The story is a multiple part story that contains descriptions of sexual encounters and contact between consenting young adults. My stories are loosely based upon my own life experiences growing up in America. Although this story is a work of fiction many of the facts contained herein are drawn from my life and the lives of those I care about and love; therefore, specific names, places, times, and dates have been altered to protect the innocent.
If you are not of legal age to read stories of this nature or are offended by the X-rated adult subject matter do not read any further.
By Robert The Red
The Morning After
I awoke to one hella ruckus coming from outside my hotel suite's door; there were sharp rapping sounds on the door, accompanied by a muffled voice on the other side repeatedly saying, "Housekeeping, housekeeping..." From the bathroom came sounds of running shower water as steam rolled out the partially open door. I yelled out to the person on the other side of the door to shut the fuck up and go away, and then inquired as to who was in the bathroom. The knocking ceased, but no response came from the steam filled bathroom as the shower continued. The sounds of the running water hammered into my hung over head with a fury. Through my blurry bloodshot eyes I could see the mid morning sunlight streaming through the large bedroom window, gently washing across the prostrate body lying next to me on the bed. The sights and sounds of the morning were a murky aberration to me; the whole process was so seemingly surreal.
Although I had awakened to the confusion and commotion of mid morning in somewhat of a stupor, I was sure the morning's illusion was not a figment of my imagination. I was positive that the real life naked male body lying next to me was no dream. There he was fully outstretched on bedraggled white bed sheets that covered the queen-size bed. I continued to gaze upon the body lying in submission next to me as I rolled over and up onto my right elbow facing the well-sculpted bronze body boy for a better view. What a splendid specimen lay there, in all his glory, sleeping so peacefully, as sunlight bathed his beautiful nude body. I needed to examine the body more closely.
Through my still cloudy vision my eyes began to focus more meticulously on the nude body lying next to me; it was time to take inventory of all the exposed goodies. I needed a more intimate look at the young man's appearance and his physical attributes. My eyes began slowly surveying the boy's physical features; his dark curly hair, sweet angelic smile, and beautiful olive complexion. His well-developed chest, dotted with two quarter sized brown areolas, slowly heaved with each shallow breath he took. I couldn't help but notice those well defined abdominal muscles and his cute innie belly button. As my eyes trailed a little further down the young man's well-chiseled physique it revealed an exquisite pot of gold midway down the body rainbow.
Midway down the young man's body was the terminal treasure. There rested a tasty looking dark semi-limp penis positioned to the left slightly diagonal and prostrate across a clean-shaven pubic area. The young man's dark uncut cock appeared to be about five inches long in its semi-flaccid state and a little thicker than a standard "D" cell flashlight battery. I could see that his tight wrinkled brown ball sac encased a couple of pecan size testicles. The scrotum would draw up slightly and the partially hooded purplish bulb appeared to wink at me with each shallow breath.
The young man seemed to be totally spent lying sleeping so peacefully next to me. I noticed light incrustations of dried semen covering his foreskin opening and the piss slit of the plum colored head, as well as splotches of dried jizz on his abdomen and chest area. My God, I thought to myself, what a magnificent sight the young man was to behold, and surely no apparition.
Although I had awoken in somewhat of a daze that morning suffering dry mouth, I had immediately developed a ravenous appetite to devour all of the young man's goodies. I was deliriously hung over; however, I knew realistically that my mouth hungered to taste those delicious looking chocolate nipples; moreover, I had one hella hankering to take his mouth-watering manhood between my lips and let my tongue tease his gorgeous plum colored cock head. I began to look around the room for more telltale signs of what might have taken place earlier in the room.
With my spinning head slowing down starting to clear I observed several half-full drinking glasses and four large empty bottles of wine scattered around the room. There were at least a half-dozen used condoms and wrappers on the bed and surrounding floor. I further noticed an almost empty bottle of Astroglide lying on its side on the nightstand next to the head of the bed. I knew by all the telltale indicators and the strong scent of raw sex that permeated the room that this was no dream.
Suddenly, through the powerful aroma of sex pheromones and morning musing I came to the realization that the room had taken on a new quietness: the shower had ceased running. I looked towards the bathroom door and there through the steam that filled the room the mirror reflected the backside view of an unidentifiable naked figure toweling off. I moved to get out of the bed, truly needing to investigate the whole matter more fully and get some answers.
