That Guy with the Dreadlocks

Let me begin by not telling you about myself. You don't care whether I'm a
fifty-year-old man with a receding hairline, or whether I have a wife named
Bonnie and two kids in college. Nor are you particularly interested about
whether I played football in high school and had hidden yearnings in the
locker room or at church camp.

For that matter, you also probably wouldn't care if I were a thirty-year-old
personal trainer with a winning smile and a great tan.

I'm actually neither of those things, but like I said, you really don't
care.

And how I wound up late that night in the hotel bar is also not something
that interests you. You don't care whether I was in a strange town
completing a high-powered business deal between two giant media
conglomerates or whether I was there to drive a little car in a local parade
with the Shriners.

Or, for that matter, whether the hotel bar was actually just a place on my
way home from work because I prefer to get home late to avoid spending too
much waking time with Bonnie, who isn't as pretty as she was when we married
and who now has a habit of meeting me at the door with a long list of
"honey-do's," even though I have spent an exhausting day at the office
completing high-powered mergers or at the gym as a personal trainer to the
stars.

Or whatever the hell I do for a living.

All that really matters is that I was in that hotel bar having a little
drink, but not too much to drink. Just enough to loosen me up, but not
enough to debilitate me or otherwise prevent me from getting through the
rest of this story with performance issues in the middle or a hangover at
the end.

The bottom line here, and all that really matters, is that I was sitting at
the bar.

And he was sitting at the bar two seats over from me.

That's all that really matters.

"Hi," he said.

Now, I know you were expecting something a little bit more original. Maybe a
little bit exotic. "Hi," is not a particularly tropical-sounding thing to
say, and since you know from the title that the guy probably has dreadlocks
and is therefore possibly Jamaican, then you might expect him to say
something more "Jamaican sounding." Maybe something like "Hey, Mon." Or
something like that.

But he didn't say "Hey, Mon," and I'm sorry but I can't help that fact. He
just said "Hi."

Which, of course, took me by surprise because I had been focused on his
nipples.

Well, hell. He had nice nipples. Sue me.

Actually, he had nice everything, as far as I could tell. He was a great
looking guy, and the dreadlocks sort of went with the whole look. His face
as sort of angular in its features, and his eyes were sort of a light brown
color and had a little bit of an impish sparkle to them. He seemed like a
guy at ease with himself. The kind of guy who might have a sense of humor
about things. The kind of guy who might have a great smile.

So, I said: "Hi."

Okay, that wasn't a stunning comeback or a snappy line. But it just seemed
to be the appropriate thing to say. So I did.

Then we went back to our drinks and I continued staring at his nipples in
the mirror behind the bar.

Now you are probably thinking maybe that he wasn't not wearing a shirt, so
let me clear that up right now. He was wearing a shirt. But it was a
tight-fitting knit shirt, and I could see his nipples just fine. They were
great nipples. And his pecs were nice pecs. He was built. His big pecs had a
way of pushing his nipples out, and since they were pencil-eraser-type
nipples and not the flat kind, the track lighting in the bar had a way of
catching them just right.

I stared a little bit more, took a sip of my drink to get some nerve, and
said:

"Nice evening, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he said. "Stop staring at my nipples."

"I wasn't staring at your nipples."

"Yes you were," he said. "You were definitely staring at my nipples. I saw
you. Don't lie."

"I wasn't staring. I was just looking."

"Oh," he said. "That's different."

We sipped on our drinks some more.

"I do have nice nipples, though," he said. "I guess."

I shrugged.

"Are you in town for a convention?" he asked.

"No," I said. "why do you ask?"

"Well, I just saw your Shriner's fez on the barstool next to you, and I
thought..."

I looked down at the barstool. "Oh, that. That's not mine."

"Whose is it?"

"I have no idea," I said. "It was there when I got here."

"I think you're lying," he said.

"I'm not lying."

"Well, I think you are. I think that's your fez."

"It is not," I said.

"Uh, huh," he said, and took another sip from his drink.

We sat quietly for a few moments.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Chicago."

