TRAVELING MAKES ME horny. Whether by bus, train or plane, being on my way from one city to another has a way of arousing my inner cruiser.
Last summer, flying into Newark airport from California, I was particularly randy. Long stretches of time in my hometown, cut off from readily available sources of sexual entertainment, inevitably wind me up. After the five-or-so-hour flight, my hormones were reaching a fever pitch.
I still had to take the shuttle bus from Newark to Port Authority. It was a weekday afternoon, and not many people seemed interested in making it into Manhattan. So I, and just a few other people, loaded our things into the bus and crawled through the aisle of the cabin, trying to avoid contact with upholstery that had a film coating the coarse, dark fibers of what perhaps used to be a rainbow print.
I went straight for the back, having learned long ago that if you have any hopes at all of getting into mischief on a bus, you head for the rear. I was apparently the only person with deviant designs that day, having the better part of eight rows to myself.
That is, until a sweaty, thick-torsoed man in a pilot’s uniform emerged from the din of the bus and sat himself across the aisle from me, one row ahead. He scootched over to the seat next to the window.
He had the whole look going on: the cap with a brim small enough to keep it perched on the crown of his head, the white shirt with gold stripes marking the shoulders, navy blue poly-cotton blend pants clinging tight to thick thighs and blond fur covering sturdy arms and fat, stubby fingers. Though he lacked the quintessential perv mustache, in all other ways, he was a porn flick cliché.
The bus pulled out of Newark. The sun was high above, warming the air with a muggy summer weight. Columns of shadows fell and panned throughout the cabin as the coach veered its way toward the turnpike.
Keeping my eye on the pilot, I slumped back in my seat, thrusting my hips forward. I could just see the side of his face behind the back of the seat that was between us. And I knew if he looked over my way, he’d be able to see my crotch without having to worry about whether I would be able to see him looking.
My hand slipped over my jeans and landed on my bulge with a nonchalance that had been rigorously honed via hours of cruising men in public places. I gave the requisite squeeze—it could pass as any guy adjusting his junk—then let my hand rest there as my cock began to swell.
No sign from Mr. Pilot. After a minute of furious rubbing, I looked up and a bolt of panic went through me as our eyes made brief and terrifying contact. His hat had come off to reveal a head of blond hair, cut short and matted with sweat.
I broke eye contact, and pushed my shoulders back into my seat, the hood of my sweatshirt bundling at my neck. And though this action was designed to keep my face from being seen, my hand kept circling.
I dared lean forward to see if the pilot was still looking; to see his reaction; to see if he was interested. I saw that he had pitched his body just enough to one side so that he now was almost turned toward me. The expression on his face was serious. His eyes connected with mine again, then dropped down to my crotch, then back up.
With nervous fingers, I undid the button of my jeans, slumping down further into my seat. I leaned my head left to see if anyone else in the bus was near us. All clear.
I hooked my thumbs under the band of my briefs and pulled them and my jeans just under my ass, enough to expose my shaft.
I took my cock in my hand and toyed with it until it was solid. The pilot and I would exchange occasional glances, but after a while, he centralized his focus on what was happening below my waist.
I licked the palm of my hand with a wide, heavy stroke—I could smell my stale coffee breath—grabbed my shaft and twirled around it like a flagpole.
The pilot kept his gaze on me. I would glance down to see if he was hard, to see if he would join in. But I saw no motion. This
was a one-man show. Out the window to my right, the southern tip of Manhattan’s skyline rose over industrial Jersey.
As I stroked my cock, my right hand climbed up to my chest and gripped my pecs and my hips undulated in my seat. My knees hit the plastic of the seat in front of me. My excitement was reaching a climax.
The look in the pilot’s eyes matched the intensity of my jacking off. He was with me, even if he wasn’t joining in. I was ready to give him the finale.
I lurched forward. Planting my right palm on the seat cushion, I lifted my hips even further. Now my pilot could see even more of me.
I aimed the head of my dick at the seat back, gasped and watched ropes of cum lash against the plastic. I winced. A gooeyness oozed between my fist and my pulsing cock. My pubic hair was glistening with saliva and cum. I could smell the ammonia of my body fluid rise through the air.
As soon as I gathered my wits, I looked over toward my one-man audience. He had already swiveled back in his seat, and was facing forward, no longer looking. As much as I may have perfected the art of cruising, men have equally perfected the art of post-coital bailing.
I cleaned myself up. Fished some Starbucks napkins from my pocket and wiped up the mess. I skipped to the bathroom to wash my hands, but no luck: In place of a sink was a plastic module of hand sanitizer gel. When I came back to my seat, I could see the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel.
Back in the lower levels of the Port Authority garage, the bus pulled into a parking space next to glass doors, which here pass for a gate. Unnatural light flickered outside the windows. As the bus jerked to a full stop, I watched the pilot stand up and make his way toward the exit without looking back.
I followed him for a bit—through the terminal, up the escalator past mobs of tourists and harried New Yorkers. His ass was cute as ever; perky and round beneath broad shoulders. Then I lost him.
I fished my MetroCard out of my wallet. The entrance to the A train was just beyond two sets of doors and a rack of chrome turnstiles. I smiled to myself, and headed off to Washington Heights.