Second floor public men's room in the old building above Piette's Jewelers, Depot Square, Woonsocket, RI, March 1981:
Though it seemed John was embarrassed and confused about our encounter weeks earlier, we now rode a RIPTA bus back from a Saturday trip to Lincoln Mall and by the time we reached the Main Street bus stop, we had been discretely groping each other for miles. We scurried off the bus trying to hide our rock hard boners and made our way to the nearby historic building housing the jewelry store. We ignored the guard and ran up to the second floor stair landing and ducked into a nearby men's room. There we tugged at each other's pants and underwear, exposing each other's red hot members for our thirsty mouths. Within minutes the security guard was knocking angrily on the frosted glass door demanding we exit. We interrupted our oral play and exited out, as graciously as we could, one at a time.
Rear of my Chevy mini station wagon, parking lot of "The Loft", North Smithfield, RI, June 1982:
After an evening of flirting, dancing and light petting at The Loft nightclub, Roger and I made our way to my car in the parking lot and since we basically had no where else to be alone with each other, started making out right there. Within minutes it turned into heavy petting and eventually he was fucking me in the back of my car and we steamed up the windows ala Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio decades before their Oscar-winning scene.
A secluded stretch of grassland off the road in East Woonsocket, May 1983:
After we became tired of the club scene in the city (Providence) we drove back home to Woonsocket, but Michael N. was hinting the night was young so we drove to a dark spot off the road. Here we stripped and went down on each other. Who knew this once elementary school pal of mine was so well-endowed? My oh my, how big you've grown, buddy!
The sandy dunes of Horseneck Beach, Westport, MA, July 1984:
It was my idea. I asked Jeff to drive to the beach so we could take advantage of the full moon and the high tide and "get down" by the roar of the waves and the smell of the sea. It turned out it wasn't as hot as it sounded. Making love on a beach is a gritty, scratchy and uncomfortable affair. Forget actual fucking, at least for gay men. Believe me, you don't want sand up there!
High up on an abandoned quarry cliff somewhere in Vermont, June 1993:
Roughly 9 years since my last public sexcapade, but none the better. Now it was with a guy I'd met on a gay hook-up BBS, the precursor to the Internet, and up on a 100-foot cliff. Um, needless to say, the acrophobic I am, I couldn't plow his ass though he stripped it bare and held it up for me to do with it as I wanted. This quarry was a cruising ground, supposedly (according to him) notorious in Central Vermont. And sure enough there were several other couples and other numbers of companions, fucking away all 'round us. But due to my sensitivity, not to public sex, but to heights, we scurried back to his house nearby and did the deed there, on solid ground.
Though it seemed John was embarrassed and confused about our encounter weeks earlier, we now rode a RIPTA bus back from a Saturday trip to Lincoln Mall and by the time we reached the Main Street bus stop, we had been discretely groping each other for miles. We scurried off the bus trying to hide our rock hard boners and made our way to the nearby historic building housing the jewelry store. We ignored the guard and ran up to the second floor stair landing and ducked into a nearby men's room. There we tugged at each other's pants and underwear, exposing each other's red hot members for our thirsty mouths. Within minutes the security guard was knocking angrily on the frosted glass door demanding we exit. We interrupted our oral play and exited out, as graciously as we could, one at a time.
Rear of my Chevy mini station wagon, parking lot of "The Loft", North Smithfield, RI, June 1982:
After an evening of flirting, dancing and light petting at The Loft nightclub, Roger and I made our way to my car in the parking lot and since we basically had no where else to be alone with each other, started making out right there. Within minutes it turned into heavy petting and eventually he was fucking me in the back of my car and we steamed up the windows ala Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio decades before their Oscar-winning scene.
A secluded stretch of grassland off the road in East Woonsocket, May 1983:
After we became tired of the club scene in the city (Providence) we drove back home to Woonsocket, but Michael N. was hinting the night was young so we drove to a dark spot off the road. Here we stripped and went down on each other. Who knew this once elementary school pal of mine was so well-endowed? My oh my, how big you've grown, buddy!
The sandy dunes of Horseneck Beach, Westport, MA, July 1984:
It was my idea. I asked Jeff to drive to the beach so we could take advantage of the full moon and the high tide and "get down" by the roar of the waves and the smell of the sea. It turned out it wasn't as hot as it sounded. Making love on a beach is a gritty, scratchy and uncomfortable affair. Forget actual fucking, at least for gay men. Believe me, you don't want sand up there!
High up on an abandoned quarry cliff somewhere in Vermont, June 1993:
Roughly 9 years since my last public sexcapade, but none the better. Now it was with a guy I'd met on a gay hook-up BBS, the precursor to the Internet, and up on a 100-foot cliff. Um, needless to say, the acrophobic I am, I couldn't plow his ass though he stripped it bare and held it up for me to do with it as I wanted. This quarry was a cruising ground, supposedly (according to him) notorious in Central Vermont. And sure enough there were several other couples and other numbers of companions, fucking away all 'round us. But due to my sensitivity, not to public sex, but to heights, we scurried back to his house nearby and did the deed there, on solid ground.