A couple of summers before I turned fifty, I was touring the American West by car. On a warm August day, I found myself in Salt Lake City. Having visiting local museums – a favorite hobby of mine – I decided it was time to leave. Next destination: Las Vegas. The drive from Salt Lake City to Las Vegas traces a stunning array of American vistas. Even though by continent-sized American distances, the drive is a modest mere 5 hours, the sheer variety of terrain along the way, however, is simply magnificent. I previewed my trip to know that my only must-see stop would be the gorgeous Zion National Park. Beyond that, it was the unknown that beckoned.
Finishing a late light lunch and a quick drive-thru for a flavored espresso drink, I veered my small sedan onto Interstate 15 towards Las Vegas. After driving for about 3 hours, and almost on a whim, I pulled off the Interstate at a freeway exit. The exit sign indicated that I was headed for some place called Silverton. The exit ramp ended on a two lane paved road. Close to the exit, there were the ubiquitous fixtures that dot the Western landscape a gas station and tiny strip mall which amounted to two adjacent buildings that housed a barber shop and a diner.
Across the street, there was a small motel. This far away from the National Park or any large city, the infrastructure was modest, as if to cater to locals rather than sojourners from the busy interstate speeding along only a mile or so away. I surveyed my surroundings. It was late afternoon. If I filled topped up on gas and grabbed a sub sandwich, I could probably make it to Las Vegas in another two to three hours. That would be all freeway driving comprised of car, trucks and freeway noise. And, just as importantly, I would be driving into the sun. This last bit loomed as a major disincentive to continue driving. As attractive as the drive could be, I did not want to drive directly into the sun as I drove west and south.
Now I was pumping gas into my car. The price of gas three dollar plus something per gallon at the time my backpack in the back seat, thoughts of replenishing my water flask for the road. All small thoughts scurried to the background as a new item caught my interest. At the motel across the street, a single figure stepped out of what could be the front desk/office. It was an older man, perhaps in his mid-sixties. His tallish reach, slim waist and receding hair most of which was white gave him a fatherly look I found appealing. Dark slacks. A white, long-sleeve shirt that, as a decidedly tell-tale sign that the man was of Indian origin, was not tucked in.
My immediate plans suddenly fell into place. I would stay at the motel for the night. After getting a sandwich from the sandwich shop, a candy bar and some soda, I made my way to the motel. The man at the desk who I had spied from across the street appeared just as startled to see me as I was curious about him. He smiled. We introduced ourselves. He was Mr. Patel, and upon hearing me utter my name, “Mukund”, he smiled and we shook hands. A mere handshake it was. And yet, as in a saluted gesture from the secret unspoken language that only males from a certain global tribe share, a wiser handshake that lingered a trifle longer than need be.
He was from Gujarat, Junagadh district to be precise and had been living in America for some 9 nine years. He and his wife were taking care of his brother\s motel. Mr. Patel\s brother, who lived in Reno, mostly let Mr. Patel run this fairly remote enterprise pretty independently. Mr. Patel did not speak very good English and, after ascertaining my own Gujarati background, he and I transitioned into an easy Gujarati vernacular rapport. For the sake of narrative continuity, I will share my experience in English.
My room was tidy. There were two queen sized beds, a bath and a TV adjacent to a small desk. I reached for my MP3 player and, now in an unwinding mode, selected the Ghazal menu of tunes. A gentle Mehndi Hassan tune lit up my ears and put me at ease. I stripped and stepped into the shower. After the pleasant but fast drive, the warm water felt good. Turning the water off, I reached for a towel. Toweling my hair and nude otherwise, I stepped out of the shower.
A knock at the door brought me back into the moment. Wrapping the towel around my waist, I reached for the dead-bolt and opened the door. To my pleasant surprise, it was Mr. Patel. He was holding a small ice-bucket. The ice machine was all the way back near the motel office, he explained. Therefore, he made it a practice to deliver ice to each guest personally. I thanked him. We both stood there. He smiled, somewhat uncomfortably. As if on a whim, I invited him into the room.
