Chicago Summers

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A lot of people will talk about Chicago winters, and yes, they’re just as bad as people tell you. But as terrible as they are, Chicago’s Summer is a straight-up dystopian nightmare. It’s hot, muggy, humid, sweaty, loud, smelly and leaves you feeling like you just walked through a pile of someone’s used laundry.

But the Summer of ’95 was hot like nobody had ever seen before. The heat was unreal. Triple digits were the norm, and the heat index was so bad the city eventually had to set up emergency cooling shelters. April was bad, May was worse, but it didn’t start getting supernaturally hot until that June.

I remember coming home on the train one day and seeing the outside temperature registering a cosy 116 degrees. It was no better in the train. A tiny ceiling fan sputtered away as best it could, but the train was crowded and hot and thick with humidity and sweat.

I had managed to get a seat that day, which wasn’t always possible. Lucky too, since the train was extra crowded. The guy standing in the aisle next to me had to lean further and further over me just to make room. I felt for the guy, he was pretty big and was having a hard time not crowding people out. I did what I could to ignore the fact that his crotch was just a few inches from my face.

The air was still and humid, and I swear I could faintly smell the musk coming off his balls. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his package, clearly outlined by the thin gym shorts he was wearing. The damp fabric clung to his skin so tightly I could tell he wasn’t circumcised. He had a pretty formidable cock, no lie, and it was hard to pretend it wasn’t two or three inches from my face. I did my best though, and buried myself in a book.

Still, it was a bit of a surprise when the train jostled and the unmistakable weight of his cock thumped me in the side of my face.

Feeling that soft thump, I naturally turned to see what had just hit me. I found myself face to cock with a trouser snake that literally filled my entire cone of vision. I blinked in surprise, and looked up at the guy to say something when another jostle sent his crotch straight into my face. There was a brief, warm moment when his cock pushed firmly against my cheek. I remember how warm it was, and not very flaccid.

“Oh shit!” He said from somewhere above me. He squirmed a little and managed to free my face from his twig and berries. “I am so so sorry! It’s really crowded in here!”

I looked up into his clean-shaven face, clearly distressed and embarrassed at what had happened. He was right too, the train was packed. It wasn’t that he was trying to teabag me, there just wasn’t enough room for all of him in the aisle anymore.

“It’s cool.” I said, still smelling his sweaty cock. “I totally understand. Fuck Summer, right?”

He smiled, and made a wry look at the crowd over his shoulder. I leaned over as best I could to give him and his nice package some room as we went home. I did my best, but the whole way home all I could think about was that cock, just inches from my nose.

Normally I don’t notice people on the train much, but that was such an unusual encounter that I started noticing Cock and Balls Guy on my train at least a few times a week. There was obviously a gym somewhere in this guy’s life, because he was often in workout gear, but sometimes he had semi-professional dress. He obviously didn’t work in a corporate office, but he was usually at least semi-professional. Every now and then, we’d catch one another’s eye and nod.

That Summer continued to be brutal, and the municipal train budget wasn’t anywhere near adequate to keep the trains air conditioned. It was a nasty way to come into work, and it was just as hot and nasty on the way home. I’d like to say I got used to it, but that would be a lie. I suffered, like everyone was suffering. There’s a reason people still talk about the Summer of ’95.

One day in July, I found myself on the train again sitting in an aisle seat and Cock and Balls Guy standing next to me. He was in his gym shorts again, and the train was just as crowded as it always was. Our eyes met and we shared a smile and he leaned in to talk to me.

“Hey,” he said, over the racket of the train, “I’m sorry to crowd you out, if you need me to move, just let me know, okay?”

“No problem,” I said. “You’re not crowding me at all.”

He smiled and gave me a thumbs-up and went back to staring out the window and listening to his headphones.

I, too, went back to my book trance. I wouldn’t have given him a second thought except that another train jostle caused his dick to thump into my face again. It wasn’t a passing bump either, the train was turning and he was being pressed into me. I felt it pressing into my cheek, soft and hard at the same time. I smelled his sweat and musk and heat. I don’t know what got into me, but instead of pulling away, I closed my eyes and pressed back into him.

