I Was Cigar Boy! Maybe.

Something occurred to me while I was walking Faithful Companion this morning.

One of the coolest summer jobs I had back in my dewy youth was working at a local county park as a Deputy Park Ranger. I would literally get paid for walking around in the woods all day. Okay, so it wasn't a perfect situation. Deep Woods Off was my best friend.

Part of the job involved dealing with people staying at the various campsites in the park. They were a colorful bunch. A handful of hippies. Some people who were essentially living in the park. Retirees in their RVs. A particularly awful family called the McGettigan's who had a brood of monster children, the kind who took delight in torturing the wild creatures they were able to catch in their fat little hands, vandalism, and breaking tree branches.

And then there were the two guys in the tent.

They were from New York City. At that point in my life, this was a far off mystical place I had only visited a few times, and each time was like a Canto from Danté's Inferno. They were probably fiftyish. Total Marlboro men. Who at that time were probably best described as "clones."

And every three or four weeks or so, while making my rounds, I would find their sad, sagging little pup tent pitched in one of the campsites. While checking over their paperwork, making small talk with them, telling them about what I was planning for the Saturday evening Nature Program I was responsible for (and did a really really bad job with), I would have a raging hard on. The kind that made me feel light-headed because all the blood was going there instead of to my brain.

Once--okay, maybe more than once, maybe a half dozen times--I would stand off in the woods, looking at their little pup tent, and jerk off, shooting a gusher of jizz onto the ferns and mayapples.

It's a fond memory. And just that. I was never invited to spend any time in their little pup tent.

So anyway, this morning, walking my dog, I got to thinking about the pup tent guys. And for the first time ever, I wondered what they thought of me...

Blond Clone: Obviously, he's gay, right?

Black Haired Clone: Oh obviously.

Blond Clone: Did you see how he was tenting out the pants of his park ranger uniform? Oh honey!

Black Haired Clone: I saw. But puh-leeeeze, we do not want to go there.

Blond Clone: Why not? He's kind of humpy.

Black Haired Clone: He's a youngster! He might not even be legal! Trust me: we can look but we can't touch.

Blond Clone: But I started young...

Black Haired Clone: He lives with his parents! What if he freaks out? What if when his mother asks him why he's late he blurts out that he's been hiding the sausage with two queens from New York City who are staying at the local park? I can see the villagers lighting their torches and coming through the woods now. Trust me, we don't need that stress.

Blond Clone: But all that hot, repressed school boy longing... I bet he gives a great blow job! (Wrong! -ed.) All that enthusiasm.

Black Haired Clone: No. I think he'd probably be so scared he'd hardly let you touch him. (Wrong. -ed.)

Blond Clone: I guess you're right. Better to leave well enough alone. He's fun to talk to anyway.

Black Haired Clone: I'll tell you what, when I'm rimming you tonight, getting my tongue in you real deep like I know you love, I'll wear a khaki shirt and you can call me 'Park Ranger Boy,' okay?

Blond Clone: You're the best!



So see? I was Cigar Boy!

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