Who was the unidentifiable figure standing partially obscured in the bathroom a few feet away; furthermore, who, why, and how had a beautiful naked young man come to share a bed with me in my hotel suite? What the hell was really going on in the murk of the morning and what had truly happened in my hotel suite the night before?
The whole scenario seemed reminiscent of an episode of the Twilight Zone.
Before I go any farther with this fairy tale I believe it only fair to fill my readers in on the journey that led up to that bizarre morning: the morning after Thanksgiving Day 2004.
Since leaving Phoenix late last spring I had been crisscrossing the western United States on my motorcycle with a somewhat tentative itinerary. My life, much like my education, was a journey of unfinished goals. At twenty-eight, after four years in the military and six years of higher education under my belt, I was still drifting through life with no particular direction or focus whatsoever. I was restless and unsure; moreover, I was still trying to discover who I was and searching for what I wanted out of life. Since the death of my father a few months earlier I was more unsure than ever about everything. I needed a break to sort the excess baggage of my life out.
A couple of weeks after returning to school after attending my father's funeral in February I had requested a leave of absence from the university and my job. With commencement exercises at Arizona State University a few days away I had finally been granted the leave of absence, whereby I resigned my position as a graduate teaching assistant, too. I had also quit two other well-paying part-time consulting jobs, sold off most of my household belongings, and sublet my apartment on the outskirts of Phoenix to a fellow grad student. What I didn't sell I had put into a small public storage facility in the event that I might someday return to ASU to complete my academic education. Finally, I condensed my remaining personal effects into a four cardboard cartons and had shipped them home.
With no love life to speak of and all my household furnishings in storage or gone I was forced to live out those few remaining days prior to graduation ceremonies a near austere existence in my empty apartment. For those remaining days I would do without creature comforts and was sleeping on the floor in my sleeping bag. After the last morning shower in my old apartment, and a session of self-pleasuring in the shower I was ready to go. On that Saturday morning of commencements I had stuffed all my remaining worldly goods into two saddlebags and the luggage box of the Road King Classic, and rolled my extra clothing neatly into the bedroll that I secured to the rear of the custom full dresser.
The big touring bike was an anniversary edition Road King Classic that was fully loaded and came with many extra custom accessories. I had been lucky, the guy that had originally ordered the bike was forced into not taking delivery due to a pending divorce. For me it was a win win situation; I had been at the right place, at the right time, with the needed cash to close the deal. So, the bike had been prepped, packed, and was ready to prowl the highways and byways of the west. My big adventure would begin just as soon as the mid May commencement exercise was over, and I had made the obligatory appearances at post graduation receptions to say my final goodbyes.
At the first reception the Chair and Dean had expressed their grievous concerns that I was not planning to finish my doctoral studies program as planned. I thanked them for the vote of confidence; however, since the death of my father a few months earlier I felt the need to be free of academic endeavors, for a while at least. At the last rather raucous mostly student gathering I bid final farewells to fellow graduate classmates and adjunct faculty, donned my riding leathers, and then headed the black and silver beauty out of Phoenix into the darkness towards the first stop on my itinerary. Thus, the journey that was to fulfill my lifelong dream had begun.
Fulfillment of My Lifelong Dream
For years, as a youngster living at home in the Heartland of America, my mind would wander and I would daydream about one day traveling throughout America on a motorcycle. I would watch Charles Kuralt tell his tales of travel on his CBS show, Sunday Morning. Sadly, one Sunday morning he signed off never to return to my television screen again. I remember with sadness the day I learned that Mr. Kuralt had passed away on July 4, 1997. At the time of his passing I was a nave twenty-one year old soldier stationed in Korea. Years later in college I would study his uniquely plain, well-here-we-are style of writing and reporting. I would reflect upon his memory as the old Sunday morning storyteller I so intently watched on CBS. His wisdom and unerring sense of story set the standard for everyone with the urge tell others about America and its two lane treasures. Mr. Kuralt had a reporting style that was unique to him, and I could only hope to do half as well one day.
