The dripping biker looked around the dismal almost deserted roadside cafe as he took off his helmet. A bored middle-aged waitress and a couple of old guys quietly playing pool were the only customers ... but ...

... “... at this moment the scenario suddenly clicked into a different gear. Out of the Gents toilet emerged the wildest fantasy of many gay men: a solidly built ruddy-faced, tangle-headed young son of the soil. His grin made him totally unthreatening as he mopped at his brawny neck with a towel. To make it sound even more like a masturbatory mind-fest, this chunky young late teenager was wearing rubber hip boots turned down from the knee. I’d fantasized for years over images of American fire-fighters stomping around with their waders turned down, comfortably at home in such gear. And here was this kid, exuding confidence and good will … and he was carrying a heavy black old-fashioned oilskin coat; the stuff that my dreams are made of.

What happened next I could not have invented in even my wildest of dreams. He suddenly saw me, stopped dead in his tracks with the towel arrested mid-rub and exclaimed, “Wow! Where’d you come from? Outer space?” And before I could make any response, he’d thrown the coat down onto a bar stool and was heading straight towards me.

“Where’d you get that suit?” he demanded. “Fantastic! Here, friend, you’re dripping all over Madelaine’s floor and she’ll beat you with a broom.”
With that the kid began to towel down the shoulders of my 'RadicalSpeed' suit, quickly working down to waist and then moving behind me still rubbing the slick PVC vigorously with his towel. My eyes met those of ‘Madelaine’, who looked up from her nails and without a change of her bored expression said dryly, “Only if getting beat with a broom is your ‘thing’.”

The two old guys at the pool table sniggered at this less than subtle innuendo, but my mind was distracted by the kid’s vigorous rubbing around my ass and thighs and in between my legs from behind.

“This suit is magic” enthused the kid, but his strong hands suggested a totally uninhibited freedom from any sexual implications. He knelt behind me to sop up more moisture from where the suit covered my boot-tops. As his hands and the towel explored the bulk of the boot clasps under the shiny elasticated fabric he exclaimed again. “Jeepers, these boots are something else!” - and suddenly he was kneeling in front of me and rubbing down the front of my thighs before turning his attention to the side-buckling of the boots, feeling at them through the PVC covering.

With my helmet, I attempted to hide the uncontrollable bulge growing inside my lightweight jeans under the tight-stretched suit, but the boy was still drooling over the bike boots. “Wow! These are just ... something else. I never seen nothing like these!”
Totally preoccupied with his self-appointed task, he got to his feet (turned down waders flapping) and took the now sopping wet towel over to the bar and moved behind it. Ringing out the towel in the bar sink he looked across at me enquiringly. “You want something?” he asked ingenuously ... "To drink, I mean.” ...

Later in the story the oilskin coat is put to good use in two episodes.
The first begins when the biker offers to give the kid a ride to his home in the still pouring rain - and continues after they arrive at the farm.

Check out 'Ride to Greenville' TWO MORE 'OILSKIN' EPISODES

 

Or return to PVC & OILSKIN INDEX
or STORYLINES for info on other fiction-based-on-fact