I was 25 and working on a graduate degree in a mid-sized midwestern city. I lived alone in a one-bedroom upstairs apartment. My girlfriend had recently moved out, returning to the east coast to start a new job. I had one year left in the graduate program. By age 25 I'd had enough sex with males to know that I was at least bi-sexual.
One humid night in August I was feeling a bit horny and decided to see if I could find any action. The college town in which I lived sits on the Illinois River. Although now long gone, at the time there was a large parking lot and river-walk at where the city's main street met the Illinois. During the day this park was frequented by downtown workers on their lunch breaks and others just there to take in the view. At night—especially late night—this area turned into the best cruising spot around. Men would either sit in their cars or would sit on the various park benches, checking each other out and looking for the telltale signs of interest.
I pulled in and cruised through the parking lot. I immediately spotted a boy who was probably 19- or 20- years old leaning on a bicycle and chatting with a guy who looked from a distance to be in his 30s or 40s. They were talking at a bench that was about a hundred yards down from a bridge that spanned the Illinois. From my car I could see the boy had blonde hair and was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. I couldn't see much more than that and thought "too bad, that would be nice."
I parked my car and walked to a bench that was probably a couple hundred feet south from the boy and his friend. I lit up a Marlboro and watched the river flow, occasionally looking northward in the hopes I could catch his eye. It didn't happen so I focused on a long-ass barge full of grain that was probably three football field long, as it slowly made its way past, heading to the Mississippi.
There was a slight breeze that felt good across my skin on this humid summer night. I must have been lost in my thoughts because the next thing I knew the boy on the bike was getting off his ride right beside my bench. "Bum a smoke," he asked. "Sure," I said, "but you gotta smoke it with me." He laughed, looked back toward the guy he was talking to, took the offered cigarette and sat down beside me.
He told me that his name was Bob. I told him my name was Pat. I knew I was lying; don't know if he was. He said that he really was just coming down to ask for a smoke because he didn't think I'd be interested in anything else. I asked him why and he told me he figured if I had any interest I would walk up to where he was talking with the other guy. "Not my style," I told him. I see two guys talking and don't think it's cool to intrude. He laughed at that and told me that I was probably the most polite guy around. "So," I asked, "what if I said I was interested." He laughed again and said then that would make two of us.
We sat and talked and then I noticed that the other guy had disappeared. Bob was cute. He had blondish brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. A bobbed nose that looked a little feminine sat above lips that were lush and full. Like me, he was skinny. Probably no more than 120 or 130 pounds. He was dressed in a white plain t-shirt and faded blue jeans that had a tear halfway between the knee and the hip. A red bandana was tied around his leg, above the hole in his pants, at about his thigh.
He asked me if I wanted to go under the bridge and play. I told him that outdoor sex wasn't really my thing. Too many bad things could happen. The cops could come. Someone else could come and interrupt us. In all, it was just too creepy for me.
I live alone, I told him. We can go to my place if you want. He hesitated. He said he didn't like that idea because you hear about all kinds of crazy shit that happens. This was the early 80s and only a couple of years after Gacy reminded everyone that going back to a stranger's house might not always be the best choice.
We talked some more and it almost felt like it was going to be a dry night. It was going on midnight and while both of us were clearly interested neither of us was into the other's plan for a meeting. Then nature did me a favor: the night sky lit up with lightning just as a thunderous crash of thunder shook us in our seats. "That was close," I said. And as big fat midwestern raindrops began to fall in a fury, I told him we should run to my car, which was only about 10 feet away. We got in (he took a little longer because he had to throw his bike into the back seat). Once inside the car I told him I could either drive him home or drive him to my place, as it was clear the storm wasn't going to pass soon.
He said, "can you drive me home?" and told me where he lived. I knew the area and started off in that direction. We were still just talking about nothing when I felt his hand on my bare thigh. I was in a t-shirt and shorts. His hand started at my thigh and slid up under my right leg, tickling the edges of my tighty-whiteys with his fingertips. I told him that felt nice and then he asked me where I lived. When I told him he said, let's just go there. I asked him what changed his mind and he said that if I was willing to just take him home without getting "pouty or rude" then I must be an ok guy.
