Sex Histories	Sex Histories Archive

Chicago Here is a true story that happened to me some 20 years ago. I still think about it.

In the early 1970s I lived in an apartment on the South Side. As a young black public school teacher, my gay sex life was low key and I was only "out" to a very few intimate friends.

There was a local photographer who marketed magazine photographs of naked black men through his company called Third World. All the models pictured were young, earthy, sexy, and hung (and many I later discovered were from the Chicago area).

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In particular there was one model pictured in several of the Third World magazines that caught my eye. He was identified as Harley. He could have passed for the twin brother of a fellow physical education teacher in my school that I had the hots for. I would have given anything to see this particular teacher naked and to suck on his dick. To me this teacher simply had everything one could ask for in a black male body: a large Afro; a tall, muscular, sexy body; bulging basket, magnetic animal attraction, engaging personality, and looks akin to the actor, Carl Weathers. He was very popular with staff and student body alike. Although we were not running buddies, he always seemed to be confiding in me as to his latest female sexual conquest (and as he would do so I would always fantasize about me conquering him and fucking his very inviting butt good).

I would transfer all of my unrequited sexual desires for this teacher to my magazine collection of Harley's photographs and whenever I could I would go to my study, where I kept my collection cached, and I would enjoy a long, leisurely jack off session just thinking of him.

I had been out grocery shopping around 1 a.m. that memorable humid August night. I boarded a #4 Cottage Grove bus toting my bag of groceries, took my seat, and began my favorite pass time of people watching. Before too long I noticed a black sailor board the bus in Navy dress whites. The guy was wearing skin tight trousers and even I could see from the back of the bus that he was sporting a very large basket.

Low and behold! It was Harley of Third World fame. No doubt about it.

One could tell by his exaggerated movements and gestures that he was high on some substance. He was also doing some very heavy duty cruising as he slowly swaggered down the aisle to the rear of the bus. He seemed to be noting the men who had their eyes on his crotch; whenever he thought he had struck a responsive chord with a male passenger he would sit near or beside him and strike up a conversation with thinly veiled sexual meanings. When the situation did not pan out he would move farther to the rear of the bus and repeat the scenario.

I watched his brazen cruising with amazement and sexual excitement. A few men did appear to nibble at his bait but I think it was his lack of subtlety that diminished his allure to them.

In a way it was a rather pathetic sight to see in the flesh the person that I had jacked off many a night thinking about, attempting to sell his favors in such a common fashion. But I knew quality merchandise on sale when I saw it and hoped that he would eventually come to the rear of the bus.

Before too long he dejectedly sat down on the long seat just across from me.

"What are you staring at?" he asked, glaring.

"You," I said.

"Well, do you like what you see?"

I replied nonchalantly, "I can see possibilities."

He came over and sat beside me. I knew that he wasn't really in the Navy and the uniform that he wore was just a costume come-on that reeked of stale marijuana smoke.

I put my hand on his hefty groin.

"Not bad," I said. "Not bad at all."

Harley then broke into a well honed (but slightly slurred) spiel describing how much of a man he was by indicating the number of current girl friends he had in his "stable" and how they and the sissies could not ever get enough of his long, black, uncut dick. Having seen pictures of him naked, I knew the part about the dick was accurate.

His voice had a husky, sexy, hypnotic drawl to it and he delivered his lines with convincing street wise sophistication.

I had had the hots for this nigger long before this night and I had no intention of letting opportunity slip from my grasp. He moved closer and rubbed my thigh. Leaning over to me he nibbled wetly on my ear and whispered, "I'll let you suck my dick for $20."

I thought that was right decent of him. But I had more ambitious ideas in mind. Realizing that I was in a buyers' market, I countered by proposing that I would pay $10 for the privilege of sucking him off and $20 if he would let me fuck him.

"Man, what do you think I am?" he said. "I don't get fucked. I do the fucking."

Then he hedged and said, "And even if I might get screwed it wouldn't be for no lousy $20."

He suggested that I could suck his dick for $15 and he would fuck me in the ass for $25.

I knew he was on the hook now as we haggled over price and it would be just a matter of time (if I played my cards right) before I would be reeling in this prize black catch.

I tried a new gambit. I opened my wallet and showed Harley $53, which was all of the money that I had on me.

"Look," I said, wearily, "I'll make you a package deal: if you will let me suck your dick and fuck your ass I'll give you all the money I have, except one dollar that I will need to get to work tomorrow."

He considered my offer. "Hell, I can get three times that much money on Michigan Avenue."

"This is no boulevard bus line," I said. "This is a Cottage Grove bus you're riding. Take it or leave it."

Putting my wallet back in my pocket, I rose in an attempt to change seats.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," he said, pulling me back to my seat. "Give me a chance to think."

"I don't have all night," I said. "I've got to get home and get some sleep. I've got to go to work in the morning, you know. So what's it going to be?"

"I'll take it," he said. "I don't take it in the ass but for you I'll make an exception."

I was exhilarated at the thought of fucking the black stud of my fantasies; but then a fly fell into the ointment.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

"We can't go to my place," I said. "I have visiting out of town relatives there. Where do you live?"

"At the YMCA," he said, "and it's too late to bring in a guest there."

We sat in silence for some time.