My cock jolted from soft to diamond in a flash. At that moment, all I could smell was him and the whole train just faded away. The heat casino oyna of his cock radiated through his shorts, making me sweat against his crotch. His firm shaft lay against my jaw and I swear I felt it shift and swell just a little.

Then the moment was broken as the train jostled itself again. His cock pulled away, and he was swaying and stumbling with everyone else to stay upright. He managed to keep his balance, but his dick wasn’t quite so close as it was. Every now and then, we’d make eye contact and then look away awkwardly.

After that, it seemed like he was standing near me on the train more and more. Never in a creepy way, I just noticed him on my train a lot after that. We always catch one another’s eye, spend a few moments looking at one another and then look away. Honestly, I didn’t know what to make of it.

Then, one sweltering day, fortune had it so that we found seats next to one another in the back of the train. Like, literally the very last seats in the back, where the fans never reached and the air was always stale and hot. Still, a seat on the train in rush hour is nothing to sneeze at, and he collapsed next to me gratefully.

After a second, he reached his hand over to shake mine. “I’m Brayden, man,” he said, giving me a name to put to his cock. I mean face.

I shook it and said “Keenan. Fuck Summer, right?”

“Goddamn, for real. This is total bullshit.” He wiped a towel over his face and offered me a bottle of water.

I cracked it and we shared the cool water and the relative isolation in the back of the train. I was kind of in my own world until I felt his leg against mine.

He wasn’t looking at me, but his leg pressed enthusiastically into mine. There was something about the intimacy of the gesture that had my cock writhing as it swelled in my pants. I had my nose in a book, but it seemed like I could see his cock bulge out of the corner of my eye. I pressed my leg back against him, deliberately.

At last, he turned to look at me, our sweaty legs pressed together. “This is my stop,” he said, getting up. He was looking at me in a very particular manner.

I totally missed the cue. “My stop is two more down,” I said.

“Okay. Have a good one.” He got up, and he traced his hand just slightly along my arm as he did, then touched the inside of my leg. His hand was warm through my pants, and I was very aware that it was only an inch or two away from my erection.

Then he got up and walked to the exit. He turned to look at me one last time over his shoulder, then the door closed and he was gone.

I was halfway up the stairs to my apartment when it dawned on me that he had wanted me to get off on his stop with him. I had a facepalm moment, and spent the rest of the evening questioning myself and working through a bottle of wine.

I didn’t see him the next day, or the day after that. I figured whatever had happened between us was just a flash in the heat. It was sort of disappointing. He was a nice piece of beef and I would have liked a taste. I could still feel the way his shaft had pressed into my cheekbone.

Then it was Friday. After the long week, I went out for a few beers with some work friends. Well, I say ‘a few,’ but it really turned into QUITE a few, and it was after midnight by the time I dragged myself to the train to go home.

One of the shitty things about humid heat is that it sticks around after sunset, which just seems unnecessarily cruel if you ask me. The city was still baking in triple degree heat and I was cooking enough to have loosened my shirt and taken off my tie. I sulked in that desolate, sweltering train stop for ten minutes, feeling my buzz draining away.

The train that pulled up was empty, which was a relief. The fans had had time to cool the car down a bit and it was almost comfortable. I took a seat by the window and set in for the half-hour ride to my neighborhood.

Two stops later, the doors opened and he walked into the car. Just like that. Big Dick Brayden was back in my life.

We looked at one another from across the car, and I think we smiled at the same time. He stumbled his way to me and I realized he, too, was coming home from a bar of some sort. With a big smile, he swung into the seat across from me and leaned back.

“Keenan, right?” He asked.

“Yeah,” I said, pleased that he remembered. I couldn’t help but look at his crotch, seeing if he was filling out his shorts. “It’s Brayden, right?”

“Yep. Going home?” He leaned his head towards me, and I moved a little closer without meaning to.

“Yeah. Had a few with some friends. You?”

“Same.” He said, looking at me very directly.

We sat there for a bit, just sort of looking at one another and this tension grew between us. He kept eye contact, smiling at me slightly, and I couldn’t look away. He had deep, brown eyes, I remember that.

We passed the time with tipsy small talk. We must have. We sat there the whole train ride. But I don’t remember what we talked about. What I remember is the electric thrill that canlı casino jumped through me when he casually put his hand on my thigh. He was so smooth about it, but suddenly his warm palm was on my leg and I felt blood surge into my cock. I was vaguely disappointed that my dick was packed in my jeans the wrong way, pointing away from his hand.

