As a biker I was always firmly committed to the "Two wheels good, four wheels bad" ethos. But there are times when you need a car, and this was one of those times, so I picked up a copy of the local free ads paper and set about finding something big, dependable and cheap. I found an advertisement for exactly what I needed: a 1993 Volvo 240 estate. (Station wagon, in American.) I picked up the phone and dialled the number.
"Hello?"
"Hello, I'm calling about your ad in Loot."
"Oh, hi." The voice was warm and friendly. "You're my first call."
"That's good. It's still for sale, then?"
There was a puzzled sort of silence. Then he said: "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
He must be really fussy about the home his car goes to, I thought. "Sure, go ahead," I said.
"OK. What are you looking for?" There was a strange emphasis on the "you".
"Well, a '93 Volvo 240 Estate would do fine."
There was a polite laugh. "Yeah, right. How big are you?"
"Well, big enough to handle a Volvo."
He sounded like he was getting a little irritated. "I mean... like... well built?" The ad had promised immaculate bodywork but I wasn't sure where we were heading with this question. He continued: "That's what they told me to say when I phoned in the ad. They're not allowed to print 'well hung'."
"Just a minute," I said, "Have you got a '93 Volvo for sale?"
"No. I've got an '87 Ford but the battery's dead and it's not for sale anyway." There was another pause. "How did you get my number, by the way?"
"Well, it was printed right there in your ad."
"They're not supposed to do that."
"It's just as well they did, or I couldn't have phoned you."
"No, you're supposed to phone my voice ad then leave a message so I can call you back."
"That's a pretty weird way to sell a car."
"Who's selling a car?"
"What are you selling, then?"
"Me? I'm not selling anything. I placed a personal ad. I haven't even seen the paper yet. You mean they printed my number next to an ad for a car? Fuck."
"Yeah, they must have mixed up your number with someone else's."
"Fuck."
There was a pause. Then I said: "So, what was your ad for?"
"Oh, you don't wanna know. You're looking for a Volvo. Cheers," he said, and hang up.
I turned to the back of the paper and looked at the personal ads. Men Seeking Women filled about two pages. Then there was a little less than a page of Women Seeking Men. Then came something under a quarter of a page of Men Seeking Men and, finally, there were two ads beneath the heading Women Seeking Women. The paper was clearly making a liberal, equal-opportunity stand that its readership was not fully ready for. Towards the end of the Men Seeking Men columns I found something that sounded familiar:
Married bi guy, 26, 6', fit, good looking, into sports, seeks well-built guy for fun and friendship.
It was followed by a VoiceBox number. I picked up the phone and heard the same voice I'd heard a few minutes earlier.
"Hi, my name's Vince. I'm 26, six feet tall, nice looking, into sport, and I'm looking for a well built guy to have some fun with. So if you think you're that guy, give me a call." "Press one to hear the message again," said a recorded female voice. "Press two to leave your message." This was something I'd never tried before but pressed 2 on the keypad. "Speak after the tone. When you've finished your message, press the star key."
Curious, newly single, and permanently horny, I made a snap decision.
"Hi," I began. "I'm Richard, and I'm... interested. I'm pretty well built. I've got a big cock, if that's what you mean." I'd got over being shy about that. It's a simple matter of record that I have an unusually large penis, and I can say that without bragging or false modesty. It's not as if I worked for it or anything: it's all down to the human state lottery. I gave my cellphone number and pressed the star key. "Thank you. To hear your message again, press one. To re-record your message, press two. To return to the main menu, press..."
I hung up, feeling horny and restless. Turning back to the car ads, I found Vince's number and dialled it again.
"Hello?"
"Hi, I just called you a few minutes ago. I got your number by accident. I was looking for a car."
"Oh, right."
"I found your ad, and I heard your voice message. I like the sound of it."
"Oh. Good."
"Would you like to meet up?"
"Perhaps. I'd like to know more about you first." We talked a little of what we did, what we liked, what we looked like - the best way to describe our looks was to say which TV soap characters we resembled - then he said "Shit, I've gotta go. I've got a football match this afternoon. I'll be at the gym after that: do you want to meet later?" He gave me an address and we arranged to meet outside his gym that evening.
It was starting to get dark when we were due to meet. I sat on a wall and waited. On the other side of the road a tall figure emerged from the shadows, looked over and gave me a nod of recognition, and jogged across the road towards me. He looked terrific, like a marine ready for active service: lean and fit, with crewcut blond hair, dressed in grey sweatpants and a hooded top. "You recognised me, then?"
"No problem," I said. "Except you look a fuck of a lot better than Tony out of EastEnders."
"Yeah, well, and you've got more hair than Grant Mitchell. Usually, when blokes say they're Grant Mitchell look-alikes, what they mean is they're bald."
