Aaron's Summer of '77

Chapter One -- Connection

The seventies were a raucous and naive time of sexual awakening coupled with kink and fetish-inspired awareness and uninhibited exploration before the onset of AIDS in the early eighties. They were an exciting, brash, and irreverent period in which to come-out.

The Disco era was in full-swing. Someone I had heard of from Cornwall, Steve Rubell had just opened up Studio 54 in Manhattan. He was a small-town Ontario boy, just like me.

In 1976 and 1977 the songs of Diana Ross and 'Love Hangover,' Leo Sayer and 'You Make Me Feel Like Dancing' and Rose Royce's 'Car Wash' were part of the 100 top chart singles on the radio.

'Saturday Night Fever' and 'Star Wars' premiered at the theatres. And television gave us 'All in The Family,' 'The Jeffersons' and 'Charlie's Angels.'

Amidst all the tacky glitter, mirrored disco balls and overblown excitement of 1977 though, there were still those of us stuck in small-towns right across Canada, itching to get away to find ourselves.

July of 1977 ...

On a good day, we can get maybe thirteen television channels on our cable TV box at home. And that's about the only way the outside world ever penetrates the closed reality in which I am stuck, as a gay teenage boy with an overactive libido and strong sexual, sometimes kinky urges.

I turned nineteen back last December and am still living at home with my parents. We live in a small eastern Ontario border city named Brockville, just across the river from Upstate New York. And I can't move away until September when I start my first semester at college.

I'm still technically a virgin, albeit one with a vivid imagination. And with more than enough experience using my right hand to jerk off my dick as often as possible. That being said, I walk around half hard most of the time obsessing about having sex with this really handsome, sexy, older guy I see cruising around alone after midnight in his rusty old car when he typically finishes his late-night shift behind the prescription counter at Fullerton's Drug Store on King Street, the local pharmacy.

It's the middle of summer. The night is extremely hot and humid. I'm trying to sleep. It's very hard to do with a big boy boner and dirty thoughts roaming around in my head though. Oh well, just trying to get to sleep, without success. Just another typical restless night for me in small town Ontario.

I look at my alarm clock and it tells me it's almost one o'clock in the morning. I can't stand being alone inside my stale bedroom any longer. I've got to get out to walk off the sexual frustration I feel about this guy from Fullerton's. The striking, sexy man I've been having recurring wet dreams about for weeks and weeks.

I'm out walking and am three blocks away from my Mom and Dad's house, just in front of the only 24 hour restaurant in town on King Street East when gradually, I start to hear the hesitant protests and sounds of an old car slowly cruising up behind me. It's the hot, older guy from the drug store I've been jerking off and fantasizing about. I'm shocked and feel a secret sense of guilty pleasure knowing he and I are alone on this deserted street with no one else around at this early hour of the morning.

His car is old. A real beater of a coupe. I'm surprised it's still on the road. As he goes past me, I stop to look at him and his old car closely. Both make me half hard. His old, poorly-tuned car idles roughly as though it's about to stall out or die on him at any minute. I recognize it to be a white, rusted-out, '63 Pontiac Bonneville two door coupe. I imagine faded, soiled, ripped, worn-out fabric and vinyl upholstery inside. I can imagine how it must feel and smell, his unique, signature man smell.

He stares intently at me as he slowly cruises by. He forgets about his old car for a second and lets his foot off his gas pedal. It misses and almost stalls out on him. I get even harder, thinking about his old wheels and him inside, all alone, just by himself, just like me. I take a moment then to wonder what it would be like to have his sensuous lips and hot breath on my neck, with his tongue thrusting inside my mouth in a slow, probing, deep, invasive kiss. He keeps on going past and disappears, turning right at a corner about six blocks ahead onto Perth Street heading north. I can clearly hear his engine stumbling and missing and laboring as he keeps on going. And then eventually nothing but silence.

I keep on walking.

A few minutes later I turn that corner and he's pulled over by the side of the dark street. He's trying to start his old Bonneville. He's stranded off to the side of the street. I know Perth Street is a pretty bad area of town to have your car stall out or break down on you. For a small town, it's just about the worst thing that could happen there to a person at this early hour of the morning. I've heard stories from my Dad about people having their eight track players, boom boxes, radios, tires and rims stolen, and their cars sometimes left jacked up and abandoned on Perth Street. Sure wouldn't want this to happen to this guy for sure. His head is bent down low. His forehead is leaning on his steering wheel between his hands. His hands are tightly grasping the top of his steering wheel. He is shaking his head back and forth in incredulous frustration. Looks like he's swearing too. "Poor guy. And at this time of night and here of all places!" I think to myself.