"Oh," I said.

A few more moments passed.

"You probably thought I was from Jamaica," he said.

"No. I didn't."

"Well if you did, that's okay. Everybody thinks that."

"Oh," I said.

"It's the dreadlocks," he explained.

"I see."

Another pause.

"Are you staying in this hotel?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Well, that makes sense," he said.

"Why?"

"Because we're in a hotel bar. Most of the people here are probably staying
at this hotel."

"I guess."

"I mean," he said, warming up to the subject for reasons that were escaping
me. "It's not much of a bar, you know? It's not the kind of bar you would go
to if you weren't already in this building."

The bartender shot us a dirty look.

"No offense," he said to the bartender.

The bartender grunted and moved to the other end of the bar.

"I guess," I said, not too loudly. I didn't want the bartender to be mad at
me.

"But the rooms are pretty nice," said the guy with the dreadlocks. "Don't
you think?"

"Yeah," I said. "The rooms are pretty nice."

"Let's go to your room," he said.

I looked at him in surprise. I started to say something, but he cut me off:

"Don't act so damned shocked. I saw you staring at my nipples."

"I wasn't staring."

"Okay, 'looking,'" he said. "Whatever."

We went up to my room. There were other people on the elevator, but as soon
as they got off at their floor and the doors closed behind them, he stole a
kiss.

With tongue. It was nice.

* * *

We walked into my room, and I nearly tripped over the little car. I had
completely forgotten it was there.

"I knew it!" he exclaimed happily. "I knew you were a Shriner!"

"I'm not a Shriner," I said.

"Liar," he said.

"I'm not," I insisted, although I suspected things weren't very convincing
at this point.

"You're a Shriner," he said. "I can tell. You drive that little car in
parades."

"No, I don't."

"Yes you do," he said. Then he kissed me and announced that he needed to
take a shower.

He went into the bathroom and left the door open. I suddenly remembered
something and made a phone call on the hotel phone.

"Vista Room," said the bartender on the other end of the line. The hotel bar
was called the "Vista Room."

"Um, yes," I said, trying to keep my voice low so the guy in the shower
wouldn't hear. "I'm the guest in room 524."

"Yeah?"

"I think I left my fez in the bar. Can you hold it until I come back later?"

"Sure."

* * *

He came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. "Who were you talking to?"

"Nobody," I said.

"Yes you were."

"I was just calling the front desk about my checkout time."

"Uh huh," he said. "Lick my nipples."

I obeyed.

"That feels good," he said.

"Mmmmph," I said.

"Do you want me to sound more Jamaican?" he asked.

I raised my head, abandoning his left nipple for the moment. "Why would I
want that?"

"Well, some guys seem to like it."

"Oh," I said.

"It kind of goes with the dreadlocks."

"Well, you can if you want to," I said. "It doesn't really matter to me."

I returned to his left nipple.

He moaned.

"Aww, yeah," he said. "That feels real good, Mon."

(I guess he had decided to go with the Jamaican thing.)

"Yessss," he hissed. "Leek eet. Leek my neeple."

"'Leek eet'?" I asked.

"Yah, Mon."

"That doesn't sound very Jamaican."

"What does it sound like?"

"Iranian."

"It does?"

"Yes."

"Does that turn you on?"

"Not really," I said.

"Why? You got something against Iranians?"

"No, of course not. I have no problem with Iranians."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is that you're trying to sound Jamaican but instead you're
sounding Iranian. It's inconsistent."

"You don't want me to do an accent?"

"Well, it's a little distracting."

"Okay," he said. "We can skip the accent. Take off your clothes. I want us
to get comfortable."

That sounded good, so I took off my clothes.

He dropped his towel. Jesus Christ!

"My nipples aren't the only thing I've got going on," he said.

"I can see that."

"I'm not circumcised," he said.

"I can see that."

"The foreskin makes the whole thing look thicker than it actually is."

"Uh huh."

"But it's still pretty thick. It would still be thick even without the
foreskin."

"I can see that."

