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Cruising The Precipices
© 2002 by Nikki Isaak

He was almost there.

Michael pumped his brakes as he guided his Hyundai around a sharp turn. Benighted hills rose on his right side; to his left, a precipice that ended in barbed wire and a black barren field.

There might not be many guys out tonight. But he hoped there were. It'd been a long week, and he really needed to bust a nut. The more guys there were, the better his chances of achieving that brief, transcendent release.

It amused him that most breeders in Southwind, a small town in the East Bay, were unaware of this gay cruise spot, a mere five miles outside the city limits. Simultaneously, he was thankful for their ignorance, for who knew what they'd do if they discovered it?

He'd arrived.

Seven cars were spread out along the sides of the wide cul-de-sac . Lights off, they were ominous in the dark, these vehicles that contained disposable sex partners and, on occasion, gay-bashers.

Michael had never encountered the latter. Not here, anyway. Nor did he expect to. All the same, he was cautious; homophobes were relatively easy for him to spot. Some people had gay-dar. He had what he called hate-dar, which had served him well during his twenty-six years of life.

He drove slowly past the parked vehicles. Niveous wind blasted Michael's upper body as he rolled down his window and turned on the interior light.

The tinted windows of the first vehicle, a muscle car, stayed up. The second, a Celica, its driver a dark-complected skinny guy ­ not Michael's type ­ compelled him to continue. complexion

The third car was a new model Michael couldn't identify. It was also the winning car. Michael started at the sight of its driver, a handsome blonde with blue peepers.

He looked just like Garry, his ex.

Pathetic, he chided himself. It's been eight months, and you're still pining over the son of a bitch. It didn't matter how much head he'd given and gotten; Michael still missed, dreamed about him, recalling warm morning kisses, breakfast in bed, and those strategically placed fruit slices. All that happiness ­ then Garry had moved out, leaving a three-line, elliptical note: "I have to go. Please don't look for me. Know, however, that I will always love you." After recovering from his initial shock, Michael hadn't known what pissed him off more; the fact that Garry had left him without an explanation, or that he'd subconsciously quoted Whitney Houston, whose music Michael couldn't stand.

"Looking for company?"

Michael snapped back to the present.

"Yeah. I'll be right back."

The blonde grinned at him. Perfect white teeth. Relieved, Michael resisted the urge to laugh as he rolled up his window and parked directly behind him. The blonde looked like Donny Osmond when he grinned, not Garry.

Getting out of his car, the cold wind whipped and whistled about him. He quickly locked his driver's side door, and made his way to the tryst vehicle. Warmth insulated him as he slipped into the front passenger seat and slammed the door shut.

"Give, get or both?" Donny (as Michael had dubbed him) possessed a warm, reassuring timbre.


"No problem." That blinding grin again.

Donny unzipped his slacks, scooted closer to Michael. There would be no kissing, no counterfeit promises of love tonight. Just the burn of the moment, undiluted animal need.

Ripping open the condom package, Michael's dark Italian-Irish features were flushed with anticipation. He loved giving head as much as getting it. There was something about having a hot pulsating glans in his mouth that just made him want to stain his jeans. In response, his dick hardened.

Michael rolled the condom over Donny's erection. Wrapping his right hand around Donny's stiffening shaft, he let it slide down to his balls, squeezing them gently, then roughly. Donny responded by stiffening even more, his head teased by Michael's flicking, circling tongue.

Donny's grunts were drowned out by the revving engine of a passing car. The wind rocked the car, matching the mint-flavoured ministrations of Michael's hands and mouth, alternating between coy flirtations and voracious swallows.

When Donny launched in Michael's mouth, bellowing his joy, he brought Michael back to the present. He hadn't been blowing Donny; he'd been blowing Garry, after a long sweaty night of fuck-dancing at Club Universe, late last year.

Michael avoided Donny's gaze as he sat up.

Donny, lustrous with post-head gratitude: "I'll reciprocate." His fingertips teased Michael's denim, still taut in the crotch.

"Not tonight. Maybe another time."

Donny looked disappointed for a second, then he caught himself. His grin returned.

"Sure," he lied.

Michael wasted no time getting out of the Donny's car and returning to his Hyundai. He needed to get out of there. Now.

As he exited the cul-de-sac, Michael wondered: why had he refused Donny's offer of head? Was it because of his resemblance to Garry? Or was it something larger, a gross betrayal of his romantic ideals, shattered (he thought) by Garry's abrupt departure?

The familiar poundings of a headache compelled Michael to sever these thoughts. He'd think about this later, when he wasn't so upset. Right now, he had to focus on driving. He had to get home.

© 2002 Nikki Isaak. All rights reserved.

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