He keeps on cranking his starter. I can see him hunched over his steering wheel and bouncing up and down now in his car, trying to get it to start for him. "The poor guy. I bet he's totally freaked right out and really upset right now," I think to myself. I feel really badly for him.

His starter whines and grinds away and cranks and cranks. But his old coupe just won't turn over for him. Bluish, white smoke comes out of both tailpipes after each time he tries to start it. I stop for a minute and can smell the gas fumes from his car from where I'm standing. He suddenly sees me and lets up on his starter, while watching me intently out of his rear-view mirror. He has such a look of focused, serious, determined intent on his face. He stares back at me without blinking. Almost a minute passes as I stand there frozen in place, wide-eyed and looking back at him. I have this tingling sensation at the base of my stomach shooting right to my cock. There is something about him being stranded and alone that really makes me excited and boned up. Don't ask me why. It just does. After a full minute or two, he tries to start his old car again. This time the starter wails in protest and grinds away with a slow, tired rhythm. Then it coughs, backfires, labors, reluctantly stumbles to life and idles roughly. "Good! Yeah! Lucky guy!" I think to myself.

I'm almost up to the back of him now. He rolls down the window on the passenger side. I get up to the window and he leans over from his driver's seat and asks me if I want to cruise around for a bit and take a midnight ride alone with him. "Sure as hell glad it was just you watchin' me now, kid and not someone else. What a damn, fuckin' shitty place to stall out, eh? And at this time of night too. Jeezus!" he says to me. "C'mon, hop in with me, kid. Let's go for a ride. I need some company. Let's just cruise around for a bit. Just you and me. OK? It's been a real shitty day for me up to now. C'mon kid, let's go. C'mon. It'll be fun for ya.' I'll make it fun, I promise."

I look at him. He's a bit taller than me. Maybe 6'-2 and kind of lanky with a really well-developed upper body and shoulders. I'm envious of him for that. He's in his late twenties, maybe thirty at the outside, I'm guessing. He looks a bit disheveled and unkempt at the end of his work shift. I can tell he's hairy and toned all over. I can almost taste the after-work man sweat on his hot body. I see he has medium length, dark hair. His uncombed hair is wavy and hangs down carelessly across his forehead.

He's wearing a loosened cheap, polyester tie and unbuttoned dress shirt at the collar, with the cuffs rolled up almost to his elbows. He has a dark five o'clock shadow and is badly in need of a shave. He looks kind of scruffy with that 'tired, fed up and heading home from work at the end of a long work shift look' about him. I can see curling, dark forearm hair and strong pecs, with visible hard nipples straining through the outline of his wrinkled cotton shirt. I can see the dark, sweat-stained armpits of his shirt, with one well-developed arm slung over his steering wheel. His strong left hand hangs casually over his steering wheel and his right hand rests down between his muscular, long legs cupping his big, furry pube basket. I know he works late most nights at the local drug store.

"He must be heading home just now, after closing up the store," I think to myself. I've spied on him there at times when I've gone in to the store for no other reason than to look at him furtively and pretend to shop for something.

The old light grey suit jacket he wears when serving behind the counter is lying rumpled up on his passenger front seat beside him. I'm thinking this suit is the probably only one he has. It looks good on him though and gives him a real air of masculine authority. It fits him perfectly in all the right places, especially his big, bulging crotch and hairy ass. And what an ass he has too. He grabs his suit coat to make room for me up front and close beside him and then on sudden impulse shrugs it on, despite the heat and humidity. I have dirty thoughts about wrapping myself in it and smelling his strong, male, sweaty man scent, his special masculine odor.

He gets me so boned up, this guy.

"This has to be more than just an innocent, passing crush," I say to myself. "This is what I think real obsession and passion must be like." I look down at his wrinkled, grey suit trousers and suddenly realize he's hiding a huge, bulging hard-on. "Holy shit!" I think to myself. It's straining at the seam of his crotch and causing a prominent tent that fights with the zipper of his old suit pants. "It's the hour of chance, opportunity and fulfillment for those who lust and I'm sure not going to pass up on this chance with him! No way!"

