by Rob Rosen
Truth be told, I wanted to watch him as well, which wasn’t easy in our current position. So, I popped my dick out and replaced it with three spit-slick fingers, standing side by side with him, our eyes locked, watching, waiting, our hands on our pricks, stroking, stroking, stroking.
He grinned, then tilted his head back in apparent delight, releasing a low, steady moan as his cock spewed, thick globs of white come that shot and shot and shot, splashing the tree before gliding down in gooey drips. “Fuuuck,” he sighed, opening his fluttering eyes to watch me repeat the performance.
I gave a final tug, my knees buckling as I sent out a thick creamy load, my moans filling the space around us, my come joining his, those tingles returning, running up and down my body as I jerked the remaining dribbles out of my stiff prick.
He leaned over for a tender kiss, his hand running across my chest. Then he surprised me by leaning down to find a sharp rock, which he used to carve the tree we’d just spewed on. I watched him, the letters slowly taking shape. Steven and Glenn shot here, it soon read.
I laughed, slowly getting dressed. He did the same, then took my hand and led us back to the concert, to Creedence Clearwater Revival and to Sly & the Family Stone, back to near our original spot, my friends nodding my way, apparently unconcerned about my departure or too high to care.
He leaned into my ear. “Time to go find my ride,” he told me. “I’ll be right back.”
I gripped his hand and leaned in for a kiss, now accustomed to doing so. “Hurry back; you’ll miss The Who.”
He winked. “See you in a few.”
Though that’s not what happened. The Who started and finished, the concert winding down for the night. The crowd stood up, making their way to points unknown. I panicked and ran back to the tree, praying he’d do the same. I waited as long as possible, but my friends were ready to go. Sadly, I realized I’d never see him again. I touched our carving one last time, my head sinking low to my chest, a pang forming in my heart.
And there is where it rooted.
* * * *
Nearly fifty years later, that’s where I find myself, at the Bethel Woods Center for the Arts, the original site of the 1969 Woodstock festival. The countryside only looks vaguely familiar, but the copse of trees still remain, as does the carving, our tree looking no worse the wear, though perhaps more majestic, thicker around the trunk. I suppose the same can be said about me, too.
I touch the carving with the tips of my fingers. It’s now scabbed over, considerably darkened with time. I sigh, the memories flooding back, and then I notice it, carved an inch below. It’s a phone number. My heart skips a beat.
“Nah, can’t be,” I tell myself.
Still, I whip out my cellphone, and with trembling hands punch in the number. A man answers on the third ring, the voice recognizable if not a bit age-worn.
“Hello?” he says.
“Hello, Glenn?” I reply, my voice hoarse, shaky. “Is that you?”
He pauses, coughs, pauses again. “No fucking way, man.” He laughs that spectacular laugh of his, my balls rising at the sound. “Steven?”
And now I laugh. “How could you possibly have known that?”
“Don’t know, old friend. I just sort of, well, felt it,” he explains. “Wait, are you at the tree right now?”
I sigh. “Yup. Looks different around here without all those people. The oak is the same, though, if not a bit older.”
“It and me both,” he says, quickly adding, “Did you come down there alone?”
I chuckle into the phone. “Oh, no, Glenn; I never come alone. More fun with someone else.”
His chuckle echoes mine. “Now that sounds familiar. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.” He hesitates. “Um, if that’s okay with you.”
Thankfully, it’s what I was hoping he’d say. “That would be, um, groovy.”
The laughter grows before he hangs up. I wait, my back against the wide trunk, staring up at the green hill. Soon enough, a lone figure comes up and over, gray hair now replacing blond, still long, still trailing down his back. His hand rises in the air, his fingers up in a V.
“Peace!” he hollers down at me.
“Peace!” I yell back.
And, at long, long last, that’s exactly what I am—at peace.
Bowling for Boners
“The usual, Matt,” he said to me, plopping down a fiver, mega-watt smile radiating off his face, blue eyes twinkling beneath the fluorescent lighting.
I crouched down and found his favorite pair, size thirteen. Guy had big-ass feet. “Here you go, Pete. Lane twelve. All yours.” Lane twelve was reserved for the pros. Bowling association paid the dues. “Big tournament coming up, huh?”
