Tracey Parker is a gay cruising fanatic who travels around the world and shares his escapades with Squirt.org members. This time, Tracey takes us to London where the boys love to play in “the Heath” and get into some sleazy trouble. Check it out.
The first time I saw Lucien, he was cruising me as I was walking across Hampstead Heath beneath a rare blue sky.
I had been having dreams for several weeks. I was spending the summer in England and I was really spending a lot of time at Hampstead Heath, a popular cruising spot in North London. I had never experienced anything like it.
Lucien was standing beneath the oak. He was young, early twenties, with dark hair and green eyes. His soft facial features made me forget, temporarily, whatever sensible thought I had been entertaining. He wore a dark coat and worn boots, and there was something unpretentious about him, something solid and quietly confident. I stared back at him and waited. I wanted to know him. Something gave me the strange sensation that I already knew exactly how it felt to hold his hand.
He walked toward me and said, “You’re American.”
“Do I know you?”
“Just a lucky guess.” He laughed. “Lucien.”
“Tracey.”
We shook hands, and the instant our fingers touched, something passed between us. It was not a vision, not exactly, but more like a memory without a picture: warm sunlight through leaves, a hand clasped tightly in mine, the sound of someone laughing beside me.
Lucien’s smile disappeared. “You felt that.”
“Yes.”
We stood looking at each other.
“That’s strange,” he said.
“Very.”
Both of our cocks were pointing out of our jeans. He unbuckled his pants first. Then I went next, and both of our pants fell down to the dry summer grass. I got on my knees and began sucking him off. He had a beautiful cock. The curve of it and the way the head bulged out at the end had a line of beauty that I recognized. I put my hand on it and realized it was longer than it looked. The middle of it had a meatiness to it that mesmerized me. I went back and forth between studying it with my eyes and with my mouth, milking his precum and savoring the taste.
I’ve never been too much into oral. It always seemed more like a means to an end. But this time I felt like one of those pros who has his own technique and everything. I looked up at Lucien and his eyes were rolled back into his head.
“Keep going,” he gasped beneath the deep breaths he was letting out.
I held it in front of me and admired how it stuck out. Looking at it gave me a heavy feeling in my chest. It felt a little like guilt, but with a strong note of hot pleasure alongside it.
He took a seat on the ground next to me and leaned back against a tree trunk. We interlaced our legs so that our torsos were close to one another. We both put our hands on each other’s bodies, feeling every inch, every hair, every line, every roll of skin. We’d jerk each other off for moments before returning to our exploration.
“Fuck me,” I whispered.
I lifted my hips, put my hole on top of his curved spear, and slowly lowered myself down. I could feel him inching his way inside me. I let out a sound from deep inside my body. I began moaning as quietly as I could; I was making noises I wasn’t used to making, but they wouldn’t stop. I stared into his eyes with confusion. I looked at his body and realized I had missed this—it was as if I hadn’t had sex for a hundred years.
He put his hands on my legs and squeezed my quads. It tickled a little and made me laugh. Then he began rubbing my chest with his big, thick hands. They were calloused, and they scratched my sensitive skin a bit as he glided them across my entire body, rubbing my nipples, massaging my chest, and holding his hands sensually on top of my stomach.
Then he began jerking me off. I was still hard even with him inside of me. I thrust my hips up and down, getting him to the point where he was about to come.
Suddenly he began to scream, and I knew he was filling me with his cum. I shot my load all over his torso. I kept coming even past the point where I normally stopped. More cum dribbled out of my cock and covered his hand.
We stayed in this position even after he pulled out, sitting inside the cavity of each other’s spread legs. We began talking about London, the weather, and whatever else came to mind. He told me he worked with his hands and had grown up in London. I told him about my job and my recent breakup. Eventually he glanced toward the oak—the fuck tree, as it was called. “I’ve dreamed about that tree.”
“So have I.”
He looked at me carefully. “In my dream, I’m waiting for someone.”
“Me too.”
There was a long silence before he asked, “What does he look like?”
“Dark hair. Green eyes.”
His expression changed. “That’s me.”
I laughed nervously. “Apparently.” But neither of us was laughing a moment later.
I told him about the name. “Edmund.”
Lucien went very still. “Where did you hear that?”
“In my dreams.”
He stared at me. “I’ve heard it too.” A cold wind moved through the branches.
“Who is Edmund?” I asked.
Lucien looked toward the trees. “I don’t know.” Then he frowned. “Actually, that’s not true.” He rubbed his forehead as though trying to retrieve something buried deep inside his memory. “I remember being someone else.”
“So do I.”
“A long time ago.”
“How long?”
He looked at me. “More than a hundred years.”
A breeze blew through the heath and it began to get cold. We both reached into our backpacks for hoodies and put them on, but left them unzipped so our bodies were still on display for each other.
Beneath the oak, the memories came slowly at first. Lucien remembered a man named Edmund Vale. He remembered Hampstead in 1887. He remembered working around the Heath, repairing fences, doing carpentry, and doing laboring work. He remembered that his father had been a stableman and his mother a laundress.
I remembered the rest. “My family had a name,” I said, “but no money.”
Lucien nodded. “You were educated.”
“Yes.”
“You were supposed to marry.”
My stomach tightened. “Eleanor.”
He looked at me sharply. “The woman in the blue dress.”
“She was crying.”
“Because I told her the truth.”
“What truth?”
I looked down at our hands. “That I loved someone else.”
Lucien was silent for a moment before asking, “You told me you were going to marry her.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
The answer came back with painful clarity. “Money. Security. Her family’s connections. My future.”
“And me?”
I looked at him. “You were the future I couldn’t admit I wanted.”
His eyes filled with tears, though his voice remained steady. “We met here?” he asked me.
“Many times.”
“Under this tree.”
“Yes.”
“I loved you.”
“I loved you too.” The words felt less like revelations than confessions finally permitted to escape.
Lucien looked toward the distant city. “I remember the last time.”
“So do I.”
“You told me you were marrying her. You said you had no choice.”
“I believed that.”
He turned toward me. “And then you left.” He paused.
I wasn’t going to defend Edmund. “I was afraid.”
Lucien’s expression softened. “I know.”
For a while we sat without speaking. Then he smiled faintly. “It’s strange.”
“What is?”
“After all that, I find you again and you’re still staring at me.”
I laughed. “I seem to have made that mistake twice.”
“Maybe it isn’t a mistake.”
He reached for my hand. This time there was no vision, no Victorian street, no gas lamps, no dying promise beneath an ancient tree. There was simply Lucien, and me, present and together. Above us, the ancient oak shifted in the wind. For one fleeting moment, I thought I saw a tall figure among the trees, crowned with antlers and watching us from the mist. I blinked, and it was gone.
Lucien squeezed my hand. “Do you think the Heath remembers?”
I looked at him. “I think we do.”