He reaches over and pulls his door handle and the door creaks and opens for me. I climb in beside him. He smiles shyly at me and then turns his attention back to his old car. He revs it a bit and has a little smirk on his face once he puts it in 'drive' and it starts to move for him. I can feel the rough vibrations from his tired engine. He pulls into the parking lot behind Howison's Variety Store and backs slowly out onto Perth Street. Then he revs his old car and eventually pushes his worn gas pedal down to the floor and turns right onto King Street, heading west out of town. His left hand is cupping his crotch all the time he is doing this too.

"He's pretty good at maneuvering and driving this big old car with just his right arm and hand on his steering wheel," I think to myself. I'm really aroused and excited. It's all part of the excitement, not knowing if we're going to go anywhere or possibly get stranded someplace. He has to keep his big foot firmly planted on his gas pedal to coax his old car along, in case it stalls out on him. He tells me the battery is low and if we stall out, he might not be able to get it started again. He has a distinctive, masculine voice with a characteristic Brockville accent in the way he pronounces certain words. Everything is woulda,' coulda,' gonna,' or shoulda' with him. The tone of his voice is beautiful though. I'd describe it as something like soft velvet with a cold, hard steel edge to it underneath. He deliberately talks softly to me with that seductive voice.

"Thanks kid. Didn't really wanna hafta' head on home alone just now after I saw ya' watchin' me. You know kid, I've seen ya' in the store and then out by yourself around town sometimes when I've been driven' around by myself. Let's cruise outta' town and see where we wind up. Sound like a plan to you?"

"Sure, yes, OK. I'd like that," I say.

He drives on with me beside him and murmurs curses and profanities to his old car as it stumbles on. "Come on ya' mother fuckin' cunt. Don't mess with me, ya' little shitbox. Keep movin,' ya' cum-faced, cock sucker." The way he talks roughly to his old car makes me so hot, I practically shoot a spunk load in my jeans right then and there. We head slowly out of town on Highway #2 in his old Bonneville and as we head west toward the 401 turn-off at Long Beach where it turns and meets up with the St. Lawrence River, he slouches down deep into his ass-imprinted, stained, sagging, old driver's seat. He spreads his legs wide apart to make himself more comfortable and adjusts his furry pube bush so I can see how aroused he is. All the while he keeps glancing at me sideways from the corner of his eye.

"If he doesn't realize he's making me rock hard, then he's a total idiot!" I think to myself.

His eye lashes are long and dark and thickly veil the thoughts he is thinking. He keeps his foot planted squarely on his gas pedal, trying to nurse every last bit of juice out of his engine. I can feel his old car. I can feel him. He has one of those cheap gas station pine tree air fresheners that most blue collar men have in their rides. It's dangling down beneath the dashboard under his steering wheel in front of his spreading crotch and prominent bulge. It keeps moving and fluttering so I can smell the scent. It keeps me conscious of and focused on his big, hairy package at the same time, and I wonder to myself if that's why he hung it there with that intention in mind. I can intensely feel him beside me as he keeps his eyes ahead, concentrating on keeping his old wheels going on down the road and heading west out of town.

"This guy could be a nude centerfold for a woman's magazine, if he wanted to!" I think to myself. I reach over to turn on his radio to break the silence. He leans over and puts his right hand on my arm. An intense electrical shock goes through my entire body. "Ya' maybe don't wanna do that, kid," he says. "Might drain down the fuckin' battery in my old car even more."

A couple of minutes pass between us in silence except for the protests coming from under the hood of his old coupe. "Ya' lookin' for some good music, kid?" He eventually asks, while giving me a shy little grin. "I'm not exactly Rod Stewart. But, why don't you tune in to me here for a little bit and see what comes up for ya'?" He grabs my hand and with one swift, deliberate, calculating motion, shoves it down into the hot, moist crotch bulge between his legs. I can feel his fully-aroused cock responding immediately to my tentative grip.

