Date: Thu, 24 Aug 2000 14:31:20 -0700 (PDT)
From: thinkamajig@webtv.net
Subject: Super Bowl Sunday

I'd probably have made a pretty good Catholic because there's an aspect
to ritual that appeals to me. I have only two rituals that involve
ManPark. The first is whenever I'm doing laundry, I take a walk to
ManPark while clothes are in the dryer. The other is during halftime on
Super Bowl Sundays.

Laundry is usually an evening thing but this particular day I was doing
laundry in the afternoon. Throwing the clothes into the dryer I was off
for my ritual walk in the friendly woods. It being afternoon I didn't
figure there would be much going on and I was right. I spent some time
at The Balcony writing. No one came by. It was time to finish laundry so
I got up and figured this would be that one in one hundred times
visiting ManPark that I wouldn't get any dick. Those aren't bad odds.

I headed down the back path and then up the path the goes through The
Grove and to the main path. I was surprised to see a man lying against
that tree that grows at an angle. He must have been surprised by my
arrival too because he was quickly stuffing his cock into his pants
before I'd had a chance to see it. He was middle-aged, wore a Clark
Gable mustache and had a biker look to him, jeans so worn and tight that
they were skin-smooth. I stopped in my tracks and sensed his caution. To
let him know I wasn't a casual visitor I grabbed at my crotch.

He got the message instantly and opened his pants again. The lumber that
fell out caused my jaw to drop. Big and fat, it was the kind of tool
that, seeing a picture of it on the Internet, I'd have guessed that it
had been photo-enhanced. Laundry could wait!

I maybe should have taken his earlier caution into account and
approached him more slowly but the allure of that monster meat made me
senseless. There also was certainly no need for him to waste another
stroke jacking himself off. I took the ten steps that brought me to him
without hesitation and dropped my pants. Squatting down, I straddled the
tree which then angled from me, my own huge cock.

And immediately went to work on the huge cock that was before me. I had
to open my mouth as wide as it would go to get it in. It was easily
eight inches long and filled my mouth completely to the throat. I've
gagged on smaller cocks than this one but must have been in the right
frame of mind because I was taking it all and loving it. Happy to be
released from jacking himself off, he completely leaned back onto the
tree and relaxed.

While continuing to gobble his wonderfully fat sausage, I reached one
hand up to stroke his chest and was pleased to find an ample field of
hair. My other hand was busy on my own dick. As I tweaked his right
nipple I sensed a tightening that told me he was about to come, and
unload he did. Sweet and salty at the same time, his come had my uvula
flapping. I shot my own wad onto the cock that was the tree springing
from between my legs.

Sitting back to gaze at the wonder of him as he returned Gargantua to
his jeans, I couldn't help but say, "That is one fine cock. As big as it
is, it must need constant attention." He grinned and nodded and thanked
me. Thanked me for something too many others only dream of!

"You've got a nice one, too," he said and seemed sincere. He left and it
took me several minutes to savor what had happened before coming back to
earth and remembering I had laundry to finish.

My Super Bowl ritual visit to ManPark began many years before. Sure,
it's winter and all, but even then it's not uncommon to find horny men
looking for some outdoor warmth. I figured I coudn't be the only queer
wanting to make an anti-football statement by not watching that most
important of all television events and wandered up to ManPark. It was
about dusk as half time began.

There was a hint of snow on the ground and I strolled into the park,
taking the paved road that is blocked to traffic due to the very sharp
turns it takes as it winds down the hill. The top stretch of this paved
road is a straight stretch just under a quarter mile long and marks the
east edge of ManPark. Someone once told me of a summer night when that
entire stretch of paved highway was one swimming orgy of men. It seems
like an exaggeration but knowing ManPark as I do it's easy to believe. A
quarter-mile orgy!

The snow made it seem bright though the sun had gone down. A nice winter
silence was around but I'd have preferred the sound of a few men. I was
beginning to think everyone in town was watching football as I neared
the first hairpin curve which marks the end of the cruising area.

He was standing at the edge of the road, almost a part of the trees. He
was jacking off and didn't stop with my approach. He was probably in his
mid-20s and butch, dark brown hair, light jacket which was open. I put
my hand out to take over the stroking he'd been doing and he leaned
forward to kiss me on the mouth with his soft lips. With my free hand I
began to unbutton first my own and then his shirt. He didn't stop me.

And how glad I am of that! Under his shirt he'd been hiding a natural
sculpture of hair that, hair-lover that I am, remains in my memory these
many years later. Profuse but not so thick the beauty of skin didn't
show through, wavy but not so curled that it was brillo-pad coiled
(although that's nice too), he'd have been the inspiration for the
phrase "hair-god" had I not already thought of the term and applied it
to less-worthy men.

As we continued to kiss and jack each other off, my hands were reading
his chest like a Braille masterpiece, lingering over each word, not
wanting it to be done but anxious too to find out how it would end. My
lips were soon on his chest doing the reading, my tongue licking the
delicious syllables that were his stiff nipples.

If there was a cool breeze we didn't notice, bare-chested and hot in the
winter air. Kissing again and jacking each other off, we came in each
other's hands amid deep-throat kisses.

A year later he was on my mind when Super Bowl Sunday arrived and I
hoped he'd be back. He wasn't though I fucked a big dude in the Winter
Garden that year. Seven Super Bowl Sundays later I still look for my
hair-god during halftime but haven't seen him again since. Maybe next
year. Is it January yet?