I study the tattoos on his face as he tells me that he just got out of jail for armed robbery. Four years of a five-year sentence. There are tiny tears tattooed out from the corners of his eyes. He has a beautiful young face. I feel my cock grow visibly hard in my flimsy athletic shorts. "I spent the last three years in maximum security because I kept getting into fights." He's got a tribal design of dots tattooed under his upper lip. I notice a sizeable bulge in his track pants.
After our third bowl, he remarks, "That's good weed. There goes four years of abstinence. No drugs in prison, except for heroin and I'm not really into that." "I guess that makes sense," I said, "compact and odourless." "And the guards make more on it!" he quips.
"I hate women," he says, "Conniving, hateful, vindictive bitches. I'm not gay out of choice. I just don't want anything more to do with women. I hate them."
"Was there any sex in jail?" I ask him. He could have had some sex, but word would get around pretty fast. There are some full queens in there that were after him. They would bring him by little gifts they had made. Telling them he was straight only made it worse. "The straighter you are the more they want you."
"I just have this private side. I like to suck cock. They try to make you feel bad if you don't 'Come out.'"
I told him there were lots of guys who have sex with guys and want nothing to do with gay identity.
A friend brought him here to the trails once, as a young man. He didn't know if it was still a spot. But he can see nothing's changed. He and his friend played in the woods, sneaking up on people and scaring them, "What are you doing here!?" "I can be a pretty big, mean-looking guy," he says. He likes to look mean. And he does.
He showed me his Canada Corrections card. You could see by his face he was fit when it was taken. He had a goatee in the photo. VERY hot!
He pulled up the leg of his track pants and should me his prison ID number, tattooed on the side of his ankle.
Glen's arms and shoulders, neck and legs were covered in tattoos. Among them there were a couple of different beautiful celtic knots, and a beautiful snake on his arm. He told me this story:
"I used to hang out with the Japanese guys, Yakuza, and smoke heroin, I'm not into that shit but sometimes it nice to just nod off and forget for a couple of days. One day one of 'em says, 'You should have a marble.' 'What the fuck's a marble?' I ask. You get a marble for every year of good jail time you put in. Meaning, you're not a rat, you don't cause trouble or attract attention. They use marbles because they don't have pearls, which they would traditionally use.
"The guy says 'I have three marbles, I show you.' 'No, it's all right, I say.' 'It makes girls cum.' A marble is pretty fuckin big and when you put it in one this size... [Glen sticks out his index finger to indicate the size of the guy's dick.] It can be pretty scary lookin'. The marbles looked bigger than his dick! The guy's doin' eight years. Can you imagine what it will look like after eight marbles? Then I asked him, 'So how do you do this?' He told me 'we use the sharpened end of a toothbrush.'"
I can see that we're both rock hard now, and Glen asks me "You gotta a little place in here we could go that would be a little more private?" "Sure!" Our pants are tenting as we get up to traipse off into the bushes.
"I have trouble walking," he said, "I've been pacing eight feet, eight feet, back and forth for so long." He was in isolation -- a four foot by eight foot cell, 23 hours a day.
We follow the winding trails quite aways back to where it's more secluded. Eventually we come to a private-looking spot, a little hollow with a fallen log, a comfortable height to sit on. Glen sits down and reaches for my dick grabbing it through my satin shorts. The twinkle in his eye makes me melt.
We both quickly drop our drawers, Glen fumbles to free his large, rock-hard prick that's straining against his trackpants. As he sits, legs spread, his beautiful uncut prick stands to attention -- foreskin stretched all the way back along the slightly curved shaft, head pointing to the sky. Unable to resist, I immediately bend over and descend on his immense tool. I open my mouth and throat as wide as I possibly can, attempting to not actually let his cock touch the inside, letting him anticipate with just the hotness of my breath. Guiding it as deep as a I possibly can before the head bottoms out deep in my hot slick throat, I gently grip his dick in a swallow. His hands instantly run through my hair as he buries my face still further into his groin and groans. Pushing firmly on my head his cock swells even larger and firmer, my nostrils crushed into his pubes, inhaling the dizzying light scent of soap and fresh young crotch sweat.
