I’m now home. I missed Canada and Mark. Luckily he’ll soon be here, along with his big, furry, pillowy belly for me to rest my head on.
The visit, as expected, was tedious, boring and sexless. I was forced to hang around people who pretty much set the standard for boring: middle-aged, white, male engineers. At least I got to shop. The wall full of Martha Stewart bedding, bedding that we get only a fraction of here in Canada, almost gave me an orgasm. Don’t worry, Martha! I’ll return to you soon.
For some reason, I was selected for special security treatement at the airport in Manchester, New Hampshire. The big fat piglet who took my boarding pass bellowed “full male assist!” and a withered old security agent with a combover came to wand and frisk me while an angry-looking lesbian security guard sifted through the contents of my luggage. I hope she enjoyed my sweaty used underwear.
My nipple ring set off the security guy’s wand. For some reason my cock also set it off despite the fact that I have no piercings in it. He patted my cock, a gesture that would have been hot had it taken place in any other context.
I’ve been to America before, but it didn’t really hit me until this trip how huge and fat Americans really are. And I love it!
The cab driver from the airport last night was the biggest, beefiest, fattest, cutest buzzed blond goateed cub one could possibly imagine. He was clueless about Canada (”Do you use Euros up there? What country uses Euros anyway?”) but his body was utterly delicious. His girlfriend was riding in the passenger seat with him. If she hadn’t been there, I would have licked the blond stubbly neck rolls on the back of his head. Maybe.
I got a call last night from my manager telling me that plans have changed and I’ll be heading to New Hampshire to visit another division of the company tomorrow instead of staying here and flying back to Toronto thursday night. I’ll be driving — driving — for five hours with two other people. Thank goodness I didn’t make a fuck date for tonight.
I won’t have the opportunity to visit Target, but I did pick up some Martha Stewart Everyday stuff and some trashy American junk food for Mark.
Last Friday on the way home from work, I stopped at Kennedy station to take a leak. As I walked into the washroom, a big old daddy bumped into me.
Less than 30 seconds elapsed between me unzipping at the urinal and him reappearing in the washroom to take the urinal at my left. Seemingly cautious of the withered old chinese man still washing his hands at the sink, the big daddy unzipped and held his dick motionless while he tried to watch me out of the corner of his eyes. I finally stopped pissing, but I decided to stay and see what he would do.
The Chinese guy was hocking up what had to be the the hugest mucous balls in the history of the universe. I imagined wringing his neck.
The old guy leaned back a tiny bit to show his dick just a bit, not enough that it would seem suspicious if I weren’t purposely trying to look at it. It was one of the most amazing cocks I’ve ever seen: it was fat and uncut and had the longest foreskin i’ve ever seen. He stroked his dick and it was like he was massaging a tube sock of foreskin back and forth. He had at least an inch of long, silky, droopy foreskin hanging off the end of his dick. It was freaky and bizarre … and completely, totally hot.
The Chinese guy continued horking. I continued stroking my dick and watching the big daddy out of the corner of my eye. I waited until the coast was clear — the Chinese guy finally ran out of mucous — then turned toward him, showing him my hard cock. He pursed his lips and exhaled softly, scrunching his face as if to say “Wow!” I stepped over and leaned into his ear. “You have a nice cock.”
He grunted. I took that as my cue and reached down to grab his cock. His response: “I’m going to cum!”
Just one touch and he shot a huge load into my hand. I looked at my hand in amazement; my palm was coated with sticky sperm. I promptly rubbed it onto my cock and stroked my dick. It took only about ten seconds for me to shoot a load all over the floor. He smiled appreciatively and started zipping up to leave.
I followed him, leaving his sperm and my sperm on my dick. I knew I had to take a chance, so I waited until we were on our way down the stairs to the train platform, then talked to him. “If you want to meet again, I can give you my number.”
Without saying a word, he whipped out a pen and a subway transfer. I gave him my number; he wrote it in tiny letters under the section where it said “THIS TRANSFER NOT VALID AT KENNEDY.”
I continued walking with him. There was a train waiting at the platform, and we took the last car. I sat next to him in one of those L-shaped seat arrangements. We were alone, so I took the chance to told him that he had a beautiful cock. He told me that I had a nice one too and also confessed that he had been a bit nervous to follow me into the washroom. “I thought if I came onto you that you’d beat the shit out of me,” he admitted. “You’re really strong looking.” To be honest, the idea of beating the shit out of him then fucking his ass — not that he mentioned the fucking, but beating is certainly an appropriate prelude to a nice, rough fuck — gave me a bit of a boner.
I thanked him. “I really like big older guys, and you’ve got a great cock.” For some reason I felt the need to repeat it. “We should meet some time.”
The train had already pulled out of the station. “Well, I’m not into much.”
“That’s OK. Just lie back and let me take care of your dick. I love doing that. And you’ve got a nice one.” Three times.
I looked around and unzipped my jeans. He looked around nervously, but there was nobody else in the last car with us. I started to stroke my dick, but he reached for it and started playing with it. “You’ve got a nice dick too.” He stuck his finger in my foreskin and swirled it around. Thank god his nails weren’t sharp.