He grabbed for the shoes and nodded. “One week away. High stakes. Top three compete in Maui.”
I grinned. “Good luck. And aloha.”
He turned, hollering over his shoulder, “Mahalo, dude.”
I watched him saunter away, staring at his perfect little ass, encased in tight rayon shorts, bulging calves flexing with each stride. I pushed down on my burgeoning stiffie and willed myself back to work. Thankfully, I only had two more hours left to go.
Tick, tock, place slowly emptied out, shoes returned, sanitized, reshelved. I cleaned up in between, so all I’d have to do at the end of the night was close out the register. When ten o’clock rolled around, place was empty. Almost. “Closing up, Pete,” I hollered.
He turned my way and grimaced. “Fifteen more minutes, Matt?”
I shrugged. “Suit yourself. I have to balance out the receipts anyway. One thing, though: the air conditioner is on a timer. Goes off promptly at ten. Place is gonna get awfully hot, awfully fast.”
He nodded and went back to his game. “No prob. Fifteen more minutes is all I need.”
Again, I shrugged, heading to the back office to finish up my work. When I returned, he was still at it, only shirtless now. I gulped and headed over to his lane. He had a determined look on his face, purple bowling ball held up high, muscles taut, sweat trickling through the dense matting of fur that covered his defined chest, his etched belly. Like a graceful dancer, his body moved, twisting, turning in perfect precision, the ball released like greased lightning, slamming down the lane and crashing into the pins. Eight down. I frowned. “Not your night, Pete?”
He jumped, wiping the sweat off his brow. “Not even close. And this place is fucking hot as hell.”
“Told you so,” I said, forcing my eyes forward, despite their wanton desire to run up and down his unexpectedly exposed torso.
He chuckled, turning my way, the ball rumbling back, popping into view a split second later. “You play, Matt?”
The question took me off guard. Then I realized what he meant. “Yup. League champion a couple of years back. Not up to your level, though.”
He smiled, perfect pearly whites gleaming. “Feel like a game?” he asked.
Truth be told, I could think of worse things than hanging out with a handsome, shirtless pro bowler, alone. Besides, I’d never played anyone as good as him before. It was an added bonus. “Sure, why not? If we don’t incinerate before the last frame.”
He chuckled, the sound like pebbles tossed at the shoreline, sending a jolt of adrenalin up my spine. “It’s cooler with your shirt off.”
Fuck, alone and shirtless? Was he kidding me? Still, when in Rome. In other words, I unbuttoned my vintage fifties wear and tossed it on a nearby chair. He gave me the once over and nodded. I forced a crooked grin, a nervous tic lifting my eyebrow. “Yep, much better,” I managed, trying to keep my voice even. Still, it was hot as an oven in there, sweat already streaming down my back.
And so, we bowled, my eyes glued to him when he was up, his back tight with muscle, calves heavy with them, too, a tuft of fuzz above the waistband of his shorts, a thick patch of underarm hair visible every time he let the ball loose from his grip. Enough to make Adonis jealous. Meaning, my game was not what it was usually cracked up to be, s
eeing as how I had my mind on other things, namely the bulge in the front of his ultra-tight shorts.
“Your stance is off, Matt,” he informed, three frames in and me down a good dozen pins already.
He moved in and stood behind me, his bowling shoes kicking mine, trying to place my feet in a slightly different position. “That looking any better?” I asked, ball at the ready.
He scratched his chin and gave my feet a look. “Close, but not quite.” He inched in further, my face forward, staring down the length of the lane. Suddenly, his sweat-soaked front was up against my equally sweaty back, his hand on my arm, maneuvering his body to better turn my own. “Here, like this.” He lingered, the soft down of him tickling me, his breath suddenly heavy in my ear, crotch buried in my ass.
I gulped. “Got it.” He moved away. I let the ball rip, the sound of it like thunder in the empty building. “Strike!” I hollered soon enough, shocked that his ministrations had worked.
He patted my sweaty shoulder. “Much better. You’ll be a pro in no time.”
I laughed. “If I don’t die from heat exhaustion first.”
