Greyhound

Our encounter started in New York; by the time we reached Nebraska it was over. He was a bike messenger who hadn't left Manhattan for two years, and had finally decided to take off for San Francisco. I was going to New Mexico, not sure if I would ever return. For the first few hours of that June journey, we talked about our lives, until night allowed us the privacy we craved. Somewhere near Cleveland he slipped his hand underneath my thigh and unzipped my jeans. Already wet with anticipation, slightly nervous but fully aroused, I arched my body closer to his eager, explorative fingertips. Covertly, casually, flesh was uncovered in the warm darkness under our jackets. Other passengers slept nearby, undisturbed by my quiet moans and gasps. I closed my eyes and grasped his hard cock fervently, as if it alone could save me from an uncertain future. We tried to go down on each other, but we had to come up for air several times, which only made us hotter and more in need of a full climax. He cradled me in spoon position, awkwardly nestled into the seat, and I looked out the window as he fucked me from behind. The next day we talked, slept, and kissed frequently, and at one point he even covered us with the jackets and tried again. But the bright light of day and the wide open prairies around us wouldn't have it.

The bus rolled on. We made plans—we would get a hotel room in Omaha, spend the night, delight each other in a real bed. But by the time we arrived it was 4 a.m., and our connecting buses, heading in different directions, were waiting. We were tired. With promises to write, we continued on to our separate destinations. But writing would have changed everything, and we knew it. I wanted to remember him sitting there as my bus pulled away, winking at me, smiling the way only a secret lover could, both of us knowing that riding a Greyhound would never be the same again.

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