What I mean to say is I got laid over in Seattle several years ago, and his letter woke up the memory in the depths of my storm-tossed brain, and it swam up to the surface and burst forth as fresh and hot as the day it was born --- the memory, that is.

Lest I confuse you too much here, when I said "laid over in Seattle," I didn't actually men I got LAID over in good ol' Seattle. I meant I got laid OVER in Seattle.

Well, that's confusing, too, ain't it? Let's try again.

What I MEAN is I DID get LAID over there in Seattle, but it was while I was LAID OVER between planes on a flight from the Far East to New York. Does that make any sense?

Whoa! I'd better get on this horse again --- well, not really a horse, but it WAS a cowboy. I mean, HE was a cowboy! Does that make it clear? Hell, no, you say, and I have to agree. OK, I will stop talking shit and tell it like it was.

I had been working on a raggedy-ass little colonial newspaper in Hong Kong back in the days when that magnificent city --- considered one of the six most beautiful ports in the world (the others being Rio, Naples, Sydney, Cape Town, and San Francisco) --- was a B.C.C., or British Crown Colony. I used to get my mail addressed to me at the Ritz Private Hotel in Hong Kong, B.C.C. Sounds very classy doesn't it? Hee hee! It wasn't!

The Ritz was a joint owned by a Chinese friend of mine who let me stay there for free in exchange for an occasional plug in the newspaper and for more frequently letting him plug his OTHER joint into my wazoo. As Confucius says, "One hand washes the other." Or was it Godfather Don Corleone who said that? Anyway, it was an offer I couldn't refuse.

I hate to tell you, but the Ritz and Hong Kong have fuck-all to do with this story. This is supposed to be about getting laid over in Seattle, NOT about getting laid over there in Hong Kong by a big-dick Hakka at the Ritz Private Hotel, right? Have I made that one thing perfectly clear?

You see, I was tired of living in Hong Kong where I had suits custom-tailored for $36 apiece by a tailor from Bombay and shoes handcrafted by a cobbler from Madrid at $13 a pair and moo goo gai pan dished up by a Russian cook at the Chinese diner on the corner. Tired of all that? I must have been crazy!

I was. I still am, or can't you tell?

So I get this job offer at a TV station on top of the Empire State Building in the middle of New York City, and I take it! Maybe I wasn't so crazy after all?

I boarded a Pan Am Super-Clipper DC-7 at Kai-Tak airport and flew away from the beautiful B.C.C. of Hong Kong for stopovers in Tokyo and Anchorage and a four-hour LAYOVER in Seattle where I would change to United Airlines for a non-stop flight on the last leg to New York.

That trip, in the days before commercial jetliners cut distances in half, took a total of 44 hours from Hong Kong to New York. Whew! It was a grind, but believe me, the four hours in Seattle, subtracted from the 44, made the grueling trip count as a big plus for me!

There was this guy, see, who got on the Clipper at Tokyo and sat in the seat next to me. He was a lot older than I, and I didn't give him much thought until we started chatting on this side of the International Dateline when the sun came up for what seemed like the third or fourth time and we had finished the second or third breakfast served since leaving Tokyo --- Pan Am's feeding schedule followed the waxing and waning of the sun, which was quite arbitrary when flying near the North Pole.

Once he turned his big brown eyes to me while wiping the egg off his face, I realized that this silver-haired old motherfucker was a FOX! Wow! My morning hard practically lifted the breakfast tray off my lap.

He noticed.

"Looks like you need some help," he grinned, kind of macho man-to-man.

"Yeah," says I, adding as a joke, "are you available?"

He elbowed me in the ribs with a loud guffaw. "You never know!" says he.

That's how it all began. How it ended is the point of this tale.

Somewhere between Anchorage and Seattle, he found out that I had been out of the country (U.S.A) for a few years and craved a big, juicy American steak, the likes of which I hadn't tasted even in Argentina, where the steaks, which overlapped the sides of the platters serving as dinner plates, were fresh and therefore on the tough side, not aged to the ultimate tenderness like a good ol' K.C. strip!

"Well, sir," says he in a syrupy Texan drawl --- for that's what he was, a Texan whose fat wallet smelled of oil, but who looked like a cowboy in his 10-gallon Stetson hat and calf-high, diamondback rattlesnake (I swear to God that had to be the world's biggest rattler!) boots ---"Ah reckon ah kin buy yew a humongous 'Merican steak!"

Salivating at the thought, I managed to murmur, "Thank you, pal," through my drool.

Safe in Seattle after a smooth landing at Sea-Tac, we hailed a cab, and he checked into the Olympia (?) Hotel, an old-guard establishment well-suited to wealthy clientele, which, it would seem, my cowboy surely was.

We didn't go to the room, but to the restaurant, first, and there I smacked my lips over what had to be the tastiest, biggest, motherfuckin' steak in the history of the U. S. of A. Boy, was that GOOD!