He wiped a river of perspiration from his chest and off his belly, fanning his face just after. “Tell me about it.” He pointed to his crotch. “And rayon doesn’t breathe a lick. I got me a pool of sweat in these shorts, and the dam is about to burst.” He stared at me, pausing, the obvious solution hanging heavily in the heat-thick air.
Again, that tic of mine played havoc on my brow. “Well, it is just you and me in here,” I told him, my heart suddenly beating hummingbird-fast in my chest, a fresh burst of sweat streaming down between my pecs.
He smiled, hand gripping the top button. “You sure?”
I nodded. The button popped open, the zipper zipped down, white jockstrap suddenly revealed, a smattering of black bush resting above the material. He slid them down and kicked them off, his jock soaked all the way through, the outline of his cock visible, wide head bulging at the bottom, balls pushing the whole shebang outward.
“Better?” I asked, my voice suddenly gravelly.
“Much.” He looked away, walking to his purple ball. I sat back down and watched, eyes glued to his exposed ass, framed in a thin band of white material, cheeks indented on the sides, hairy crack down the center. He stood still, aimed, and released in one fluid motion, the ball zipping down the lane, smashing all ten pins to bits. He turned, fist pumped at his side. “Yes!” he yelled, the sound echoing out in all directions.
“I think we’ve invented a whole new sport,” I said, standing up to retrieve my ball, my arm brushing his as I strode by, every nerve-ending in my body shooting off fireworks.
“Naked bowling?” he quipped with a lilting chuckle.
“Well, nearly naked, at any rate.”
I got into position, eyes staring down the lane. Then he upped the ante. “Except, only one of us is nearly.”
I gulped and turned around. “Um, okay,” I squeaked out. Then I set my ball down and reached for the top button of my slacks, watching him watching me. My pants, of course, were soaked with sweat, but slid off easily enough. I kicked them to the side, standing there in my briefs, black socks, and bowling shoes. It must’ve been an odd sight. Still, he gave me the thumbs up. I smiled, retrieved my ball, lined up again, and let it fly. “Strike!” I shouted, seconds later, mimicking his fist pump.
He hopped up and high-fived me. “Quite freeing without the clothes, huh?” he asked, face so close I could smell his breath, his stunning blue eyes locked with mine, reaching down into my very soul as a million butterflies swarmed around my belly.
“Hard to televise, though,” I said. “Except maybe on the Playboy channel.”
“Can’t see it happening,” he said, still up close. “Most bowlers don’t look that appealing sans clothes.”
“Present company excepted,” I spat out, unthinking. Then I froze, a flush of warmth spreading across my cheeks, burning like wildfire.
His face closed the gap, now right in front of my own. “Think so, Matt?” he asked, voice just barely above a whisper.
I gulped, yet again, my prick starting to course with blood. “Well, um, yeah.”
“Yeah?” he rasped. “Ditto for you.” Then he sidled past me and moved to his ball. He looked over, scanned our scores, and quickly added, “You’re catching up. One more layer of clothes and you just might beat me.” All I heard, of course, was the beat me, despite the din of my heart pounding in my ears.
“You first,” I croaked out, taking my seat. “With that layer, I mean.”
He paused, briefly, his thumbs within the elastic waistband. He pushed down on the material, wiry bush revealed, then the base of his shaft. He smiled, winked, and the jock slid down and off, his cock swaying, not quite flaccid, not erect yet either. Now naked, except for his shoes and socks, he lifted his purple ball, took a few breaths, aimed, and let it fly, his tight ass jiggling as he did so, dense muscles contracting with each step.
I watched. He watched. Time stood still as it rolled down the lane. I laughed when it struck. “Only six pins, Pete. You’re losing it.”
He turned, shooting me a wicked-ass grin. His cock was stiff as a board, jutting straight out and up a bit, arced to the side, balls exposed, heavy and fuzzy. “Guess I’m a bit preoccupied,” he said, giving it a tug and a stroke. “Your turn.”