I had yearned for unfettered travel from my earliest youthful memories, and then during my high school years while working on the yearbook staff I discovered that I wanted to write about and photograph my adventure. My family had encouraged me to follow my dreams, but I was also to honor my country with service thereto and pursue educational goals first. I learned my sense of adventure and loyalty from my father's side of the family, and my creative bent for the arts and writing from my mother. My father had been an avid motorcycle rider, adventurer, and outdoorsman right up until a month before his untimely death. My mother had been an elementary school teacher and child psychologists; she also wrote articles and did photo essays for the church, school, and local newspaper. Both parent's had been active in the church and community. So, I naturally wanted to follow in their footsteps.
Furthermore, as a family we had traveled and vacationed together at least twice a year during my youth; however, many of those times we would fly to our vacation spots, especially the ones in the west or out of the country. To me travel was all about the journey not necessarily the destination, and flying was not a journey for me. That is a quote from my grandfather. I found that family reunions were the places learn about family and to hear yarns spun, so I tried as best I could to attend them and learn from the elders as often as possible. There were many storytellers in our family, and these elders would reminisce at family reunions about the marvels of travel and how it and the automobile had evolved over the years. Many had even experienced first hand The Old Mother Road: Route 66.
My father had whetted my appetite for adventure and travel, telling me about the television show he would watch on Friday nights. That weekly show he had watched as a teenager in the early 1960s was called, Route 66. A television program about the road adventures of the two handsome protagonists and their red Corvette. I would watch, whenever possible, the grainy reruns of that television show with Martin Milner and George Maharis. As I viewed those reruns years later I would imagine my best buddy Rune and me in an open top red 1960 Corvette traveling west on our quest for adventure and enlightenment. The television production, filmed entirely on location, depicted high adventures, danger, and romance of two single guys as they travel from town to town along Route 66 and throughout America. I don't think that any television show since has so captured America's restless spirit. In my opinion, the only other film that came close to exposing that restless spirit was the classic 1969-biker film, Easy Rider.
Throughout the years of my youth I had acquired many books and maps on Route 66; also, CDs with different renditions of Bobby Troup's song, "Get Your Kicks on Route 66." And then one day I finally got to see the film Bagdad Caf. I read everything there was in print about the old nostalgic highway. I truly suspected that my parent's were glad when I went off to the Army; so, they no longer had to listen to the songs on those CDs, or hear Rune and I discuss the pros and cons of Easy Rider and Route 66 from my bedroom. Rune and I desperately wanted to ride across America via Route 66 from our Heartland of America home to Santa Monica pier so badly we could taste it. Then one day our high school teacher gave us an assignment to read and write an essay on the novel, Grapes of Wrath. The first time I read John Steinbeck's novel about the Joad family's migration west I was hooked. I knew from that point in my life that someday somehow I would make a trek west on Route 66.
In addition to everything, Rune and I had made one of those juvenile blood brother pacts while we were sophomores in high school to head west together one-day. We just knew that after high school graduation we would make our two-wheeled trek across country together to explore America; instead, we joined the military as expected of dutiful red-blooded young American boys. However, we both continued to communicate with each other about the possibilities of our great bike run west. Just like the two bikers in "Easy Rider" or Todd and Buzz in "Route 66" we wanted to experience the way west. I knew from all that I had read and seen that I would not use the fast-food lanes of Interstates for my journey; instead I would leisurely cruise the highways and byways throughout the country. I wanted to see America and its people as it is supposed to be seen, up close and personal.
So, as I rode my full dress anniversary edition Harley Davidson through the night with the classic road music playing in my helmet I couldn't help thinking about my father and all the great times we had throughout our life. Through the darkness that first night I left behind all that was familiar to me, but with my mind set on fulfilling my dream. The further I rode into the nebulous of the night the more cognizant I became of the fact that riding at night without a companion and utilizing secondary highways was so very desolate and lonely. However, that was a feeling that I would learn to accept throughout the weeks and months ahead of me on the road. Then there was the uneasiness of not knowing what was around the next blind bend on my journey.
Any seasoned bike rider knows that riding at night is a mystery measured in miles limited to the length of a single head light beam in the fog of unknown. Maybe my motorcycle junket was a metaphorical journey for my life. I had no real goals in mind for this journey or my life for that matter. For me the excursion was a reconnaissance into the heart of darkness. A soulful exploration of my life: who and what I really wanted out of life. I just had a deep-seated desire to find my true identity and who I was by journeys end, and maybe, a slice of Americana along the way. My first goal lay two weeks down the road: Santa Monica Pier by Memorial Day 2004.