"Whoa! Man, he's huge!" I think to myself. His rock-hard shaft is a lot bigger and thicker than mine. It excites me, knowing he's letting me do this to him. I slowly undo his worn black leather belt and start to pull on his zipper. I pull down on it very slowly. His thick cock spills out as I finish with the zipper on his old, wrinkled suit trousers. I imagine what his hairy pleasure trail must be like, as I stare at the base of his half-hard, throbbing tool. "Christ almighty, he's not wearing any damned underwear at all!" I think to myself. His thick, hairy dick is sitting out there and gradually rising up to full standing attention right in front of my eyes. And, all I can smell is his strong, male, sweaty pheromone scent and the pine smell from that damned, stupid air freshener.

I love his ripe, overwhelming and assertive manly smell. It's strong and pungent, unforgettable and virile. Just like him. His scent reeks of strong sexual need and desire in the dead of night between two boned-up strangers needing some horny, hot male action. He looks directly at me and then down at his big, hairy cock. His eyes tell me exactly what he wants. He doesn't need to say a word.

"I just have to know what blowing a really handsome, sexy guy like you would be like and I'm really glad you're 'going to be the guy I get to do it with," I say shyly.

He grins and with a little gleam in his eye, says teasingly to me, "So ya' think I'm handsome, do ya?' Eh, kid? Well, get down there then and suck on it, baby, I think it kinda' likes ya' kid!"

"Hmmmmm. He sure looks pretty pleased with himself, after I told him I thought he was handsome," I think to myself. Then, I start to focus on his big, hairy cock. I take my tongue and taste the pre-cum on it's head. He shudders. His old car shudders at the same time.

"Fuckin' shit!" He mutters under his breath. "OK kid. Gimme' a sec' here to pull my damn car over to the side of the road. If you really wanna' do that to me as bad as I wantcha' to, then I'm gonna hafta' stop this piece of shit car of mine before we fuckin' stall out in the middle of the goddamn road!" We pull over onto the gravel shoulder of the road. He squarely plants his scuffed and worn old black dress shoe on his brake. I can feel his leg muscles tense up as he presses down to stop his car. His old Pontiac shudders again. It keeps idling rougher and rougher and stumbles one last time, as the engine coughs and dies.

Silence.

"Mother fucker!" He says angrily, under his breath. "OK kid, since we're not goin' any further right now, you may as well finish what ya' got started down there. My hairy dong needs some real dedicated attention tonight! It's been one fuckin' bitch of a shitty day and this goddamn, piece of fuckin' shit, old car of mine ain't helpin' it one damn little bit right about now!"

"Oh and yeah. Before I get distracted with my big dick and you suckin' on it, and while I' m still thinkin' about it here, hafta' say you're just about the cutest damn young guy I think I've ever seen, baby!" I blush beet red at his compliment. He notices and smiles to himself. "Go on now. Get down there and suck my big dong, kid. It wants ya' big time. And I do mean big!"

I bend down and bury my face between his furry legs. It feels so good there. I can feel the rough texture of the stained and worn car upholstery under his legs and the friction of his trousers on my face, as he moves back and forth to make full body contact with my probing tongue and lips. The feeling of everything, his big, throbbing, hard cock, his old car, the humid summer heat, his stained, pre-cum soiled suit pants, it practically blows my mind to think I am getting this chance to do this to him.

He lifts my head up gently after a while and says softly, "Just stroke it for a bit, kid. Ya' kinda' got my hairy stick shift just a bit too excited down there. It needs to calm down for a bit. You know what a hand-job is, don't ya' kid?" I nod and do exactly what he says and can feel the heat from his hard, hairy shaft in the palm of my hand. "Keep holdin 'on to my dong there, baby! You're doin' just fine grabbin' and shakin' it that way. Squeeze it tighter down at the base when ya' feel it throb in your hand though. It really likes that, kid! And you can rub the tip of it too where it's gettin' all wet and moist for ya' with your other hand. That pre-cum there will taste pretty good to ya' once you wrap your lips around my cock head again and I tell ya' to get back down there to finish me off! Take your finger and rub it on the wet tip of my cock now, kid. Then stick your finger in your mouth and suck on it so you'll know what I taste like to ya.' You're gonna like that, baby! I sure as fuckin' hell know I will!"

Then, after a couple of minutes, he sighs with intense pleasure and says to me, "OK, just a sec' babe. Let's see if we can get my fuckin' old car started again. Maybe find a more private place to do this. I really wanna be alone in my back seat with ya.' Would ya' like my big, hairy crotch-rocket to blast off inside your hot little ass, baby?"