The cowboy put away a steak half the size of mine, but washed it down with THREE pitchersful of draught beer! He became more garrulous as he drank, telling me how he began life as a small-time rancher herding steer, but how wildcatting for oil on his property made him a fortune when he struck. Married twice years before, he never seemed to settle down after his last divorce. His two daughters left him pretty much alone.

"It took a long time for me to figure myself out, son," he concluded.

I was way ahead of him there. By the time I chowed down the last morsel of steak, his hand was under the table groping my crotch. I had him figured out, all right!

"Let's go for it, cowboy," I said. "I've only got two hours left."

He looked disappointed. "Shit! I was hopin' you could spend the night. I don't leave for Texas till tomorrow!"

I shook my head. "Gotta get to New York tonight. My new job starts in the morning."

"Well, better somethin' than nothin'," he grinned, and we went up to his suite.

Thirty seconds into the bedroom, our clothes were already scattered all over the bedroom floor. We were hot. Nothing could stop us now, but he was no youngster. It took a few minutes to work him up with my tongue. As his cock grew from a stumpy little thing hiding under his ample gut, it dawned on me that the snake used to make his boots must have been a poor cousin to the BIG son-of-a-bitch I had found lurking in his crotch!

He loved the way I blew him, with lots of spit and a taut ring of two fingers tightly pressed against my lips to form a rising and falling, pussy-wet sucking machine. I tasted creamy blobs of pre-cum as he arched with increasing violence against my face.

Meanwhile, I was jacking off, inspired by his masculine smell and his continuous muttering of "Suck it, son, oh, suck it, son!" Thirty years his junior, I was of an age to have been truly his son. There was comfort in the thought. It made him less a stranger to me.

"Oh, gawd, stop it, son!" he suddenly cried out and just as suddenly rolled away. "Hang on, buddy," he went on, "cause I'm goin' to shoot my wad real fast if you keep suckin' me that way!" His breathing became less of a pant and more of a sigh as he lay back on his pillow, fondling his dick gently to keep it up.

"Son, I got to tell you I ain't fucked nobody in many a moon." His handsome face flushed bright red. I sensed he was looking for words. "I don't s'pose you'd let me...well...you know....."

As I said earlier, I knew where he was headed before he had finished his dinner beer. "If you want to fuck my butt, cowboy, it's all yours." I rolled over on my back.

He knelt between my legs and lifted them in the air, giving me the sweetest smile. "Little buddy," he said, "we're goin' to ride the range together. It sure will be good to get back in the saddle again!"

I already had a tiny tube of Vaseline in my hand for greasing his dick. I never traveled without one. I can't tell you how many tubes I went through in a lifetime of travel --- very handy for fucking on trains, planes, buses and boats, not to mention on horseback, motorcycles, and canoes. I had tried them all --- not always, but usually, with one man at a time, and I could see this man was ready to ride!

His dick was a bit thicker than I generally took up my ass, yet I couldn't disappoint such a kind and generous man. I helped him get inside me with a few twists of my hips. He took it slowly because he could see I was in pain. He offered to stop. I said no way!

It hurt like hell. I couldn't hide a grimace. My contorted face made him very tender to me. He held the soles of my feet to his chest and moved gently to work his way in. Each push deeper increased my pain until he was all the way in. Then, I was able to relax.

"I've died and gone to heaven," he whispered. "No woman ever felt so tight, so good!"

"I'm right with you, partner," I said. I gripped the mattress on either side and let him fall forward until my knees hit my chest, my feet still braced on his. I countered his thrusts with matching movements of my own. We established a rhythm. That's when it started to get good. I spread my knees and lifted my ankles to his shoulders, placing my left hand in my groin to press on the cum canal. My right hand worked my dick to a hard. I shut him out of my head and concentrated on myself. I could tell he was doing the same.

The best fucking can come from losing yourself in selfish pleasure. It brings on the flow you will share with each other in the oncoming moments of ecstasy and joy.

That's the way it was with us that afternoon. I masturbated till the juices began to rise, thinking only of myself. Essentially, he was doing the same, using my hot, tight asshole as a means of jacking himself off. His movements and mine gave each other fabulous pleasure, despite our concentration on ourselves. The pleasure grew. It suddenly took on a life of its own. We were lost in the turmoil of orgasm, both at the same time.

He lunged deep inside me with a yelp, and I felt his semen shoot like streams of fire up my throbbing ass. My sphincter quivered and jerked with the impact of my cum exploding from my body. The sensation was intensified by my muscles gripping his dick like a vise.

When it ended, his dick slipped out and he fell over me panting like a dog. I wrapped my arms and legs around him and held him to me like a child.

That evening as I flew on my way to New York, I reflected upon our last moments together. I remembered the disappointed look on his face when I had turned down his offer to go with him to Texas and become his lover. It would have been nice, but it didn't seem right at the time.

As fate would have it, I did move to Texas a few years later and met him again, quite by chance, at an oil men's party at the Petroleum Club in Dallas, but that's another story.

This one was about my getting laid over in Seattle...er...uh...oh, hell, you know what I mean! Right?