The lack of oxygen made my body swim with rushes of pleasure, my cock strained painfully upward as he reached down and gave it a hard squeeze. Slippery stringy spit is flowing freely now, my eyes swollen with tears. I slowly raised off his cock only three inches or so, barely enough room for air to pass around his cock, and gulped several quick breaths. I give his cock several slow loving strokes careful never to raise off of it more than a couple of inches. The angle catches and his cock rubs top and bottom where I swallow. I can barely breathe. He continues to groan, then reaches under my arms and pulls me up, guiding my hips toward his face. He takes it all in one long slow slide. I lean over his back, rubbing my hands firmly along it, to his strong shoulders and neck, then grab the back of his head. The combination of pot stone and extreme pleasure carried me to another plane, I am completely unaware of where we are. Minutes coast like hours.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, this troll steps out from behind a tree. We are jarred back to reality. We stop playing but huddle close together keeping our raging hardons out of clear view. Burying my face into his neck we both slowly turn sideways, grabbing each other by the head, our lips crush into each other, tongues probing, desperately lost in each others' mouths. Realizing we still had an audience we stop and both stare menacingly. Buddy takes the hint that he's intruding and finally, grudgingly and very slowly makes his way out of sight.
Still sitting side by side, T-shirts pulled up over our necks, Glen leans over and again sinks onto my throbbing meat. I eventually stand up so I can comfortably fuck his face. He hungrily works my meat, my body shudders as my nuts clench up tight to my dick. His finger probes my asshole. Finally releasing my cock from his mouth his hand grasps tightly around my cock gruffly jerking at a furious pace. "Uuuuuhhuhhuhuhuhhh!" Uncontrollable tremors as I explode all over his chest and neck. "Yahhhhhhh." he says.
Still trembling I immediately kneel in front of him and start to work on his cock. He's close and I stop and instead open wide and gently engulf his nuts in my hot, moist mouth; tracing my tongue lightly all over them. His hand immediately takes over, careful not to bring himself to climax. I finally release his balls and my tongue firmly probes as my lips grasp the hard ridge between his balls and his ass. He moves forward a bit allowing me access, and my tongue lightly traces the outer ring of his asshole. He moans uncontrollably as I probe deeper and deeper into the pink smooth flesh with my tongue. He's fisting his meat rapidly now. I return to his cock and he pulls my head, holding it firmly as he fucks my face with abandon.
Lips bruised, rammed to the hilt of his shaft, he spurts his hot juice, down my throat filling my mouth and nostrils as I gulp and gag for air. Tears in my eyes I let go of his cock and we kiss gently, tongues darting into each others' mouths.
I finish taking off my T-shirt and roughly wipe and dry off his now cold and sticky chest. Finished playing for now, he asks, "Hey Pete, wanna smoke another bowl?" "Sure!" I load another pipe and we chat some more. He shows me a flat whitish round scar at the base of his dick. "That's where I got the marble," he says, "but my body rejected it. It just popped out one day."
"That's the first time I've been touched since I got out. I haven't had any physical contact aside from being frisked for four years."
We finally stagger to our feet and start to head out of the trails. Glen has no idea where he is. "Don't get involved in crime. It's not worth it. Jail is full of losers. I guess I'm a loser too. But I'm brave enough to walk into a bank and tell everyone to get down on the floor and give me all the money."
He asked me if I had been down to the east side of the park, to the Krishna festival. They have free vegetarian food, curried potatoes and rice and stuff. He's been looking for punks his age -- people he knew years ago living in the squats. He found out a bunch of them at the Hare Krishna temple. "These guys used to be like, hardcore. Now their hangin' out chanting 'Hare, hare.' Young skinheads today have no individuality. They gotta be fuckin' nazis."
Glen smiles, "It's been a great day, Free food, then Pete the computer guy comes along with good buds and fun... I'm glad I was so discriminating and waited until you came along," he says giving me a mischievous look. I was very glad too, and let him know it.
"Beautiful piece, man."
"I like it," he replies.
"You really JUST get out?" I quiz.
"I got out on Friday and caught a plane here last night. I need to come here with a backpack and a tent and camp out for 48 hours. Look at these trees!
"I have to call my buddy," he says. "I've been MIA for over five hours. I said I was going to be about an hour when I left. Can you take me to a phone?
"I got kids, two kids. I'm a good dad..."
Once out on the trail heading for a nearby pay phone, we run into Bill. I tell Glen he's my boyfriend. "I gotta joint!" Bill says. "I got a light," Glen quickly replies, pulling a lighter from his pocket. We walk down to the road towards the pay phone and finally say our goodbyes. As he leaves, Glen mentions that the Krishnas will be back with free food tomorrow. The next day, Bill and I return loaded with joints, but no luck running into Glen. Now every time I see a big bald guy wandering around downtown, I strain my eyes to see if I can see tattoos.
