Chad Bankert could scarcely believe the stroke of luck that brought him into the rest room at the exact moment Smokey Moyer stepped to a urinal and unzipped. It was almost as if Smokey had been waiting for someone to enter Pop’s smelly, paper-littered toilet.
He’d often seen Smokey around town, but he’d had no reason to suspect the dark-haired hunk of being anything less than. the macho stud that he was. Chad guessed the was about nineteen or twenty.
“Howdy,” Smokey said in, a warm, friendly baritone. He flipped his cock out of his jeans.
“Hi!” Chad stood at the only other urinal looking straight ahead at the graffiti-scarred wall. His trembling fingers pulled his shriveled prick through the tight opening of his briefs, out through the fly of his painter’s pants. He bore down...