"Do you think it would look better if I was circumcised?"

"No."

"That's good. I don't want to get circumcised. I understand that it hurts."

"I would think so."

"You're circumcised," he said. "Did it hurt?"

"I don't know. Probably. But I was a baby when it happened, so I don't
remember."

"You probably blocked it out."

"Perhaps."

"That means it hurts. Hey! I've got an idea!"

"Uh huh?"

"Why don't you sit in your little car?"

"Huh?"

"It'll be hot. I can fuck your face while you sit in your little car."

I looked at the little car. "I dunno," I said. It seemed sort of
sacreligious.

"Come on. Please? It's one of my fantasies."

"It is?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "I've got a lot of fantasies. It's not one of my main ones,
but it's on the list."

I went to the car and climbed in. It's a little car and a snug fit. It took
me a few moments to get my legs in and ease myself down onto the seat. I had
never sat naked in it before.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. He went to answer it.

"Hey," I said. "Don't forget to put on your towe--"

Too late. The bellhop got an eyefull.

He came back with my fez. "Put this on."

I put the fez on my head.

"That's hot," he said.

He stood over the hood of the car in front of me, his feet planted on the
floor on either side. Placing his hands on either side of my head, he moved
forward until his cock was just brushing against my lips. I stuck out my
tongue and licked the head.

He pushed it in. The foreskin rolled back on his shaft as he pressed his
cockhead into my mouth.

"Lick under the foreskin," he said. "I like that."

I did.

"How does that taste? Is it okay?"

"It's wonderful."

"That's good," he said. "I try really hard to keep it clean."

"It's perfect."

"Do you like my body?"

"Very much."

"what do you like best?"

"Gosh," I said. "Where do I start? You're fine from head to toe."

"Even my toes?"

"Even your toes."

"I do have nice feet," he said. "At least that's what I've been told."

"Well, you're nice looking all over."

"You're not so bad yourself," he said. "You've got a nice body. Are you a
personal trainer or something?"

I didn't answer.

"I want you to do something for me," he said.

"What?"

"Suck on my toes." He moved to one side of the car and raised his foot. I
leaned forward.

"Wait a minute," he said. "This is awkward. Get out of the car."

I got out, and he lowered himself onto the car. He didn't get in it. He just
sort of put his legs over the doors and sat in like it was a bucket. His
legs stuck out on either side.

"Now you can get to my feet."

I knelt down on the floor and began kissing his feet. I worked my tongue
between his toes and sucked on each one.

"That feels wonderful," he said.

As I worked on his feet, he removed the fez from my head and placed it in
his lap, covering his cock.

I began working my way up the inside of one leg. I reached his inner thigh
and then moved up to his nipples. He removed the fez from his lap and put it
on his head. I leaned down into his lap, taking his dick into my mouth once
again.

He was stroking my back as I gave him head. His hands moved down to my lower
back and then began exploring my ass.

As I kept working on his cock, he reached over to the nightstand and grabbed
the tub of lube. He began massaging it into my ass.

"Why don't you sit in my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas?" he
said.

"I didn't know you were Santa."

"Well, I've got the red hat, don't I?"

"It's a fez. Santa doesn't wear a fez."

"Are you going to be picky about my hat, or are you going to sit in my lap?"

I decided to sit in his lap. As I got up from my kneeling position, he
grabbed some more lube and rubbed it on his cock, which was standing up
straight at this point.

I straddled the car facing him and lowered myself onto his lap. His dick was
now pressing against my ass. My legs were over his. He held my butt with his
strong hands.

He gave me a gentle kiss on the lips. Without completely pulling his lips
from mine, he murmured:

"Tell Santa what you want for Christmas."

I gave him a kiss and murmured back, "I want your baby."

"Well, you're pretty close to my babymaker right now."

"Let me get closer to it."

"You can't get closer without it being inside you."

"That'll work," I said, and lowered myself a bit. He grabbed his dick with
one hand to get the right angle.

The head pushed into my ass lips, opening them. I could feel the lips wrap
around the bulbous cockhead.