Santa Monica Memorial Day 2004
I had completed my journey from Phoenix to the Santa Monica Pier, arriving on time, most of the way riding by way of old nostalgic Route 66. The two weeks long journey crossing the wastelands of the southwest along old U.S. Highway 66 were for the most part unforgiving, but very enlightening. I would spend time reminiscing with people along the way as to what it must have been like to travel the old road back in the day. When I finally arrived at Santa Monica Pier on Memorial Day weekend 2004 I was met by my aunt and uncle and some other family members; I was also met with a sad sight.
As we visited Santa Monica Pier I heard the sound of "Taps" coming from speakers on the beach. A group of war protestors called Veterans for Peace had erected white crosses on the beach next to Santa Monica Pier in part to protest the US involvement in Iraq, but also to pay tribute to fallen warriors of the Global War On Terror. The display had been dubbed, Arlington West Memorial Project, and had been an annual Sunday event since February 2004.
My uncle a Korean and Vietnam War Veteran had only one thing to say, "What a shame, all those young boys lost their lives, and for what: oil."
That was all he ever said about the war in Iraq and never mentioned the war again all the time I visited him. I sensed that he really didn't want to discuss the present war or the ones he had taken part in as a young man years ago. I was glad that I made it for my uncle's seventieth birthday celebration in Long Beach. I could tell that he missed his younger brother not being there, so I tried to fill the void of my absent father. The rest of the time in L.A was dedicated to excursions around the Los Angeles and San Diego area and all the theme parks therein. That was to fulfill the fun part of the ride. The almost two weeks ride starting from Santa Monica Pier in mid June along the Pacific Coast Highway to the Seattle-Tacoma, Washington area had been without a doubt the loneliest, but most beautiful portion of the ride.
Once I arrived in the Seattle-Tacoma area I hooked up with my older brother at Fort Lewis for two exciting weeks of brotherly interactions, and celebration of American Independence. My older brother, a Lieutenant Colonel in the Army and a battalion commander at Fort Lewis, is also a Harley-Davidson rider. He was impressed with my big touring bike, and I thought that his custom 2001 FatBoy was really cool. My brother had taken two weeks leave, during the first two weeks of July, before getting ready to deploy with his unit to Iraq, to spend with me and show me around the northwest. We were celebrating great times together, and then to my surprise my mother showed up the last week to visit with her two sons. After the two weeks of reunion we said our goodbyes and I departed for the ride south to Reno, Nevada. I had hotel reservations to take in the Hot August Nights celebration, set to begin the last week of July and run through the first week of August.
I made the Hot August Nights celebration with time to spare. While I browsed the events and shows I met a band of bikers that were heading for the Sturgis Bike Rally in the Black Hills of Sturgis, South Dakota. So, I cut my stay in Reno a couple of days short to hook up with them for the ride to Sturgis. I was thankful for the companionship as we rode east across country, arriving in time for some slam-bang entertainment in the Sturgis area. I managed to visit all the tourist sights in the area around Sturgis, totally enjoying the whole experience.
Once the rally in Sturgis concluded I headed due north for Castle Rock and then on into North Dakota. For the next couple of weeks I meandered around North Dakota, Montana, up into Canada, Idaho, and finally making my way back to Lake Tahoe, Nevada for my cousin's wedding on August 28. After the wedding ceremony a lavish reception was held and we all partied for a weekend. On Monday I was back on the road heading south to Fresno, California, to visit another cousin who rode motorcycles. When I arrived in Fresno my cousin told me that he had secured two weeks of leave for the first two weeks of September.
So, we saddled up our bikes and headed out for a long Labor Day week of motorcycle riding together throughout the backcountry of California. We rode up highway 41 to Yosemite National Park for our first stop; from there it was across Highway 120, and from there we headed north to Highway 88. We camped in the Carson Pass area; from that campground it was onto Minden and Gardnerville, before turning back taking Highway 395 south back down the eastern side of California. We stopped in Lone Pine, California, so I could visit a family cemetery and I could pay my respects. From there it was back through Bakersfield and north to Fresno.
Back in Fresno I rested for a few days before heading north. I made some phone calls, wrote some letters, and mailed a whole shit load of audio and videotapes home. When I left Fresno I rode north on Highway 99 to Sacramento and after taking in the sights around the River City I headed north again for Susanville, California, to visit a great aunt and uncle. After a visit with them it was back on Highway 395 south to Reno for the 11th Annual Street Vibrations set to take place September 22 through 26, 2004.
