Cherry Picking

Get your minds out of the gutter, readers. This is not a post about messing with virgins. "Cherry picking" is meant literally. I don't wish to disappoint those of my readers who come here only for the sex (men after my own heart), but there will be much content in this post about matters that are only sexual in the light of an extremely broad sense of metaphor. If you're truly impatience for the sex talk, scroll down to the picture of the guy who was in my bed Saturday night. The story's there.

After Saturday morning's romp with W. (not to be confused with Dubya, please; W. is a perfectly pleasant, and in all ways competent, person), I had scheduled an afternoon of massage, followed by an evening of debauchery. When Sunday morning rolled around, I was ready for something different. The weather was glorious, and the all too short tart cherry season had just begun, so the choice was evident. I complain, often bitterly, about living in the far out suburbs, but there are certain advantages. While on the one hand, it's a bit far for many potential massage buddies to travel, it's also only a short drive from veritable amber waves of grain. Spacious skies were also much in evidence on Sunday. I didn't notice any purple mountains' majesties, but it is possible that I was too busy eying the men on motorcycles.

[You're bored, aren't you? Perhaps this would be a good time to mention the first massage I did on Saturday. He was a mid-fifties, married African American. Maybe 5'10 and 160. Very fit, with an almost professorial white beard. I worked the standard massage, starting with the back side, and after I'd done his shoulders and back, any time I got near his ass or nuts when I was working on his lower body, he started breathing deeply and undulating, as if her were slowly fucking the table. When I oiled his crack and slid a finger inside him and found his prostate, the breathing and the undulation picked up speed and intensity. I was a little afraid that he'd lose his load before I even got to his front side, so I cut the prostate massage a little short and had him flip over.

When I got him on his back, his rather large cock was nicely filled out, and he told me that I could do as much prostate massage as I liked, but that he'd rather not have release because he needed to be able to have sex when he got back home. That was fine for me. I began an extended facial massage and then worked my way down to his shoulders and arms. And legs. By the time I got back to his nipples, he was again very worked up, and when I saw him breathe hard and lick his lips, I went in for the kiss. Oh man: a great set of lips and the know-how to use them. Wonderful deep kisses that were simultaneously soft and urgent. He grabbed his cock and started to stroke it, prompting me to cry foul, push his hand away, and stroke it myself. We made out some more, and I let go of his cock, and he repeated that he needed to save it for home, so I put him back on his stomach and worked his shoulders a bit more. He thanked me profusely, got dressed, and left. Fun, fun, fun.]

There are two pick- your-own orchards within a forty minute drive of home. The one that's closer is smaller and less well known and has, perhaps, less of a selection, but three-quarters of the drive there goes by farmland or small houses that don't look like they were placed by a carefully constructed marketing plan. As it happens, when I checked the larger orchard's website, it said that they'd lost most of their tart cherry crop to cold weather. The smaller orchard's recorded message, on the other hand, listed the picking as good.

So off I went, past fields and farms. Now that I think of it, I didn't see any ruminants; they were likely hiding from me, and who can blame them? In any case, it suddenly seemed not such an awful thing that I had been unable to sleep past 7:30 on a Sunday morning immediately following a Saturday night where the other guy hadn't left until 1 am. Not that it didn't still take me over two hours to get out the door and on the road.

Not that you know anything about central Maryland geography, but I live in Montgomery County, a place known for its vast wealth and excellent schools. And the Aspen Hill sniper, but, you know, whatever. The much smaller (but not appreciably less wealthy) county to the northeast of Montgomery is Howard County, the county where I grew up. Howard County is dominated by Columbia, a planned city that erupted out of nowhere in the mid- to late-1960s. Before Columbia, Howard County was basically a rural county with a number of bedroom communities. Now it is largely a giant bedroom community with a number of areas of farmland. I am (barely) pre-Columbian.

I mention all this because just after passing several farms in outer Montgomery County but just before I crossed into Howard County and arrived at the orchard, I passed this monstrosity. Really. Who buys a big tract of former farmland, clears it out, and plops a giant faux stone-covered McMansion in the middle of it? Actually, I didn't get close enough to be absolutely certain that the stone isn't real, but it didn't look real, and even if it is real, it isn't local stone. The house looks ridiculous on that lot, on that road, and in that setting: the physical embodiment of everything that's wrong with capitalism. Some extremely rich, soulless Republican (I know that's redundant) will be very happy there.

Anyway, I was at the farm quickly enough. It's a really great place. I may get there as many as a half-dozen times this year. Blueberries, raspberries, peaches, and apricots. Probably some apples in the fall. I don't pick blackberries there because I pick those in a wild patch, the exact location of which is a closely guarded secret. Sometimes there isn't all that much good fruit at the pick-your-own orchard, especially if the weather's been bad for a particular crop, but it's always fun to be in the fields. Maybe not so much for people who do it full time.

