that my Harley-Davidson beau had a boyfriend, and they were in an ethical, open relationship (I still don’t know what this phrase means to this day).
Twenty minutes passed, and enough caffeine circulated through our blood veins. The conversation had almost run dry, until my Harley-Davidson man casually suggested:
“Do you wanna go for a walk? There’s a hiking trail by the lake nearby; it’s really pretty.”
With no fear of being brutally murdered in the woods or submerged in the lake water, I enthusiastically said to him, sure, man, that sounds fun.
We arrived at the parking space of the walking trail on our respective modes of transportation (him on his glorious Harley-Davidson bike, me on a humble sedan looking like I had just got my driver’s license a few weeks prior). Walking side by side on the paved trail spanning over twenty miles, we continued getting to know each other as I took in all the beauty my eyes could behold, including the man in a leathered bike jacket next to me. But as much as I enjoyed small talks and slow-paced walks, I needed to know this man’s intention. Was he only into nature and sugary, caffeinated drinks? Was he trying to leave his current boyfriend, start a new relationship, and inevitably break up with me three months after? Did I need to douche my ass the next time we met? These are all the life-changing questions disseminating my adulterated brain.
So I decided to go on the aggressive and asked my Harley-Davidson man, “So what are you looking for on the app?”
“Just the usual, friends and fun. What about you?” he casually replied as he continued his unbothered walk.
“That’s nice. Yeah, same here, no expectation at all,” I said with a hint of slight disappointment and nonchalant excitement, acting as if I was being genuinely honest.
We made our way to a secluded wooden bench by the lakeshore through a narrow, jagged pathway. The water rippled calmly, a stark contrast to the chaotic beating of my heart. The ambiance could not have been more romantic, except the man sitting next to me had already belonged to someone else. Or maybe I mistook the murderous vibe as something entirely different because I was utterly delusional.
And I didn’t know what came over me. But I decided it was a brilliant idea to grab his bulge under the clear blue sky as if there wasn’t a possibility of an unfortunate soul walking in and catching us in the middle of an unholy act. But to my surprise, my Harley-Davidson man doubled down on my craziness, pulled down his zipper, and released the monstrosity he had neatly covered underneath his washed-out denim jeans. I was like Dora the Explorer, who, after a tireless search, finally found her coveted treasure.
Well, hello there, you gorgeous little boy.
I felt compelled to feel the warmth of his anaconda, so I moved my left hand toward the direction of my afternoon snack, immediately greeted by the stiff sensation and the comforting heat radiating off his member. The thought of an innocent twelve-year-old accidentally witnessing our indecent act never crossed my mind once that time; I was determined, focused, and ready to go.
Just when I was about to greedily devour the spellbinding thing between my Harley-Davidson’s man’s legs with my mouth, he suddenly pushed me away.
“Whoa! Not here, people might see us. Let’s find a more secluded place,” he said against the will of his own dick.
I am not going to lie. I was slightly disheartened by his lack of adventurousness, but in retrospect, I am glad that at least one of us had the common sense (spoiler: it wasn’t me). My Harley-Davidson man hid his excited member underneath his black, brand-less brief and pulled his zipper up. Like a murderer who just committed a cardinal sin, he nervously observed his surroundings to ensure none of us would be arrested for public indecency. We shared a quick kiss as his way of expressing his gratitude for my enthusiasm, got our sloppy bodies back on our feet, and tried our hardest to cover our messes. I was grateful for him taking the lead, as we would have both been in jail right now if the responsibility for neighborhood watch rested on my shoulders.
We returned to the main hiking trail, found a narrow, unpaved pathway to the woods, and ventured into the depth of Californian redwood forest past the shady eucalyptus groves. At that moment, the fear of any danger the woods inhabited was overcome by our rampaging libido. There was no thought of poisonous ivies or wild creatures jumping out of the dimly lit woods; my Harley-Davidson guy and I were solely focused on the ravenous horndog standing one foot away from our respective serotonin-charged bodies. With our hands intertwined, he pulled me for a passionate kiss as if his life depended solely on my lips touching his.
Next thing I knew, his bare ass had comfortably sat on a fallen, mossy log, and my dry lips were wrapped around his log. My head was going forward and backward, full throttle against his branch, like an infant who had just discovered the sweet, irresistible taste of a cola-flavored lollipop. I could overhear the sound of mundane conversation coming from a distance, presumably from people walking on the trail about ten feet away from us. But my Harley-Davidson guy and I had subconsciously agreed to divide some tasks amongst ourselves; he took the role of watching over any potential danger coming our way while I focused my attention on doing what I do best, sucking dicks in a public space without being noticed. The two of us could’ve been the reincarnations of Bonnie and Clyde, seeing how well we worked together in a dire situation.
When we were done taking care of each other’s wood (apologies in advance for the horrible pun), we shared one last kiss and went back to the walking trail as if we were two best friends who had an affinity for nature. Arriving in the parking lot after our mini cardio session, he asked for my phone number, signifying his intention of not making our foresty rendezvous our last encounter. And as you could’ve guessed from the chapter title, this won’t be the last time I met my Harley-Davidson man.
To be continued…
SquirtTale 