I first saw him in the corner of a dark, crowded gay bar in DC’s Dupont Circle. He wore a heavy black leather jacket that matched his dark, sharp features. 

He was incredibly handsome—the kind of guy I tagged as “out of my league” the moment I laid eyes on him.

I kept spotting him as I wandered the bar, nursing a drink and wondering why everyone else seemed to be having such a legendary time. I’ve never been a “bar person”; they usually just make me feel out of place.

I’m not sure what changed the third time our paths crossed, but we both stopped. Before I could even say hello, he leaned in and started kissing me. His mouth was wet, soft, and warm, tasting of rum, coke, and cigarettes.

He pulled back just enough to ask if I’d ever been cruising at P Street Beach. When I told him I hadn’t, he offered to take me there “to play around.”

We walked out, the air clearing our heads as the music faded behind us. He told me his name was Jason. He had an understated, masculine gravity that was deeply attractive, paired with a hint of lost vulnerability that made him feel irresistible.

He pointed toward the P Street Bridge. We were close. It had been a beautiful spring day, but the night had turned sharp; we could see our breath in the crisp, cold air. 

At the bridge, he took my hand and led me down a path I’d never noticed. The trail dropped off steeply, and we descended carefully into a strip of woods running alongside the creek. The water was high, swollen with the season’s melting snow.

I realized quickly that we weren’t alone. Shadows moved along the path with us, and the nearby grassy field was illuminated by a bright full moon.

We came upon a circle of men surrounding two guys. When I realized what was happening, I looked at Jason. He smiled back, looking like a proud host taking credit for introducing me to a secret world.

In the center, a top was working furiously on the guy bent over in front of him. He looked close to the finish, his eyes fixed on nothing, lost in a private trance. The men in the circle all had their cocks out, rhythmically jerking themselves off. 

My eyes drifted over the exposed skin—all shades, hairy and smooth, long and short—everyone hard and moving at their own pace.

When my gaze returned to Jason, I saw he had joined them. He stared straight into my eyes, the same way he had when he first saw my fascination with the scene. 

Now, he was showing me something more personal. We traded glances, looking from his face down to his long, veiny cock, silently asking what came next.

I was hesitant. I was so captivated by the collective energy around us that I didn’t want to bury my face in his crotch and miss the view—even though I was dying to taste him.

Jason reached out and grabbed my crotch, his eyes never leaving mine. I unbuckled my belt, and he took it from there. He hooked his thumb into the elastic of my boxers and pulled them down roughly. 

He took me into his mouth, his saliva warm against the cold air. He moved with a hungry, precise method, and the sensation hit me instantly. Before I could catch my breath, I was spent. He swallowed every drop like it was a milkshake.

When he stood back up, he was wearing that same knowing smile. He clearly loved being a guide.

His eyes began scanning for the next move. The pair in the center had finished; the top was catching his breath while the bottom stroked himself, his pants still bunched around his ankles. Jason stepped toward him, placing his hands on the man’s waist to signal his presence. The man looked back, but Jason’s focus was already lower.

As Jason slid inside, the bottom threw his head back toward the full moon. I could see the initial sting of the entry, but he adjusted quickly. His mouth hung open, sending plumes of white breath into the night sky.

I stood there among the onlookers, pants still unzipped, admiring the view. Jason looked incredible, gliding in and out. I felt a flash of jealousy—I wanted him back—but I was content just to watch him work.

One of the guys in the circle took a swig from a bottle of liquor. He looked at Jason as if they were old friends. 

He stepped forward and casually offered the bottle. Jason took a heavy swig in a nonchalant, almost arrogant way, before handing it back and picking up his pace. The change in rhythm hit the bottom hard; he began to moan, a soft, stuttering sound that punctuated every thrust.

When Jason finally came, they both stood there for a moment, connected. Around the circle, a few other guys finished too. When Jason finally pulled out, his cock glistened in the cold air. He looked like a sex god standing there with his leather jacket flared open.

As the park began to empty and the temperature dropped, we started to button up. We resumed our walk, passing other lone figures in the shadows. Jason told me he’d been waiting for this all winter; apparently, in the summer, the guys stay out until dawn.

We swapped the usual details—roles, types, preferences—and exchanged numbers. He told me people had been coming to this spot for decades. He mentioned the police used to crack down on it years ago, long before his time, but things had changed.