[Bored again, eh? The second massage wasn't as much fun as the first, but it was still a good time. This was a typical married, mid-forties suburbanite. Decent shape but with a bad haircut. I didn't get much of a reaction out of him -- except for the occasional "that feels good" -- until I slid my finger up his ass, and then he was Mr. Happy. If this guy had hit me up on gay.com, I'd have done him, but I didn't feel like kissing him for some reason. But when I finally got around to stroking him off, he came so hard that he hit his chin. Lots of volume, too. Another happy (non-paying) customer.]

Anyway, I drove past the farmstand and back to the cherry orchard. I'd brought my own bucket. They'll give you a bag in the field, but the bags only hold about five pounds of cherries, and why bother picking cherries if you're not going to pick too many? Any that don't get made into jam or pies will freeze very well. Besides, once you get started, it's pretty hard to stop, especially once you've found a tree where the fruit is ripe and plentiful.

[The third massage bordered on unpleasant. I massage pretty much anyone who isn't dangerous, but the last guy was so fat that he couldn't comfortably lie his head on the headrest. When he was on his stomach, I had to give him a pillow. And then, when I was working on his ass, I thought I smelled something, and when I spread his cheeks, I saw a bit of poo. Egad. No prostate massage for him. When I had him on his back, he kept stroking my arms and making noises about how he really felt like he should reciprocate. No, thanks. Still, though, when I was stroking him off, I got wood. I kept it pressed against the table so he couldn't feel it, though. I had him out in under forty minutes. He didn't seem to notice and was very grateful.]

Once you get started picking cherries, it's really hard to stop. I had maybe an inch in the bottom of my bucket when I decided that I'd count the rest of the cherries I picked. I stopped right around 900 because I thought I had well over ten pounds. It turns out I only had about 9.5 pounds (about five pies' worth), but the very nice young woman at the register still charged me the lower per pound price that you get when you pick ten or more pounds. I think it took me a little under an hour to pick all the cherries.

When I got home, it took me about forty minutes to stone them all. I actually own a cherry stoner. I suppose that if someone ever gave me a joint, I'd be a cherry stoner, and I amused myself greatly (I am very easily amused) when I was finished by saying, "Duuuuude! These cherries are stoned!"

Here's a picture of the backside of Saturday's late night hookup. (I didn't take the pic, and that's not my bed. It's one of the pics he sent me, but I examined it and him, and they're the same person.) I was supposed to have a Saturday mid-evening hookup as well, but I had forgotten to email the guy my address. I didn't realize this until it was 8 and he wasn't here and I went to see whether he'd emailed again. Oops. I feel bad because he may have thought I flaked on him, but I really didn't. I was looking forward to pounding his ass, and I'd even bought and laundered more sheets for the bed; I do go through a lot of linens these days. Still, I had the 10:30 appointment with C. (yet another C.; what the fuck is it with that letter?) that I was looking forward to both more and less. More because he's a hot Taiwanese guy who loves nipple play. Less because he'd said he probably wouldn't kiss me until our second hook up. Men, right?

Anyway, C. arrived promptly at 10:30 and asked to be showed upstairs. He's something of a nudist, so he promptly removed all his clothing and jumped on the bed. I went right for his nipples. The man is a solid 9 on the nipple scale. I pulled and I twisted and I pinched and I bit. I bit hard. He ate it all up. In fact, he ate it up so much that after five minutes of hard nipple play, I went to kiss him, and he had forgotten about his rule. Nice lips, pretty good technique. After making out and tugging his nips for a while, I went back to biting his nipples, with even more intensity, and he totally went nuts. After another fifteen minutes of nipple work, he told me he was going to cum, even though I hadn't touched his cock. I thought it was hyperbole, but, no, he shot. Minor volume, and a tiny cock, but who cares, really?

C. had told me that he does multiple orgasms, but he was tired, so I told him he could nap if he like, and then I dove into his ass, which may have inhibited napping. He'd said before he arrived that he loved being rimmed, and he had not lied. I ate his ass thoroughly and hungrily, and then I had him sit on my face, and he stroked my cock while I ate his ass some more. Eventually, I slid a finger in, and that got him really riled up. When I stopped for a short break, he told me that he had meant to nap earlier in the day but hadn't and that he was going to call it a night because he was afraid he wouldn't be able to drive later. Translation: he wasn't going to be able to get it up again.

Somehow it had gotten to be 1:00. I have no idea where the time went, but it sure didn't go into him sucking or sitting on my cock. Anyway, he left. He said he wanted to play again soon, but I don't think he meant it. He calls himself a bottom, but I didn't see any evidence. Maybe he wants me to be more forceful, but as much as he loved having a finger in his ass, he's probably way too tight to take my whole cock. Besides, he's kind of selfish in the sack. Maybe he was just tired. He does, after all, push almost all my buttons, and I would love to fuck him for hours. I'll probably follow up with him, but I won't expect anything, and I won't really mind if nothing comes to fruition.