Date: Tue, 04 May 2004 09:33:28 +0200
From: Richard Girth <dick_girth@fastmail.fm>
Subject: Thanks A Loot

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.