I was feeling quite horny and knew it wouldn’t be long before I was hungry too, and I didn’t expect another check for two days, so I decided to saunter on over to that county park near the campus that had a lot of out-of-the way parking places and was known in my circles as a pickup spot. With luck, I’d pick me up a short-term sugar daddy with munch and lunch on his dime, or his dollar if he wanted more than a hand job. I was sitting there on a picnic table near the entrance, contemplating the condition of my fingernails, when a big copper-colored blur whooshed past me and turned off into a wooded area, well away from the main picnic section.

I didn’t think much of that for a couple of minutes, until I heard a somewhat irritated voice wafting a question from over that direction.

“Well, are you here for something special, or are you just wasting the day away? If the first, get your little ass over here and give Glen attention.”

I unfolded myself from the picnic table and strolled through the fringe of trees to the small parking area. When I got to the clearing, I saw a hippie-type guy leaning up against an old copper-colored Lincoln Continental, copper just like in the Lincoln-head penny, convertible. There was only one guy, so I guessed he was Glen.

He had a craggy face that looked somewhat familiar, except the dark sunglasses hid quite a bit. He had a light beard and mustache and long silky dirty blond hair that reached below his shoulders. He was wearing a T-shirt with his own face and some writing on the front, and there was a guitar case in his backseat. And then it dawned on me. This was a guitarist from a local band, Glen and Guys, that had gone national and still had tunes on the charts. At least that boded well for a free meal possibility, and I followed the local rock bands enough to be called a groupie.

I stood there and looked at him, and he sat up against his car and looked me up and down, and I didn’t quite know what to say. So, this was Glen Strang, in the flesh.

“Well, up close, I like what I see,” he said in a twangy voice. “So, do you want to come around and get in, and I’ll give you a ride?”

“A ride?” I asked lamely.

“Yes, a ride.” And then he snickered, having become aware of the double entendre he’d created all on his own.

“Why do we need to ride anywhere? We can just do it here, can’t we?” I asked.

“This park’s too well known. I know where there’s another one nearby that’s safer.”

“OK, why not?” I answered. I bleakly walked around to the passenger side, we both got into his car, and he pulled out of the parking area.

“Drag?” he said, as he offered what obviously was more than a cigarette to me. I politely declined the offer.

“Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long. Gotta gig myself, but I like, you know, like to get off before I go on stage. And after too, for that matter,” and he gave another little laugh. “And on stage whenever possible.” This one gave him the giggles. I don’t know how high he was already, but I kept very quiet so he could concentrate on his driving.

“Do this often?” he asked, as we drove out into the countryside?

“No. No, I don’t,” I answered.

“Sweet. Got a name?”

“Kyle.”

“Real?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t. He, I’m sure, knew that. He also knew, I was sure, from watching me case him and his car, that I knew who he was—what his real name was.

He pulled into another, larger county park and drove into the far end of a secluded parking lot, where he turned the Lincoln around, which wasn’t easy—it was one humongous big land boat—and backed it up to the edge of a little dell.

“Get on out, and come around to the trunk,” he said, as he opened his door, got out. Without fanfare, he stripped his jeans and briefs off and threw them in the backseat beside the guitar case. We both walked around to the trunk of the car. He got me between him and the trunk and turned me so that I was facing him.

“Take off the shirt.”

I did as he asked, and he ran his hands around my torso.

“Nice,” he said, as he took the joint out of his mouth and offered it to me again. I declined once again.

“Oh, well, your loss.” Then he unbuckled my belt, unfastened my jeans, pulled down my zipper and took my jeans and briefs down and off my legs. I was naked now other than my sneakers.

“Oh my, yes; nice, very nice indeed. Lean back on the trunk, please.” I did so, and he asked me to hold his smoldering joint and started tonguing my chest and nipples, his silky hair swishing over my torso, producing a not-unpleasant sensation. He worked his way down to my cock and balls and then pushed my legs up into my chest with both hands and started tonguing my asshole. After a while, he stood, releasing my legs, and spit in his hand a couple of times. He worked this into his cock. He lifted my legs again and spread them wide; walked his pelvis into mine; plugged his hardened, but not particularly large, rod into my asshole; and, after getting well saddled, started a slow pumping movement.

He knew how to, no nonsense, do this.

So, there I was, out in the woods, naked and on my back on the trunk of a 1964 copper-colored Lincoln Continental convertible—about the last four-door convertible every made—with my knees hooked on the hips of a gaunt rocker and holding his joint for him, while he crouched over me, knuckles pressed into the trunk of the car, and slow fucked me. We hadn’t discussed what I got in return for this, but as I followed rockers and gave them what they wanted just to be “in the presence,” this was fine. He had a good cock on him, and he knew what to do with it.

After a while, he asked for the joint back and puffed on that while he worked my ass with his dick. He had one of those cocks that started off unimpressive but lengthened and thickened nicely with the proper attention. He came inside me and then slurped his cock out of me and instructed me to put my clothes back on as he walked around to the driver’s side. He asked me where I wanted to be driven, and he dropped me off right at my dorm. Before I got out of the car, though, he put his hand on my arm.

“Here’s a twenty for the trick. Best fuck I’ve had in a week. Do you do women too?”

“When they’re there to be done,” I answered. “Sex is sex is sex.”

He laughed. “Thanks a lot.” And then he handed me a ticket, which had a red band on the side. “Here’s a ticket to my concert here Saturday night. The red band on it will get you into the party afterward. Hope to see you there.” And then he just drove off and left me there on the curb.