I had made reservations months earlier for a week at the Peppermill in Reno. I arrived on Monday afternoon, secured my bike, and settled into my room with its big king size bed for a session of self-pleasuring before dinner. I enjoyed a nice steak dinner, gambled for a couple of hours, and accepted all the free drinks offered before heading off to bed around midnight. The next day many of the bikers and vendors were setting up for the kick off day of the event, Wednesday. I met up with two cousins from Colorado who were about the same age as me and we hit it off. They were two very handsome, healthy and wealthy construction entrepreneurs from the Denver area. They were both riding wild looking Roger Bourget custom choppers. I soon found out that they were also staying at the Peppermill and were in the room directly across from mine. So, we agreed to have dinner together and pickup some beer and liquor for a room party later that night, all paid for by them.
I found out why the party that night was on them; eventually it turned into a male on male sex orgy between the three of us. The two cousins were both married heterosexuals, but had been having male on male sex with each other since their school days as boys. Each year they would schedule their vacations, two weeks each year, for the same time every year, so they could engage in their yearly sexual tryst. I must have proven to be a worthy sexual partner that first night because we all ended up staying in one room or the other together every night for the rest of the week.
These two guys, like me, were averagely endowed and circumcised, who were hotter than hell in bed. They were well versed in all aspects of oral and anal sex and all combinations thereof. Like me the men insisted on much foreplay. So, we managed to fuck and suck our way through the evenings while in Reno much like a group of nymphomaniac animals in heat. As the big bike celebration closed out on Sunday night we all made plans to do another orgy together. I had been accepted into their circle.
After a big breakfast at the Peppermill we all departed Reno on Monday morning in the same direction, east on I-80. I enjoyed the men's company riding across Nevada and into Utah. We stopped for the night at the Peppermill on state line, got a single room with two king size beds, and again engaged in an eventful night of red meat, wine, and lustful sex. We rode into the Salt Lakes stopping to take in some sights and photographs along the way. Once we arrived on the outskirts of Salt Lake City we got a hotel room off the 215 Beltway and spent our final evening together. The next morning after a hearty breakfast we bid each other farewell and the boys split taking I-15 south to pickup I-70 for their ride home to the Denver area. I remained in the room at the hotel making some phone calls, writing some postcards, and locating an old friend. I knew that my bike needed some work and I needed some rest.
So, after over four months of living a nomadic existence on the road and thousands of miles on my bike I had finally grown weary with my wayward lifestyle. I was ready to head towards home or, at least, find some warm and secure place for the winter. The late fall weather had become rather nippy for motorcycle riding, especially for night riding, and I had finally become homesick. I had entertained thoughts about returning to my old haunts in Phoenix, maybe, even returning to school. I maintained contact with my friends in that area, but I really didn't want to head south to Arizona, yet. What I really wanted was to get back to my home in the Heartland of America, my family, where my roots were.
My big bike adventure thus far had been accident and trouble free; furthermore, it had been a fantastic summer and fall of travel. Over the months I had taken hundreds of photos and shot miles of videotape. I dictated numerous audio recordings chronicling my tour of western America as well as my personal thoughts and experiences. I had visited family, friends, and met many great people along the way. I had gotten to know some better than others and about dozen or so I gotten to know on a more intimate level. The journey had definitely been a once in a lifetime experience for me, and from it I surely had enough material to write a book, maybe two. Now that I had arrived in Salt Lake City it was time to start thinking about the final phase of this journey of a lifetime.
So, after a relatively trouble free summer on the road satisfying all the goals on my itinerary my ass was sore, I was running low on money, and closing in on the end of my journey of a lifetime, what's next?
What will happen next? Stay tuned for more of what happens in SLC and the ride home. The story doesn't end here. We have to find out the answers to the questions posed in the opening portion of the story. If you want to provide some feedback e-mail the writer at: firstname.lastname@example.org
The author requests that all replies state the name of the story in the subject line: Thanksgiving Day 2004: a special day. If the name of the story is not stated in the subject line Spam filters will automatically reject and delete the reply. Also, do not send any reply e-mail with attachments, as these are automatically kicked out and deleted. If you send feedback don't block your e-mail if you want a reply from the author.