I think I might have opened my legs a little at his touch. We kept talking, but I shocked myself a little by putting my hand on his. He smiled as our hands made contact and, with my heart pounding, I moved his hand until it was on my iron-hard shaft.

He didn’t disappoint, and squeezed my cock in a way that was delightful and painful all at the same time. I groaned a little and felt blood rush into my already hard shaft. As the train rattled on, he stroked my cock through my pants. We talked and pretended like nothing was happening, but his hand was working magic on my dick. It was ball-clenchingly erotic.

Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was being in public, maybe it was all of that combined with the thrill of someone new touching my penis. But about a stop away from where he was going to get off the train, I felt my dick start to pump and flex. I surprised myself by cumming, more than surprised that his hand had managed to get me off. I remember feeling hot sperm squish between my straining dick and the soaked fabric of my underwear, squelching and warm. It wasn’t a knock-you-on-your-ass orgasm, but it *was* a nut busted, and I shook a bit as my balls gave up their goods.

I don’t remember if I was carrying on the conversation at that point, or just focused on my trembling penis. I remember convulsing a little, grunting as I felt my ballsack empty itself in relief, and the hot, sticky wetness flooding my crotch. It felt like my cock and balls had been soaked in hot lotion. I sat there for a moment, panting and feeling the sweat trickle down my face.

Way too soon, the train stopped and he got up and walked to the doors. He gave my damp jeans a little pat on his way out. As the train pulled slowly away, he waved to me, then grabbed his own crotch and rubbed it with purpose. I watched him get smaller and smaller as the train pulled away.

By the time I got home, my underwear was a sticky, gooey mess. I threw them in the wash, took a much-needed shower, and fell into bed to sleep the rest of the night off. I lay there for a while, thinking about what had happened on the train.

I was wondering if I was okay with it when I noticed that my cock had woken back up. He was hard and wanted to voice his opinion on the encounter. I took myself in my hand, delightfully slipping into the automatic strokes that my cock liked. I could still feel the way his hand had suddenly been pressing on my crotch. I could still feel the heat of his skin through my clothes.

I jerked off furiously. I didn’t even bother with lube. I just spit on my hand and cock like a teenager. I didn’t even use enough, and there was an edge of friction pain as I pounded my dick senseless. My stroking was frothing my pre-cum up like shaving foam and when I came, I arched up and let my cock explode as hard as it wanted to. In my drunken haze, I let that load fly everywhere. I’m certain I hit the ceiling. I know I woke up in a dried and gummy puddle of semen that I was moderately impressed by, and a semi-wet, poorly-used, soon-to-be-crusty cum rag still in my hand.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look for Big Brayden for the next few days. It felt like my dick was perpetually hard. I kept remembering the way it felt to take his hand and place it on my cock, and his enthusiasm in keeping it there. I spent the commute into and out of work in a horned up semi-daze, and I’m not too proud to say there was more than once when I had to retire and stroke one off in the bathroom at work.

Like most encounters you imagine over and over, when it actually happened it wasn’t anything like I pictured it. It was a Tuesday, sweaty and hot and brutal in the sun, and I was sitting on a crowded train going home. I had my headphones on and I was deep down some podcast rabbithole about siege tactics in feudal Japan when the guy I was sitting next to indicated that he needed to get up to exit.

There was the usual scuffling and shifting as six people squirmed around in a space designed for three. Eventually the man got to the door, and I got back in my seat, and found myself sitting next to Big Brayden again.

He greeted me with a grin and a nod, and I must admit, seeing him again made the interminable heat a little more bearable.

We made small talk in the crowded car as it rattled uptown. My heart was pounding being this close to him, and my cock was flexing and plumping as I felt the heat from his body so close to mine. I was watching his jawline move as he talked instead of really listening. So I don’t exactly know how we got there, but he ended up asking me over to his place to play some games and enjoy his new air conditioner. I agreed, thinking only of the way his hand had felt stroking me off through my kaçak casino pants.

His place was a few blocks from the El, and the whole way there my head was spinning with questions. Was this really happening? Was I imagining things? What would happen if I made a move? Would HE make a move? What if he doesn’t make a move? What if what if what if . . .

