Tooley and I were chumming for cock when we met the nympos. We laughed our asses off at each other because here we four were in spandex bike shorts and loose tops showing side nipple and pushing borrowed bicycles through the park. They pointed at our obvious semi-hardons (troll bait) and we smirked at the wet patch of their obvious camel toes. Of course none of us rode a bicycle, they were props for the wardrobe. If you're chumming for strange, you have to display something good to eat. It's the rule of that jungle.
Sunday mornings make good fishing usually for wandering cock. This state wilderness park is massive and wild with tangles and thickets and marshlands, miniature valleys and arroyos peppered with oak and sage and cactus forests. Windy days along the coast keep the shrub walls in constant rippling motion. If some bush is shaking no one pays any mind.
If you pick your way down the rock strewn path from the cliffs to the shoreline, you can't miss The Station. It's jammed into the cliff about two-thirds down the height. Somebody said they thought it was built in the 1930s as an ocean-view pool club where swingers had nude orgies away from voyeurs' eyes. Somebody else said that was bullshit and it was built during World War II by Seabees and lifeguards as a fuckhouse for local factory girls.
There's also a story about it was taken over and spruced up with oak panels and velvet-lined rooms for the elite gay crowd who donated it to the S & M community when they moved back to the city.
Whatever. Somebody called The Station back in the day and that's what we call it. So, Tooley and I, and Roni and I forget her name, Makialan or something – are building our game as we step into view of The Station.
Stretching our shorts to the max so they hugged tight asses, moist pussy lips and semi-hard cocks, we started tossing ourselves as bait for the hungry prowlers.
The thing is, the nymphos and me and Tooley share a common hangup. Or issue. Whatever. We do double blowjobs. In tandem, in varied choreographies. Because it's fucking hot to do.
We haven't seen the nymphos in action yet, but we've heard them through the thin apartment walls. When you can hear blowjobs through the walls that's kind of impressive. Tooley and I haven't figured out how yet, but we'll work on it.
Ideally then we're looking for that lone guy on a stroll or a pair of buds on their weekly early morning walk-and-talk. Straight, bi- or gay has never applied @ The Station. Men and women undressed as boldly as they dare pass up and down the path past The Station. And back around again. Strolling, trolling, cruising, looking for a good hard fast fuck in a deserted door arch or a pretend secret blowjob behind a pillar. The ruined setting – rusted here and crumbling there, with shreds of stained velvet and broken dark wood – blends fantasy with the furtive and hurried sex acts.
Half-hard Tooley's dick is as thick around as one of those Starbucks frappuccino bottles. It looks like he's smuggling contraband in his tight pink bike shorts. He wheels his borrowed bike inside the main room of The Station and lights up a harsh smelling cigar as he sits on a broken clump of concrete and scratches his balls.