The train emerged from the tunnel and pulled into Warden. I quickly zipped up, and he smiled. A businesswoman got on, but she sat at the opposite end of the car and faced away from us. He waited until the train had reached full speed, then unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick.
“Fuck, I love your dick.” Four times.
“Play with it.”
I did.
His dick was soft, but it was still amazing. His foreskin felt like beautiful warm pliable silk. I wanted to chew on it. I played with it for about a minute, retracting it, then pulling it forward again and again. His dickhead was incredibly wet.”
“Stretch it.”
Once again I did as I was told. He had at least two and a half inches of foreskin on him. It was the freakiest, strangest, weirdest uncut dick I’d ever seen and I was loving it. “Fuck man, you have no idea how much I love your dick.” It had become like a mantra.
He absolutely loved the stretching. His dick got hard as I played with his foreskin, and as it got harder, his foreskin got pulled further and further back. By the time we reached Victoria Park and it was time to put his dick away, he had trouble stuffing it back in his pants.
At Victoria Park, another person got on. He plopped down in the middle of the car, but like the businesswoman was facing away from us. As the train accelerated into the dark tunnel, I pulled out my cell phone. “Can I take a picture of your dick? I’ll understand if you say no.” He surprised me: “Sure, as long as it’s only my dick.” I couldn’t believe it. He hauled out his dick. I took three pictures; none of them turned out well, but they’re good enough to jerk off too.
At Main Street, a whole bunch of people got on, and we had to keep our dicks in our pants and resort to conversation. It turns out he’s married with kids, lives west of me, works near me, and loves having sex with fat guys. When it came time for me to get off, he said goodbye and told me he’d call some time. I didn’t believe him, but it didn’t matter to me. “Who cares?” I thought. “Even if he never calls, I still had some fun in the subway.”
Fifteen minutes later I was at Mark’s place hooking up his new DVD player when my cell phone rang. “Hi Dave. It’s Fred. I’m just calling to see if I put your number into my cell phone correctly.” Talk about unexpected!
“Well, you got it right. I’d love to meet again. Give me a call when you have some free time,” I told him. “I sure will! OK, I have to go. Talk to you later.” Click.
I was curious, but I didn’t have time to ask him what his wife thinks of his fat, freaky, uncut dick. I bet she hates it.
I was unable to avoid going on the trip, but it turns out that I’ll be going alone. Score one for not having to deal with annoying co-workers.
Because I don’t drive, my manager suggested that I take a bus there. I told him that I didn’t want to do that, and after a bit of cajoling he relented. The company is now spending more than a thousand dollars to fly me to the next town (via Washington, because there are obviously no direct flights to such a buttfuck little hellhole) and pay for taxis to get me around. I can’t believe that he actually considered making me take a bus for a business trip.
Now that I’ve located the K-Mart (which contains the full line of Martha Stewart Everyday products not available at Sears Canada) all I have to do is find some hot bears to fuck while I’m there. This won’t be so bad after all.
I got a boner at work from reading an old New York Times article about huge football players:
To really appreciate their size, it’s necessary to stand next to them, where details like knuckles, collarbones, tibiae and calf muscles tell the story. There are plenty of these oversize anatomical particulars to be seen out in the Meadowlands, where the Giants’ 10 offensive linemen go about their bulky business week after week. As they stand on the practice field, pausing between drills, they present a mind-boggling portrait of hugeness in repose, a still life with shoulder pads in which the parts — enormous arms that hang from their bodies like thick, jointed clubs; meaty hands that look powerful enough to crush coconuts; necks like tree stumps — add up to an unbelievable whole.
But they don’t think of themselves as big:
As such, the Giants’ offensive linemen occupy a self-contained world within a self-contained world, a sort of sub-sub-universe where everything is different, where they use terms like ”285 pounds soaking wet” to describe smaller people, where biceps are as big as thighs and thighs are as big as beer kegs, and where, most incredibly, they don’t think of themselves as big people. ”I know it sounds weird,” says Rob Zatechka, a 6-foot-4, 320-pound guard, ”but we tend to think of ourselves as average size because everybody around us, the people we work with day in and day out, are the same size.”
I want to live in that sub-sub-universe.
I’m listening to my manager in the background yakking on some stupid conference call and fear is rising in me that I will have to make a trip to one of the company’s other divisions. He’s talking about “mechanical and electrical engineers getting together” and “if that’s what we need to do, then we’ll do it.” No good ever comes of that kind of talk.
The division, which just like all the other divisions in this company is small and pathetic, is located in a tiny nowheresville hellhole of a town in New York somewhere between Scranton and Syracuse. Given the pathetic cheapness of this company and the fact that there are no flights there, I just know that they’re going to want to drive there. I’m going to be stuck in a rental car with my manager and another humourless heterosexual engineer for seven hours.
A few weeks ago, my counterpart in Nowheresville, New York suggested to me via e-mail that I visit him. I purposely didn’t respond; I said nothing to my manager in the hopes that nothing would come of his casual suggestion. Now my fears — and I mean that literally, because the thought of fourteen hours in a car and days of useless meetings actually frightens me — are coming true. Why do I need to attend meetings that I’ll be useless in? Why is this company so tacky? Why does shit like this always have to happen to me?
My night school courses can’t finish fast enough.
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