He didn’t seem too nervous though, which put me at ease somewhat. His place was clean and neat, which also helped me feel safe. Not to mention, the AC was quite a welcome blessing. I felt myself begin to feel normal again.

We sat on his couch and played a few rounds of Smash Brothers. I noticed that, during the course of play, we’d gotten closer and closer. We eventually were sitting with our legs pressed against one another and our elbows practically rubbing. I have to be honest, I was wondering if anything was going to happen and my dick was getting bored.

Finally, the round ended and we stared at the intro screen for a few minutes. There was a clear tension in the silence between us. My heart was pounding and I was pointedly aware of the heat of his body against mine. I knew that this was the time to make a move, but I was nervous and shy about it.

Then, it occurred to me that he’d already dry-rubbed me to orgasm on a public train. Maybe I shouldn’t be worried about putting my hand where it wanted to be: firmly on his dick. With a heartbeat so loud I was sure he could hear it, I slid my hand across his lap and cupped his fat cock in my palm.

His dick was fat and hard against my hand. I had just enough time to wonder if I’d done the right thing when his hand pressed down on mine. He started to grind his hips into my palm, making it clear he liked my hand where it was. I could feel his shaft getting thicker and harder, and I think that might have been the first moment when I started to wonder if his dick was as big as it was seeming.

I was squeezing said dick in appreciation and I looked up to ask him if it was all right. Our eyes met, and suddenly his lips were pressing into mine and I was falling back into the couch with his incredible, amazing, delicious weight pressing me down and his tongue in my mouth.

I know a lot of you are getting worried about consent here. It wasn’t like I specifically asked him to start kissing and hot-crotching me, but once he started I absolutely wanted it to continue. My own cock was a thick, hot weight in my pants, swollen and in need of release, and his weight on me was about the sexist thing I could think of.

We dry humped on the couch for a bit, kissing deeply and wrestling our tongues against one another. He was making these soft grunts as he kissed me, grinding the hot barrel of his cock into mine. I felt like my penis was filled with iron and my balls were damn-near bursting. It was getting sweltery again, with the two of us making out on top of one another.

He straightened up and took his shirt off and threw it somewhere. As I was staring at his nipples, he tugged at my shirt. “C’mon, it’s too hot to be wearing this.” He said.

I felt like he had a point, and I stripped my shirt off and threw it somewhere. He leaned back over me and started kissing down my chest. We weren’t models, we weren’t body-builders, we were just a couple of dudes. He had a belly, so did I. He was a little hairier than I was, and he had this old tattoo on his chest, clearly done with an amateur needle, of a pot leaf. It was such a cliche of teenage rebellion I laughed.

He saw what I was looking at and smiled. “Let me guess,” I said, “You were twenty two and angry and your friend knew someone with a tattoo gun?”

“Twenty-three.” He laughed. “You have any?”

“Four.” I said, taking his hips in my hands so I could pull him down on me. “Two on my back, one on my shoulder and one on my thigh.”

I felt his bare chest press against mine, his skin hot to the touch. The humidity in the air and between us slicked our skin together, making us slippery and wet. “Let me see them.” He said in my ear and the feel of his breath on my neck sent electric shivers all the way down my neck and into my balls.

Taking my cue, I began the process of taking off my shoes and unbuckling my pants to show him the Star Wars tat on my leg. (It’s the Obi-Wan/Vader duel from Episode 4. It’s only half-colored at the moment, because good work is expensive. Pay your tattoo artists!)

Sorry. Got distracted. So there I was, in my underwear (Tidy whities. I was completely unprepared to be taking off my pants for anyone. There, I admit it.) Somewhere in that time, he’d undone his own pants, but hadn’t taken them off. He looked appreciatively at my tat for a bit, and then his hand ‘accidentally’ strayed to my dick, and he was stroking me through my skivvies.

I think I groaned, or grunted. I made some kind of sound, because he looked at me and smiled and said “You like that?”

“Yes, please.” I said, closing my eyes and thrusting my hips into his hand. I was through playing. I had been thinking about this man and his cock for weeks at that point. Ever since that moment he had cock-slapped me in the face. I wanted it. I wanted to suck it, I wanted it in my ass, I wanted to eat his cum and thank him for feeding me with my mouth still full.

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