Summertime Cruise

'Cause there ain't no cure for the Summertime Cruise

****

Barb's reaction was hardly surprising. I had already pictured it fairly vividly many times in my imagination.

"You what?"

Her brown eyes bugged out, the expression was exasperation, wifely disbelief, maybe even disdain.

"You're telling me you're gonna buy a sports car?" She shook her head.

"No, that's not what I said."

"You said 'Porsche', for crying out loud, Clay. You're going to insist that isn't a 'sports car'?"

"It's going to be a project, Barb. Not going to cost a fortune. A fixer-upper Roger and I have plans for. A project."

Barb puckered her lips. "Clayton Thomas, not a 'fortune' up front, you mean. Just over time, a few hundreds here, a few thousands there, I know how these guy things go, not just at your age."

"You always said it wouldn't hurt for me to have a hobby." I felt defensive and always disliked it when she addressed me with my full name.

"Right. More up the line of model trains, or stamps maybe. Home brewing. Something simple and cheap. But this? If this doesn't fit the description of 'male midlife crisis' I don't know what does."

She was frowning. I liked her even when she was annoyed, her eyebrows furrowed on that sweet face. I wished we made love more often, but that wasn't happening much. At forty-four she was still fairly trim, dark hair now streaked a bit with gray, but her eyes would typically sparkle whenever she was amused.

But right now she looked peeved as peanuts.

"At least it's not a boat." This was more of a concession than it sounded. She turned and walked back into our farmhouse kitchen. I watched her sweet ass work its way from side to side.

She would be even more upset if she knew the real motive behind it all.

My down-the-way neighbor, Roger and I, had been an "item" all summer, all secret and hidden and deliciously subversive. Our summertime adventures had been a splendid discovery of gay sex, although we never said 'gay' and the word 'bisexual' only came up a couple times. Roger grew a bit uneasy whenever our sex talk got to that level of abstraction.

The immediate trouble was that our trysting times had mostly been outside, a particular thrill of ours (fresh. sweet, summer air on bare cocks and rumps, balls free, the excitement of outdoors in general) and with the Fall and colder New England weather just around the corner, it was going to be harder to come up with meeting places that would be suitable for our increasingly ardent adventures.

To tell the truth, our whole scene reminded me of being a teenager again, with all the obstacles to intimacy involved back then: dodging family members and having limited times and places for fun, squeezing in exciting, breathless sex whenever and wherever we could.

So Roger and I had contrived a reasonable winter-time cover for our clandestine encounters.

I'd spotted an advertisement for an early model Porsche 911, a Cobalt blue 1971 to be exact, which was just about perfect, since by then the engineering folk had relocated the rear suspension pick-up points for the axle rearward, minimizing the built-in oversteer all rear engine cars have, which had plagued earlier models. Pre-emissions controls, the model was retro enough that vehicle inspections wouldn't be an issue, not needing to meet the stricter controls required of newer cars. Someone's restoration had got out of hand, and the owner was ready to bail for a price. Not a low price mind you, but something I could afford.

Roger and I would be making the trek down to Chapel Hill, North Carolina next month to check it out and if we were satisfied with its condition, take delivery.

I had been putting off telling Barb, but it was time. She was predictably upset, but I also knew she'd get over it, and as long as I didn't squander the family fortune on it, turn myself into an absentee husband, or burn the garage down, all would be fine. As long as she didn't discover the real reason for my apparent profligacy.

This whole marriage thing is one tricky business, I tell you. Monogamy has more wrinkles than a cerebral cortex. I love Barb, we have been twenty-five years legal, and we had made a fine family with two grown boys, a sweet comfortable house here in the Berkshires.

But midlife horniness had intruded big time and landed a gut punch to me and my buddy Roger. A punch we were happy to roll with.

****

So one Saturday morning in October, Roger showed up on my doorstep before dawn, with his backpack and a flask of coffee for the trip.

Roger's sort of a backwoods everyman: flannel lumberjack shirt untucked, sturdy northern European bones, bit of a beer belly, but taut and strong through the shoulders. Dark eyes, level gaze, dense but fairly closely cropped beard, easy smile. Passes for pretty much any regular work guy in our neck of Massachusetts. Working man, middle height, hair thinning, but as we joked with each other, we posited that the hair had just "migrated." Plenty on his chest and elsewhere.