Stepping inside, he appeared a little nervous. The act of standing a few feet from another man also with roots from India and who was dressed only in a wet towel and wet hair appeared to rattle his married, Indian, old-world sensibilities. And yet he did not seem to want to leave. To put him at ease, I smiled at him and asked if he would like to visit for a few minutes. Slowly, as if deciding to cross an imaginary bridge he had only vaguely formulated in his mind, Mr. Patel accepted my invitation and sat down on the chair by the TV.
I would be a fool to not admit that by now I was sensing vague stirrings somewhere in my nether region. Underneath the moist towel, a slight bulge that my phallus that had germinated in the shower had been expanding ever so gently. Taking the ice bucket, I sat it on the table next to where Mr. Patel was sitting. I reached for a couple of plastic cups on the table and poured some ice cubes into each cup so I could pour soda with ice for my visitor. As I walked to the bathroom sink to get water for me, Mr. Patel mumbled something about my body. Something about looking fit. Or at least that’s what it sounded like.
I returned from the bathroom, holding my water and, by now, in a t-shirt and quickly-combed through hair that was still wet. I had kept the towel around my waist. Because of how the chair was facing when he entered the room, Mr. Patel was still seated in the chair, facing the door and with his back to me. Mustering some daring, I walked up behind him. He was a total stranger only an hour ago. And yet, here, now, I felt at ease enough to reach from behind him and place my hands on his shoulders.
Still standing behind him and still wrapped in my suddenly-skimpy feeling white towel, I gently squeezed Mr. Patel’s shoulders to gauge his reaction. He tensed and yet did not resist. He said that my hands felt good. I responded with only a low, “Mmm” and continued. Now I ran my fingers through his hair. The white silky hair was smooth. A day long accumulation of gentle sweat gave his forehead a slight glow by lamplight. It raised my sexual temperature even more.
The MP3 player now played Jagjit Singh. A melancholy tune lamenting lost opportunities and a life filled with regret. From behind the chair, in an act that was both bold and forward, I pulled off my towel. I grabbed the wet towel and with one hand, reached out with my hand where Mr. Patel could see the towel in my outstretched hand – and I dropped the towel to the floor in front of him. We both got quiet. I lowered my head and with my fingers still caressing his scalp and tilting his head back slightly, I gently kissed the top of his bare forehead.
After a few minutes of sustained animation, Mr. Patel turned his head slightly to look upward, towards my face. I reached out and in a moment filled with trepidation and nervous eroticized energy, I kissed him on the lips. A gentle peck, to be sure. He did not move. Instead, he sighed. In satisfaction? In anticipation? Coming to the fore from behind the chair, now I was on my knees on the floor in front of him with him still in the chair. My hands were on his knees. Our lips touched again. This time with more pressure – even slightly forcefully. Gentle waves of sexual calling gently lapped between us and the gentle kiss turned into an intense open mouth feeding frenzy. Lips. Tongue. More lips. More tongue.
Mr. Patel put his arms around me. Our mouths were still in a wet, messy collusion of male hormonal entanglement the kind that only gentlemen of a certain age can desire and express fully. I guided him up from the chair, our lips and tongues still licking the other’s mouth. We stood up. Mr. Patel was still fully dressed. I suddenly became aware that in all my glory – my car parked outside, my IT job, my once having spotted the Agha Khan at Orly Airport, my collection of 4 bonsai, my trip to Alaska the year before, my almost 400 Hindi, ghazal and jazz CDs – all those boiled down to one simple fact. That I was naked right there and then, in that room, that I was naked, very turned on and kissing a striking looking man who was kissing me back. My manhood, now engorged with lust and already at half-staff, had escaped the confines of their foreskin cocoon somewhere in the night.
