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Greg He's a bottom. He likes to get fucked. I haven't been here in two months. The drive is long and frankly I don't have gas for the trip. He decided to do some Christmas shopping and thought he would ride out to see what was going on. Looks like they don't want anyone going through there, he said. Well, not exactly. They closed it down because of erosion. You can walk through if you want. He asks me if I want to walk through. My instinct of "he's a cop" sets in like gangrene. I follow him to the other side where families go. The place where barbecue ribs and pine intertwine. I follow him back to that place where gay guys go to escape their wives and screaming kids. The place where cum trickles down boulders and soak into beach towels. He takes out his cock and plays with it. He's not a cop. We walk back further for privacy. I think he's going to gay bash this black dick queer for three dollars and my car keys. He pulls out condom in turquoise colored paper. Lubricated rubber. The latex smells stronger than his ass. He leans against the tree for me. My dick is not brick hard. It's like a jigsaw piece that will not fit. Guide me in dude, play with it a little. We twist into more positions than a game of Twister. Neither of us wants to take off our clothes. Just in case of emergencies. Just in case we see the face of a park ranger closing in on two fags in heat. This isn't going to work. Can I suck you off instead? I ask him if he sucks. "No," he says. Bottoms begging to take it in the ass never do. Pre-cum drips from his cock like syrup. I taste a bit in my mouth. A little never hurts, until the night sweats, until something forms on leg that's more than a mosquito bite. His name is Greg.
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