Although clean-shaven, I wasn't all that different in appearance, just smaller, but between the two of us we had enough body-fur to cause nightmares for anyone in the "manscaping" business.

But Roger had a nice cock on him, especially when erect, as I knew pretty well at this point. Big hanger balls, with a sweet forest of dark brown hair surrounding. The sweaty smell under those testicles would give me an instant erection every time my nose was under there, if I didn't have one already.

By midday we had managed to snake my Ford 150 and the empty trailer through the New York-New Jersey mess and across the various bridges okay, with the cruise control set at a comfortable 68 mph, the rental trailer riding decently in the back, even unloaded.

For the first part of the drive we hadn't talked much, and not even about anything sex related, but just after DC we had inevitably gotten around to our favorite topics—the enjoyment our genitals liked best and journeys they had taken in earlier life.

Roger had relayed some pre-Carrie adventures with a sweet chubby girl named Joellyn who would give him sweet hand-strokings as foreplay. He had gone on for quite awhile about how she had reluctantly come around to licking him, although never far enough, or long enough, for his liking.

"Not sure she even enjoyed it that much, to tell the truth."

He looked over.

"So tell me about the first penis you sucked, Clay. You sure were more adventurous than I was, anyway."

"You really want to know?" My eyebrows arched. He'd never asked this before.

"Sure. You can tell me just about anything at this point, Clay. Whose was it? Your old high school buddy Lenny?"

I had told him a little about my early messing around with Lenny, and it was a logical guess.

"Nope. Me."

His eyebrows went way up.

"Yourself?"

"Yep."

"You sucked your own prick?" He exhaled. "Never thought of that."

I told him about how I had started taking a yoga class in college and that there was one position, "the plow" they called it, where you were flat on your back and put your feet back over your head, a big stretch for the spine.

"Of course if your eyes are open you are staring at your crotch in that position, and while I wasn't that limber the first time, as I practiced more, my crotch got closer and closer to my face. Even with clothing on it was not hard to imagine the possibilities. It was strange, I tell you.

"So one night I decide to do my yoga poses naked. It was hot, and there's my penis poking straight down at me. Just looking at it got me excited and the damn thing started growing on its own. Closer and closer to my face."

Roger exhaled.

"I stuck my tongue out but it was maybe an inch away from the tip of my penis. I could get it a little nearer but not much.

"So I started working on my 'plow pose' a bunch more and after maybe two months, I was able to just barely touch my piss-slit with my tongue."

"Okay, I can see the punch line coming. Sooner or later you got limber enough to do some serious damage. How far could you take yourself in?"

"At the height of my powers, I could take the whole head, no more. And while it felt great on one level, the rest of my body was not all that comfortable, to be honest."

"Sheesh. Did you ever cream in your mouth?"

"I thought about it. But it was enough trouble physically I couldn't hold the position for very long. I'd work my tongue and lips around my cock head and get myself real close, but then I'd just lie flat on my back and stroke the rest of the way. Sure was nice though, feeling what it was like to put my mouth over a nice eager penis. So that's my first suck, Roger. I've never told anyone else."

Roger's eyes looked a bit glazed. He stared out the window for a bit and we didn't say anything.

Finally I looked over, and he was staring right back at me. His penis was sticking up right out of the fly of his jeans. Like the proverbial flag pole during the Fourth of July parade in the town center.

We both laughed.

"Guess I got you worked up. Sorry."

"Guess so."

He reached over and felt my own erection, I had one too now.

He fumbled with my fly and managed to fish my own stiffy out.

"Hey, watch it Rog. I am driving after all."

It did feel good. We hadn't had a proper chance at each other for a few weeks. He pulled on my penis and ran his fingers over the head.

He gave it several strokes, looking at me the whole time. It was some effort for me to concentrate on driving.

"Just keep your eyes on the road, Clay, I won't go too far.

"Although I am dying to do something sweet with that penis of yours tonight."

His eyes gleamed. This had been a lovely change in our relationship over time. He had gotten more and more forward as we got to know each other, although I was still most often the instigator.