(A note to the uninitiated: EastEnders is a BBC TV soap. At least, it's convenient to call it a soap, but it can rise to sublime heights of contemporary drama, with carefully-crafted plots, fine acting and complex character development. As you might guess, I'm a fan.)
"Do you spend a lot of time at the gym?"
"Yeah, I've been going quite a lot," he said. "I'm working on my six pack." He lifted up his sweat top to show a nicely-defined set of abdominals. "That looks good," I said. It did look good. I was getting a hard-on looking at this guy.
"What have you got to show me?" he said, looking at my crotch. My cock was growing, fast, and straining to get out of my pants. The street was quite dark, and the yellow sodium lamps were only just starting to light up: I was almost horny enough to take it out right there, but not quite.
"Let's take a walk," he said.
We turned off the street into a leafy alleyway next to a railway line. About fifty feet further on, with no houses on either side and no people in sight, I stopped and took out my cock. He looked at it, said "Wow", dropped to a crouch and took it in his hands. I held his shoulders, ran my hands around his back then up and under his sweat top. His flesh felt warm but hard. He stood up and I passed my hands under his sweatpants and over his buttocks. I drew him close to me and we stood, feeling each other's hard cocks through the thin cotton fleece of his pants.
"Not here," he whispered.
He turned and continued walking, quickening his pace as he went and breaking into a run. I followed. After a while the railway line veered away from the path and the surroundings became harder, more urban. The alleyway ended in a jungle of concrete pillars beneath an elevated motorway intersection. He suddenly stopped dead and I ran into his back. He reached behind with both hands and drew me close to him, pressing his bum back against my half-hard cock. I reached forward, slipped my hands beneath his elasticated waistband and got a feel of his cock, neatly circumsized and rock hard, not big - but I was never one to have hang-ups about size. Still holding me, he sidestepped into one of the pools of black shadow created by the stark white floodlighting. He yanked down his sweatpants. I gave him some help to undo my belt and my jeans. My dick popped out, slick with precum, and he guided it down between his buttocks.
"Oh man, I've dreamt of having a cock like that in me," he breathed. "Push it up against my arse. Go on."
I didn't need to make much of an effort. He was pushing back against me and I could feel his hole opening up as if trying to envelop me and suck me in. Fucking hell, this guy really wanted it. I was so fucking horny, I was oozing precum and it was transferring itself liberally to his arse crack. One push and I think I'd have been inside him. It was tough to hold back. With one hand I was reaching around, holding his dick, stoking the underside of his scrotum. With the other I was exploring his hard abdomen, his hard pectorals, his hard nipples. He turned his head to kiss me and I was surpised at how soft his lips were. Everything about this guy was hard, smooth and warm - except his lips. The first kiss was tentative and exploratory but then out came the tongues and we were kissing deeply, passionately, hungrily, and his arse was squirming against my cockhead, drawing me inwards with ever-greater urgency.
It was a great effort to pull back. "Hey," I said, "We're forgetting something." This was dangerous territory without a condom.
"Listen, I know I'm clean," he said. "I've never done this before except with a butt plug. How about you?"
Hard to believe that this guy had no experience with a live cock - but I believed him, because that's what I wanted to believe. And it was easy to believe because I'd never done this before either. All I know is it felt good, it felt right: I'd never imagined that fucking a guy could be as easy as this.
"Okay, here goes," I said, and pushed a little. There was a little resistance: in spite of all my precum it was getting dry down there. I sank to my knees and, putting my tongue to his crack, dribbled a thick gob of spit on to his arse. It smelt freshly washed, like everything about him: he would have showered at the gym. I flicked my tongue against his hole and heard him groan, felt him push back again... "Come on, just do it. Fuck me," he said.
I stood up again and lined up my knob against his wet hole. A moment's pressure, then my glans slipped inside. He was breathing hard and heavy, shifting his weight around, massaging my cockhead as he moved. Then, slowly, we pushed together and my cock eased in. We stood there immobile, holding each other tight, totally concentrated on this feeling of shared ecstasy. I could all too easily have cum right then but I was determined that this was going to last. He started rocking back and forth, urging me to thrust in ever deeper, all the while telling me how much he wanted that fat cock inside him, how he wanted me to ram it up to the hilt, to force it all the way in. It didn't last long: I felt my orgasm building and knew I wasn't going to be able to hold back. I jammed my cock in as far as it would go and felt my spunk explode deep inside him in long, powerful spurts. "Oh, fuck!" he yelled and I felt his hole clench tight as he came too, spraying his juice against a damp concrete pillar. And that is how, with the Westway traffic thundering overhead, I got my first man-fuck. And so, if he's to be believed, did Vince.