I stood up, my legs fairly trembling, briefs tenting something fierce. I walked to my ball as he sat down, legs wide, cock in hand, a slow even stroke on it as he watched me. Then he pointed at my midsection with his index finger, indicating that one of us was wearing entirely too much. Which was entirely too true. Meaning, my undies were down to my ankles in a flash, then kicked off, my boner swinging from side to side. Then I fingered my ball, walked to the foul line, lined up, and sent it careening down.
Only, I turned to watch him instead. He was tugging on his nuts, tweaking a thick nipple, watching me intently. “Strike,” he told me, the crashing sound a micro-second later.
“Yup,” I said, moving his way, cock swaying.
I stood in front of him, staring into eyes like pools. He gazed up, smile stretched from ear to ear. He released his cock, his arms hanging over the chair, legs still wide, his body spread out before me, all muscle and sinew and hair. I reached down and grabbed his cock, his eyelids fluttering upon contact. “Took you long enough,” he groaned.
“Guess I’m a slow learner,” I replied, crouching down, face to crotch.
He pointed to the scores up on screen. “Could’ve fooled me.”
My mouth moved in. I slapped the head of his prick against my lips. “Like you said, you were distracted.”
He moaned when I sucked him in, the sound rumbling through his body and down into mine. “But what a nice distraction,” he rasped, his hand running through my mop of hair as his cock made its way to the back of my throat, pungent pre-jizz hitting my tonsils like a bullet. “Nice,” he groaned, the sound swirling around the massive space as I sucked him off, yanking on his hefty, hairy balls as I did so, all while he tweaked and twisted his eraser-tipped nipples.
I popped his prick out of my mouth, resting it on my chin. “Ever come while on a bowling lane before, Pete?”
He gazed down, still twisting his nips, panting. “Can’t say as I have, Matt.”
I stood up, cock stiff as a board, dripping copious amounts of spunk. “Want to?”
He jumped up, face to face, his lips brushing mine. “Love to,” he replied, mouth mashing into mine, tongues thrashing, his hands reaching out to pull me in, our bodies melting together like butter on a hot biscuit.
I sighed, sucking contentedly on his mouth, fingers roaming his drenched back, cupping his hairy ass, parting his cheeks before zooming in on the crinkled center. He moaned loudly when I entered him, sweat being the ultimate lube as the tip of my index finger worked its way inside, then the knuckle, all the way in, all the way back, feeling the insides of him.
Again, he moaned, which gav
e me a new and twisted idea.
“Meet me in the center of lane six,” I told him, retracting my finger from his ass.
He looked at me quizzically, but obeyed, sauntering away, cock rocking to and fro while I ran to my booth, grabbing the item I had in mind before flicking on the controls. With bowling shoes clomping, I made my way back, joyously finding him dead-center on all fours, overhead lights bathing him in a warm, white, fluorescent glow, legs wide, balls dangling, pink hole winking out at me. I laughed and set the wireless mic down in front of him.
“What’s that for?” he asked, his deep voice suddenly booming out in all directions. “Ah,” he said, understanding in an instant. “If you’re gonna come in the middle of a bowling alley, might as well go all out, huh?”
“Get ready to shake the rafters,” I said, crouching down, taking a deep whiff of his asshole, the heady aroma of musk and sweat tendriling up my nostrils.
“Ready,” he announced into the mic, already stroking his giant schlong, sweat pooling around his lower back. His voice ricocheted around the vacant hall, my cock pulsing in anticipation.
“Ready on this end, too,” I said, tongue gliding down his crack, running rings around his chute, then diving in, his back arching as I yanked on his nuts and reamed him out.
“Fuuuck,” he howled so loud it made some of the pins rock at the other end of the lane.
I smiled and pulled back an inch, spitting at his portal, saliva dripping down. Gently, I inserted my middle finger, gliding it in. He gripped it with his hole, inhaled sharply, then relaxed. I popped it out and joined it with its neighbor, pushing them deep inside, jiggling them around, his body trembling, balls bouncing as he picked up the pace on his cock.
“Three’s the charm, Pete?” I asked.
“Go for it,” he rasped, the words echoing all around us.
Two popped out, three slid in, pushed and shoved all the way to the back, filling every millimeter of space inside, all while I stroked my cock, pulling the come up from my balls. “Think we can shoot together?” I asked, panting loudly.