On nights when I can't sleep, I'm not the type to read or drink warm milk. I don't drink alcohol, take pills, or count sheep, either. Sometimes music works but not always. And I've found there's always an underlying reason for why I can't sleep.
I get this way when I'm bored with bars, websites, and typical ways to meet men. So I take a short drive to a rest stop along the interstate about ten miles outside of town. It's a public, circular area with separate sections for cars and large trucks, surrounded by trees and thick brush. It's one of those places were travelers stop and rest and one of those places where some men find satisfaction on lonely nights. No one goes there looking for love and romance. But you have to keep an open mind, because it is what it is.
There's a dilapidated, closed-down, cinderblock bathroom in the center of the rest area, the "men" and "women" signs are now hidden by six vinyl, pee-stained porta-potties. They are set back from the interstate, dark and discreet and fairly empty between midnight and dawn. You can circle the old bathroom for hours looking for action and no one gives it a second thought. Though cruising is heavy in the warmer months with the down-low guys, almost any kind of action is for the taking all year around.
This place is not a habit; a person could become addicted to these things, and it's important not to go too often. But every now and then, I have a simple fetish that needs to be fed. A slight kink that has to be recognized or I won't stop thinking about it. It's not common, and the only place for a five foot eleven, butch, jock-type to exhibit such a desire is a dark corner where no one is in a position to judge. Actually, and this fact makes a broad statement in itself, it's a fetish so uncommon you can't find a website that's completely devoted to it.
Though I'm not into drag or cross-dressing, and I have no interest in panties or stockings (don't even like to watch drag shows), I happen to really get off wearing high heels during sex. There you are. A pair of heels, six inches or higher, in black leather makes my heart race faster. But they could be any color.
My body is lean; I work out six days a week for a thirty-inch waist and a forty-three-inch chest. My legs are long, muscular, shaved, and tan thanks to endless hours of running nowhere on treadmills and the local tanning salon. I work hard at it year round. Most guys at thirty would have said give it a rest; you can't stay young forever but even still.
One drizzly, damp night last November, I decided to drive to the rest stop to see if there was anything interesting going on. You never know unless you go there, and it's all harmless if you're not going to do anything but observe. At least this is what I told myself on the way. I hadn't been there in months; not since the sultry night in June I'd sucked off a couple of saggy-jean college guys who were too drunk even to remember, I'm sure. They were of legal age, but so young emotionally they were amazed that I'd swallowed three full loads. Their eyes bugged; they thanked me more than once and walked me back to the car. They even opened my car door and waited for me to pull away. It was the typical ritual with all its excitements, but it was also just as dangerous: to drive there wearing nothing but a belted black leather coat that stopped just below my ass and six-inch heels. I always carry a bag with a tee shirt, jeans, and shoes for emergencies, but half the fun was driving there practically naked while wearing the heels. Sometimes, I turn on all the interior car lights, giving the old truck drivers a cheap thrill.