Love and the Odor of Red Leatherette

There I was face down in the back seat of the car, inhaling the odor of red leatherette as my ass was inhaling pounding cock. Did I have no pride? Leatherette, for fuck’s sake. Not even real leather. And red? Whose idea of good automobile design was this? And the guy fucking me was overweight and in his forties! Ancient! He was fucking me so aggressively that he was threatening to give my face a good dose of leatherette burn.

No, I had no pride when it came to cock. I was new to the game. And like all converts to a new religion, I was embracing it with open arms, and open ass, and open mouth. It was 1964. I was in my freshman year at college, as ignorant of the world’s myriad dark sexual alleyways as any man whose concentration on the freeways of life left him little or no time to take the beckoning detours that would add color and meaning to his journey. But courtesy of the school library dictionary, I did know that I was never going to marry. That was my definition of ‘homosexual’, at any rate. A well-meaning, unmarried family friend had suggested, in whispers that reeked of intrigue, “Look the word up.”