"Have you been good this year?"

"I'm always good."

"I'll be the judge of that."

I lowered myself further.

He said, "Well, so far you've been pretty good. But if you want my baby, you
have to be very, very good."

I lowered myself further.

"Okay," he said. "You're good. That's better than pretty good. But let's see
if you can be very, very good."

I lowered myself further. He was about two thirds inside me.

"That's very good," he said. "But I need another 'very' to make that very,
very good."

I slid down further. All the way to his balls.

"Very, very good," he said.

We kissed, and our tongues played together.

"Do I get a baby?"

"You get a baby," he said. "Maybe twins if you earn them."

I put my hands behind me on the hood of the car to steady myself and began
moving up and down on his cock with slow deep motions.

"Oh," he moaned. "That's amazing. Squeeze it."

I squeezed.

"Oh, shit! This is really making me want to do a Jamaican accent."

"You need to work on your accent," I said.

"So you say," he said as I slid down again. He pushed his hips up to meet
me. "Maybe we should go to Jamaica so I can practice."

I gave him another squeeze.

"I'd fuck you on the beach all day and night until I got the accent right,"
he said.

"I'd like that."

"I'd probably never get it quite right, though."

"That would be okay," I said. "As long as you kept fucking me while you
tried."

"I could get some Rastas to fuck you too so I could listen to their accents
while they fucked you."

"I'd like that."

"Make some babies inside you."

"Beautiful babies," I said.

"Like this one?" he asked, and shot his load inside me.

We kissed.

"That was wonderful," I said.

"'Was'?" he asked. "Why the past tense?"

"Well, I thought..."

"You think too much. My dick's still hard."

"So it is."

"And I want twins."

I began moving up and down on his cock again. His cum made it more slippery.

"I like this," he said.

"So do I. You feel incredible inside me."

"But my legs are cramping up. Let's get in the bed."

I reluctantly pulled myself off his dick. A small amount of cum dribbled
down my leg.

He hoisted himself off the car as I pulled the bedcovers back.

He lay down on his back on the bed. I started to lower myself onto him again
in a sitting position. I leaned down to kiss him.

"Not this way," he said. "Sit on my cock with your back facing me."

I turned around and lowered myself onto his shaft.

"That's good," he said. "Now lay all the way back on top on me."

I leaned back until my back was against his chest, his dick still impaled
deep inside me. I could feel his dreads against my shoulders. He kissed me
on the neck.

He placed his hands on my inner thighs and gripped them.

"Look in that mirror," he said.

I raised my head slightly and looked at the mirror on the dresser, which
located at foot of the bed. I could see my legs splayed wide open, his hands
on either side of my cock and balls, and his massive cock buried deep in my
ass.

"Watch this," he said.

He began thrusting his hips and using his hands to make me bounce up and
down on his dick. It was a beautiful sight.

Then he went faster.

And faster.

"Wouldn't it be great if we had someone videotaping this?" he asked. "My
dick looks so hot going in and out of your ass like that."

"I'm videotaping it in my mind," I said. "I'm not going to forget this."

"I know you won't forget it," he said, still bouncing in and out. "And you
know why?"

"Why?"

"Because we're...

"...about to make...

"TWINS!!!!" he shouted, as the second load came pulsing into my ass.

* * *

We lay there for a while before washing up and getting dressed.

"That was nice," he said. "You're a hot Shriner."

"You're a hot not-quite-Jamaican."

We kissed.

"Are you in town much longer?" he asked.

"A few days."

"Cool," he said, looking at the little car. "Then maybe you can give me some
driving lessons."

"You don't drive?"

"Oh yeah," he said. "I know how to drive normal size cars. But I've never
driven one of those," he said, nodding in the direction of the miniature.

"Um, okay. But it's not really that different."

"Maybe so. But I want to learn how you guys do those figure-eights in
parades."

"Okay."

"And then we can work on my accent some more," he said.

"Works for me, Mon."

He put the fez on my head and gave me kiss before walking out the door.

"That is so hot," he said.