Sex Histories	Sex Histories Archive

The following is excerpted from Lewd, Boyd McDonald's 12th volume of true sex histories

Baltimore -- Our westbound train was zipping along the Potomac River Valley near Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, when I glimpsed him buying a beer in the bar car.

Less than an hour earlier the "Capitol Limited" had eased out of Washington's Union Station as dusk descended on that crispy cool winter's evening. Soon #29 was zinging through the cold night air with a vengeance, as though determined to make its Chicago appointment on time the next morning.

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After a cursory inspection of him I caught his eye and said "Hi" with a sigh.

The perfunctory small talk that followed could not conceal the intrigue our flirting glances suggested.

"Are we connecting?" I wondered wantonly.

His wicked, almost sneering smile had triggered my libido and I was already fantasizing delicious possibilities.

How delightful to discover my new fantasy stretched out in the dome car a few hours later as I escaped for a quiet bit of r & r. As my initial excitement escalated, fear and desire intensified. The night sparkled through the moonlit solarium as the train sped down the old Pennsylvania Railroad mainline.

Dreamboy fielded a few appropriate innuendos, then boldly asked if I gave head.

Feigning innocence and faltering, I managed to pivot and immediately spotted one or two other late-night viewers sitting back in the shadows.

My body was almost convulsing when I finally eased down beside my bold new friend.

He was soon wiggling out of his trousers, releasing a a long stiff pole. When his pants were securely anchored, I grabbed his big black dick and went to work. I loved to slide the slippery foreskin up, down, and around the slimy purple head. His spastic thick joint jumped as I lightly fingered his sensitive nuts. Our pre-juice oozed as I continued to play with my excited, and exciting, new toy.

My playmate whined for me to suck it, so I took another precautionary look around, decided that the lone passenger sitting in the back was oblivious to our mischief, then reluctantly bent over to taste the salty spout of the leaking hose.

My moaning stud kept pressing my head down on his rod, his thrusting motion creating a rhythm in synch with the bobbing and swaying of the speeding train.

He would raise his clenched butt off the seat while holding my head down in a firm vise grip until l was gagging for air. I loved it.

The train kept barrelling through the Ohio nightscape unmindful of our sneaky retreat into the men's lounge on the lower level of the dome coach.

As soon as the door shut behind us he was groping all over me and squeezing my crotch. Our steamy fondling had our bodies screaming with desire.

He creaked, "You got a room?"

When I replied that there was a room reserved for my down time, he insisted, "Come on, let's get naked. We can stretch out in the bed and have a good time."

Though his urgency was tempting, I was not convinced. It was just too risky passing those nosey conductors who were always hanging out after hours shooting the shit in the diner adjacent to the sleeper.

I suggested my hotel the following day, although I hadn't figured out how to finagle that. Besides he said he would be busy, so we settled for the toilet annex inside the men's lounge.

Full of anxiety and totally out of control, I struggled while he entered the tiny cubicle and pushed his pants down, revealing a big bulge in his bikini.

Then I checked the outer aisle for late night traffic, then fumbled into the fragrant pissoir and plopped down on the toilet stool. He wanted to lock up but I insisted that the toilet door remain propped open so I could keep an eye on the lounge door and make a fast move if it moved.

Sensing that the coast was clear, I returned to the huge lump staring me in the face. I opened wide, chewing contentedly on my inflatable pacifier as it struggled to escape its drenched cotton confinement.

My man kept urging me on with his sweet oohs and aahs and sexy talk: "It's all yours." "Do your thing." "Do what you do best."

I slowly pulled his briefs below the tight coils of hair until the sight of that juicy slab of uncut cock meat drove me into a frenzy. With complete abandon, I stuffed as much of his elephant trunk down my throat as I could safely accommodate and gorged out.

Alternating between shaft, balls, chest, and navel, I nibbled, licked, slurped, and sucked until I got tired.

Burying my nose in his musky pubic prairie, I inhaled deeply while kneading his butt, exploring his ass crack, and pinching his pectorals. This hot stranger was writhing in ecstasy as the train roared on and I kept glancing at the door, fearing intrusion.

I was raging for that butt hole. Swiveling him around, I spread his ass cheeks to uncover a succulent man hole smelling like raw sewage, so I rapidly about-faced him and chewed some more on that bobbing night stick. I would step out now and then to make security checks, leaving him leaning against the toilet wall with head thrown back, legs spread, and groin thrust out, expressing a portrait of seductive perfection.

Every time I attempted to adjourn our secret session, his black magic wand would wave me back to my toilet seat. I was working overtime. The drone of the horn blasts muffled our erotic sounds of pleasure as the train faded into the night.

Paranoia settled in with the swiftly unfolding dawn. Would this rising rambler say or do something that might jeopardize my pay check?

Midnight Cowboy slept through most of the Indiana morning and virtually ignored me when he awoke to the Sears Tower looming over Lake Michigan. He was traveling with his nephew (maybe a couple of years younger) and, no doubt, had an image to uphold. The snub both angered and relieved me.

Though I feared repercussions stemming from my risky onboard behavior, I continued to yearn for another chance encounter. That materialized a few trips later when he and nephew boarded the train in Chicago for their return trip to D.C. My motors revved up again and I immediately began fantasizing a fresh escapade, but I was also leery. I wanted to break the ice but waited for him to make the first move. Finally, I initiated a brief hello and we exchanged sanitized comments. His cool indifference luckily dimmed my passion.

Yet, I can still see that sexy snarl and that long thick black dick dangling in the dome.

Author Profile:  Boyd McDonald

Born in 1925 in South Dakota, Boyd McDonald entered Harvard as a high-school dropout after serving in the army in World War II. Jobs with Time, IBM, and several Wall Street firms preceded Boyd's career as a chronicler of gay sex. He was the founder and editor of Straight to Hell (alternatively the Manhattan Review of Cocksucking), and later published a number of anthologies of true sex histories. Boyd died in September 1993, two months after completing his final book, Scum.