He said, "I know a place to go and we're practically there already." Within a block or so he reached and pulled the passenger signal cord and when the bus came to a halt we alighted from the rear door.

I looked at my watch. It was 1: 45 a.m. The bus had discharged us at the corner of Cottage Grove and Garfield.

Drawing up the leg of his pants, Harley produced a joint and some matches. He fired up, took a few deep tokes, and offered me the joint. I took a hit and, being a very light pot user, felt the effect almost immediately.

"Which way now man," I asked.

"This way." He stepped across the street, heading westbound.

I asked incredulously, "The park?"

"It's o.k. man, the park is not crowded on weekday nights."

I followed Harley into Washington Park, still carrying my groceries.

Even though the street lights were on in the park, it was dark in there. Stumbling a few times en route, Harley led me to an area of dense shrubs beneath a small grove of shade trees not too far from a path. The shade trees made a dark situation even blacker and I was poked and scratched by a host of unseen bush branches and brambles until we reached a small clearing. A concern not far from my mind was being poked in the eye or being bitten by some animal lurking about the undergrowth.

Waiting for a few minutes within this vegetation, I began to fondle his butt.

"Wait," he whispered, "not here! The police squad cars patrol the park in this area."

We moved on further to another small grove a short distance away. Harley halted, turned to me, and ordered, "Do like me and take all of your clothes off."

"Why?"

"To make it more difficult to be seen. Just take all your Goddam clothes off."

Within minutes we had removed all of our clothes (except our shoes and socks). We stood naked, our black skins camouflaged by the night.

"Give me one of your double-bagged grocery bags," he whispered. "And while you're at it give me my money."

I opened my wallet and gave him every bill I had. He took it and stuffed it in one of his socks. He placed all of his clothes into the bag I gave him and placed my clothes on top of my groceries in my bag.

"Let's go," he commanded. He led me by the hand out of the bushes into the open part of the park. The balmy night air felt refreshing as it slid over my bare skin.

The heart of Washington Park is an open central area of about a mile square. It was to the center of that open vastness that Harley led me.

"Right here is good enough," he said, setting down his bag and lying down beside it on the cool grass. I dropped along side of him.

After we listened to the chirping of crickets for some time, Harley asked me what I was waiting for. I put my mouth on his nipples and started licking my way down to his dick. His skin was salty and when I reached his crotch area I buried my nose in his pubic hair, deeply inhaling his musty, sweaty odor. I lifted up his soft dick and placed his nut sac in my mouth, rolling his balls around in my mouth while jacking his dick to hardness.

His foreskin was long and pliant and I really got myself quite stimulated working it back and forth. My own nine-inch dick was hard as a rock. Harley had a nice mouth-sized, seven-inch slender dick which in no time elongated in my mouth. I licked around his nuts and dick to his asshole and gave him a rim job that started him moaning. When I stuck my nose and tongue up his butt, the aroma sent my mind reeling with sheer ecstasy. Wetting my finger, I slowly worked it up his butt hole while vigorously sucking on his magnificent ebony stalk. His asshole clenched around my finger suddenly and his body stiffened as he shot his wad in my mouth. He held my head down as his dick pumped love milk.

I felt Harley's firm butt and told him to get on all fours because I wanted some of his "yams." He demurred, saying, "No silhouette sex." We would have to fuck lying down.

I spit on my dick and rubbed some of the saliva on Harley's booty hole. I laid on top of him and attempted insertion, but no go.

"The head, the head, it's too big. I can't take it. It won't go in." Harley's voice was strained.

I didn't want the fuck to be difficult for either of us; I fished around in my grocery bag until I produced the only lubricant available: a jar of mayonnaise. I told Harley to put some on his booty hole while I slathered down my dick. Laying again on top of him, I forced my dick between his meaty cheeks. Pushing down harder, I felt my dick pop past his ass ring.

"Goddam, motherfucker," he yelled, "Take it easy. My ass is not made of iron."

"Alright, alright," I whispered. "I'll take it slow."

I thought of all the times I had beat off to his photographs. His asshole was so incredibly sweet. I luxuriated in the exquisite sensation that his hot, moist, tight, black booty hole produced on my dick head. Spreading his thighs further apart with my knees, I sank my dick all the way in to the hilt. My coarse pubic hairs scratched against his ass as I ground my pelvis into his butt. It was all mine. His ass was all mine!

And I intended to fuck the living shit out of him. He laid there and took the royal ass-fucking stoically, grunting only occasionally.

I hit upon a ruse to enhance the sex even more. I told Harley that he could hasten my climax and get me off his ass sooner if he could just respond to me with some love talk and milk my dick with his ass muscles.

Either Harley was a consummate actor or he loved getting fucked in the ass because within moments he was matching my full thrusts stroke for stroke and begging me to bust his ass wide open with my dick.

His strident sexual pleas had their effect. I fucked furiously for about 10 more minutes and shot my load, groaning loudly.

Author Profile:  Boyd McDonald

Born in 1925 in South Dakota, Boyd McDonald entered Harvard as a high-school dropout after serving in the army in World War II. Jobs with Time, IBM, and several Wall Street firms preceded Boyd's career as a chronicler of gay sex. He was the founder and editor of Straight to Hell (alternatively the Manhattan Review of Cocksucking), and later published a number of anthologies of true sex histories. Boyd died in September 1993, two months after completing his final book, Scum.