We pulled into Chapel Hill after dark, both of us pretty beat. Roger had taken a turn driving, for which I was grateful, but traffic plus the annoyance of dragging along the trailer (and parking the damn thing) had made us worn out.

But we settled into our Motel Six, grabbed a six-pack of beer from the store across the street, turned on the telly, and ordered a pizza. By the second beer we were feeling much better, after the pizza even more.

But of course the muscle memory of those erections that occurred earlier in the day came back. An erection is like riding a bicycle,— elemental, the damn thing never seems to forget how to do itself.

As Roger finished his last slice, I couldn't help staring at his crotch. Imagining what it would be like when I finally fished his prick out from underneath his clothing.

Roger saw my look. Didn't need any translating to understand the meaning.

"You still look hungry, Clay. Although you finished your last slice." I liked his grin.

"I'm thinking dessert, Roger. A no-calorie one."

Roger pretended to frown. "Not sure it's strictly no-calorie."

"You're right, of course. Mouthful of semen is about one hundred and twenty calories, on average."

His eyebrows went up. "You know this for a fact, Clay?"

"Only can tell you what I looked up, Roger. But it's still less than what would happen with say, an ice cream cone. Or even a chocolate bar."

I reached over and rubbed him.

"You want we should shower first?" he asked.

"Naw. I like your smell in general. Your balls in particular."

I immensely enjoyed watching my bud remove his clothes.

Bottom stuff off. Prick dangling, those lovely balls hanging luscious in their holster.

I salivated.

By the time my clothes came off, my prick was already half hard. Not sticking straight out, but enough to protrude. Roger's eyes were on it.

We pulled back the bed covers, settled in.

It was not one of our long extended sessions. We were both in high arousal. We hadn't had any sexual contact in weeks.

We played with each other until both cocks were bobbing-stiff hard, the kind that stayed rigid and swung back when pushed.

So in our experimentations, one of the things we had learned was that my keenest arousal was when I could also see Roger's cock waving around. Consequently, it tended to be more of a turn-on for him to do me first, so I could get the visuals. Roger didn't care as much, and in fact, I think usually liked being second anyway. Then he didn't need to be the one to 'reciprocate.' I understood this, and while we varied our routine a bit, we didn't deviate from it this night.

So we played a bit with the sixty-nine, Roger over me. He held himself off a bit with his arms, so I could tongue his cock-head and suckle at those marvelous testicles, take breaks while I watched him play with my penis in his mouth. Always an interesting perspective.

When my penis got aroused enough that he figured I was too close to ignore, he positioned me on the bed, head on the pillows and settled in between my legs.

The sucking didn't take long. Some good juicy ball licking, holding my shaft up like a four-on-the-floor shifter, then a tongue traverse, balls to tip, lips over the cock-head, and I was so worked up at that point that it maybe took a dozen strong sucks before I creamed his mouth good. Five good spurts of pent-up semen went in.

He nursed for a few minutes, I often shrink real fast, until my penis had gotten small and oversensitive, and I pulled off. When he sat back on his haunches, I liked the way his tool was rock hard.

Another reason this way had emerged as our routine is that Roger almost always got real aroused when he worked me, although I am not sure he would even admit to this.

I pulled him over to me, raised myself a little on the shabby bed so my body was propped up a bit, and pulled his groin into my face.

This method we didn't do very often, despite being unusually explosive.

Roger's cock-head went into my mouth, I felt his ass cheeks with my hands, and he started pushing his cock into me, nice and rhythmic.

I didn't want too fast a completion however, so after a couple minutes I disengaged and licked and suckled his balls, all drawn up alongside his shaft.

His hands were on the headboard, his head back, eyes closed. I knew he was enjoying himself.

Back into my mouth, the feel of that lovely strong prick of his sliding along my lips, pushing itself back into my throat, this was heaven.

Ten or twenty good pushes and he unloaded. A goodly amount, that enchanting sense of pulsing fluids as his cock contracted. I felt the clenching in his ass cheeks as he shot. Sweet.

His pushes got weaker and weaker, until he stopped. I sucked until he got soft, pretty fast it was, and he pulled out.

His eyes looked glazed as that wonderful penis slopped around, all wet and loose and spent.

