LXVII. The Guy Whom I Blew In The Woods (Harley-Davidson Guy: Part I)

“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. Fortunately for you, I love doing things for the plot.

Tucked away three miles west of the Starbucks on MacArthur Boulevard, across the I-580 highway, Lake Chabot is a serene stretch of water that has absolutely no business being the setting of the story I’m about to tell you. It was a Wednesday afternoon; high school seniors were splashing each other from kayaks on the lake, an older lady was strolling the paved trail with a golden retriever furiously wagging its tail, and a slightly chubby Latino man in a bright orange tank top was pushing a baby stroller while blurting out a rapid succession of Spanish words into his phone. A private matter, clearly. Facing me was a giant body of water and lush green hills as far as the eye 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 the way most of my stories in this blog begin, with boredom and desperation. One mundane Wednesday morning, 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 before making my entrance into the Starbucks. I made my elegant entry 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 about conventional first date things — like orgies in hammock-filled domes at Burning Man and which Bay Area bathhouses had the most attractive-looking patrons. It was there I learned 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. Enough caffeine had circulated through our veins and the conversation had nearly 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 absolutely 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 trailhead parking lot on our respective modes of transportation — him on his glorious Harley-Davidson, me on a humble sedan that made me look like I’d just passed my driving test. Walking side by side on the paved trail, I took in all the beauty my eyes could behold, including the man in the leather bike jacket next to me. But as much as I enjoyed small talk and slow walks, I needed to know this man’s intention. Was he only into nature and sugary caffeinated drinks? Was he trying to leave his boyfriend, start something new, and inevitably break up with me three months later? Did I need to douche next time we met? The life-changing questions of our generation.

So I went on the offensive.

“So what are you looking for on the app?”

“Just the usual — friends and fun. What about you?” he replied, unbothered, not breaking his stride.

“Yeah, same. No expectations at all,” I said, with a hint of disappointment I hoped looked like nonchalance.

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 already belonged to someone else. Or maybe I was simply mistaking murderous vibes for something else entirely, because I was, as established, deeply delusional.

I don’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 living soul within a five-mile radius. To my surprise, my Harley-Davidson man doubled down on my craziness — pulled his zipper down and released the monstrosity he’d been keeping neatly tucked underneath his washed-out denim jeans.

I was like Dora the Explorer who, after a tireless search, had finally found her coveted treasure.

Well, hello there, you gorgeous little boy.

I moved my left hand toward my afternoon snack, immediately greeted by warmth and a stiffness that demanded my full, undivided attention. The thought of an innocent twelve-year-old stumbling upon our indecent act never crossed my mind once — I was determined, focused, and ready to commit.

Just as I was about to greedily devour the spellbinding thing between his legs, he suddenly pushed me away.

“Whoa! Not here — people might see us. Let’s find somewhere more secluded,” he said, against the will of his own dick.

I was slightly disheartened by his lack of adventurousness. But in retrospect, I’m glad at least one of us had common sense — and spoiler: it wasn’t me. He tucked himself back in, zipped up, and nervously scanned his surroundings like a man who’d just committed a cardinal sin. We shared a quick kiss — his way of thanking me for my enthusiasm — got our sloppy selves back on our feet, and rejoined the trail like two law-abiding citizens.

We found a narrow, unpaved pathway leading into the woods and ventured into the depth of a Californian redwood forest, past the shady eucalyptus groves. The fear of poisonous ivy or wild creatures lurking in the dimly lit trees didn’t register once — our rampaging libidos had taken the wheel. With our hands intertwined, he pulled me into a kiss as if his life depended solely on my lips touching his.

Next thing I knew, his bare ass had found a comfortable seat on a mossy fallen log, and my lips were wrapped around his log. My head moved forward and backward at full throttle — like an infant who had just discovered the sweet, irresistible taste of a cola-flavored lollipop. The sound of mundane conversation drifted from the trail about ten feet away, but my Harley-Davidson man and I had quietly divided our responsibilities: he kept watch for any incoming danger while I focused entirely on what I do best — sucking dick in a public space without being noticed.

We could’ve been the reincarnations of Bonnie and Clyde, seeing how well we worked together under pressure.

When we were done taking care of each other’s wood — apologies in advance for the horrible pun — we shared one last kiss and rejoined the walking trail as if we were two best friends with a shared appreciation for nature. Back at the parking lot, he asked for my number, signaling that our little foresty rendezvous was not going to be a one-time thing.

And as the chapter title suggests — it wasn’t.

To be continued…