Still locked in a manly embrace of lipmouthtongue passion, we shuffled towards the bed and laid each other down. Coming up for breath, there was a pause – and, suddenly, we burst out in small laughter. The tension wall had crumbled. I reached out and caressed his shirt, gently squeezing his nipples. His involuntary sighs were all the encouragement I needed. Gently, I reached down and squeezed his crotch. Through the fabric, I sensed Mr. Patel’s semi-erect timidity straining against the zipper.
Grappling with the zipper lining, I unzipped his trousers. Reaching inside, I felt…fabric. The gauzy thick-cotton material of his loose under gear which, I surmised also doubled as pajamas. Finally, my fingers fumbled an opening within the confines. Exploring there, my fingers brushed against his semi-rigid manhood. Mr. Patel laid back and, finally, relaxed.
Fisting my fingers around his not insubstantial girth, I pulled it out of his zipper. It appeared natural, shy and moist. The thick foreskin was fully retracted. I undid Mr. Patel’s belt buckle and pulled down his trousers. A small forest of black, white and gray pubic hair surrounded his lazily rigid dick. Now his crotch was inches from my face. I took in the aroma. There was day old man-scent, a delicate sweat from the toil of small maintenance and perhaps a mere hint of dried urine.
The scents assaulted my aroused receptors and intoxicated me with their masculinity and power. I was helplessly aroused. I lowered my head to Mr. Patel’s beautiful Hindu lingam. As I did that, I sensed Mr. Patel’s hand on my crotch. Mr. Patel deliberated and gently and with a fatherly touch, rubbed my pubes. With the other hand he cupped my balls, feeling them up and gently tugging at them.
Just as the tip of my tongue flickered at the first dew drop of saltiness on Mr. Patel’s fully engorged manhood, I felt Mr. Patel’s warm mouth engulfing a couple of inches of my erection. The taste of his crotch was intensely alluring. I licked the moisture in the warm area between his upper thighs. Allowing his foreskin to return to full sheath, I orally explored the inside his foreskin. There was joy as I traced his glans with my tongue. The deeper my mouth took him in, the further I sensed my own raging arousal disappearing into his moist oral cavity.
Mr. Patel and I continued servicing each other tenderly. I licked his scrotum – largish bulbous orbs magnificent in the glow of perspiration – and I sensed his finger rubbing up against my sphincter. By now we both were breathing quick seconds comprising of equal parts urgency, physiology and unbridled lust. Our willing sixty-nine posture continued as I raised myself up to suck down on his manhood while he continued to lap my cock with my knees straddling his ears. With each inch by lustful inch, I fed him my cock. Mr. Patel mouth lasciviously took me in. Nothing was real anymore – except our mouths and the raging phalluses.
As Mr. Patel continued his ministrations in my nether regions, somewhere deep in my groins, imperceptible at first, I sensed a damn building up, a mere stream that threatened to become a deluge as we passionately continued our lusty exchange. Still consumed by the oral feast my lips were experiencing in Mr. Patel’s crotch, I could no longer hold back. Even with a cock-ful of Mr. Patel’s phallus in my mouth, I managed to let out a slight groan as a thick torrent of white hot man-juice shot out of my loins. Just in the nick of time, Mr. Patel pulled away his mouth and grabbed the gob of my discharge into the palm of his hand.
Seeing my masculine discharge energized Mr. Patel even more. With a few minutes, I sensed that the dam in his inner sanctum was about to overflow. A few more quick oral pumps and I pulled my mouth away just as Mr. Patel unleashed a load of creamy jizz that landed on my cheeks, my fist and in his pubic forest. We both slowed, finally, and I crashed/landed down besides his sprawling body.
Silence. Neither one of us spoke for a few minutes. As I wiped my face, lips and hand I handed Mr. Patel a clean towel. He cleaned himself, fumbled with his clothes and dressed silently. Walking to the door, he turned around briefly, awkwardly, to only mouth “ok,” – and disappeared into the night. I laid on the bed listening to the night.