I think we had both been hoping for a second round that night, but our energy expenditure, from the drive and our activities, put paid to that idea.

We cleaned up and slept good. Although at daybreak I did get a thoroughly lovely suck-off of his early morning erection, before we'd even gotten out of bed. This was my first chance at this sort of intimacy, as all our other sex events in the past had occurred in far less opportune situations.

Over the summer Roger had developed some squeamish feelings about our sex time together. This motel sleepover was the first time we had shared a bed, thoroughly delightful for me. But back home he had boundary notions about beds. More than once during our time together, there had been an opportunity to do our sex play in one or another of our domestic bedrooms, but he always demurred.

I remember one time at his place, when Carrie was away for the afternoon. I thought it would be exciting to suck each other off in his marital homestead, but he blanched. Too close for comfort, he said, and I could understand it. Too risky if caught. He'd spent plenty of time in the past doing nice things to his wife, and here we would be playing under the sheets that she normally inhabited. We settled for outside, which was our major thrill anyway.

So this motel night tryst was the first of its kind, felt very free for me—safe and impossible from wifely discovery.

We got to our destination okay the next morning, no troubles on that front. Big old farmhouse some distance off the road, gravel noises as we drove, overhanging trees, greenery everywhere. The guy, genial and casually dressed, met us at the front door. The Porsche wasn't even in a garage, so we followed him to a barn-like out-building to one side.

It was both better and worse than we expected. The good news was very little rust, one of the advantages for keeping a car in warmer climates than New England, as there was little snow, and thus no salt on the roads, nasty winters, etc.

The body was a bit more beaten up than the photos showed, a couple fenders would need some work, and the upholstery was not so great either, not ratty, but not in good condition. The engine and tranny were removed, which we knew, so we had brought wheeled pallets to be able to winch the car into the trailer. Included were several boxes of miscellaneous parts that had been taken off and never reinstalled.

I am lousy at negotiating, but luckily the guy was fairly relaxed. Roger is much better at this sort of thing, so I let him do most of the talking. You could tell the guy was really hoping to unload this little project and make some space in his barn. Money was not of primary importance.

We winched the car into the trailer, and Rog and I were able to horse the engine-transmission unit in as well and secure it for the ride home. Extra-parts boxes went in the bed of the truck.

We shook hands with the guy and made our way home.

Barb eyed us warily after we'd pulled up and began the process of getting the thing into the garage.

She squinted at the body. "Nice color at least, Clay, you did good on that part anyway."

She eyed Roger. "Guess I'm going to be seeing you a bunch this winter. There are worse things I guess."

We all laughed.

We had been uncharacteristically crafty in our plans. The Porsche would be lodged in my garage, even though all the good tools—the drill press, grinder and MIG welder—were at Roger's work studio. That way we could pretty much choose which place we wanted for a tryst, choosing either to work on the car or do machine-shop like work at Roger's, depending on whichever place provided the most privacy. Doubled the number of trysting places, basically. We could play it by ear, whichever spot would work better.

Later that afternoon, everything unloaded into the garage, we stood around with the garage door open, a couple beers in hand.

"You figure we can get this done by spring?" asked Roger. He didn't look confident.

"Probably. It will go slow. Two items. Money and time. I know the money is going to increase, we're going to find stuff to do we didn't expect. Time will be up to us."

We did okay with the engine rebuild, although it was way more complicated than the old air-cooled VW engines I had rebuilt, which I could do almost blindfolded. But the complicated Porsche flat-six came with overhead cams, a long timing chain, a pile more fiddly parts to keep track of. I lived with the Haynes manual practically under my pillow. We couldn't afford a complete restoration, didn't even want one anyway, just a final product that looked and drove good. We figured it would be about a three-quarters effort.

We decided not to do the transmission, hoping it was okay, figuring we could attend to it if there seemed to be any real problems later.

One splurge on my part. The engine was equipped with the Zenith triple-throat 40TIN carburetors, which weren't original, and must have come from a 1970 or 1971 911T. I located a new set of Webers, the 40IDA3C series. The thought of trying to get the Zeniths into working shape was beyond me. But the Webers were a cool three-grand of expenditure beyond what we'd thought. Maybe I'd be able to short-sell the Zeniths and recoup some of the expense.