I remember meeting him on the train going into work.  He was dressed like some kind of goth: a black leather trenchcoat worn over a black t-shirt, black spandex tights, and black leather workboots.  He also had gorgeous, fluffy dark hair.  He sat in the seat across from me, flashed me a quick smile, and began reading a broadsheet newspaper.  He would rustle the paper quite noisily everytime he turned a page.  I don't think he was doing that to annoy me, however.

I mentioned to him, when I was just a few stops away from my workplace, that he didn't seem like a Daily Telegraph reader.

"I'm not really," he replied.  "But their reporting is always good for a laugh. I like the puzzles.  And I just can't resist a nice large broadsheet."  He rustled the paper again for what seemed like the thousandth time.  "I guess I'm a traditionalist that way."

Something told me to say something to this guy, anything in fact, that might lead to us seeing each other again.  "I like broadsheet newspapers too.  I won't stoop to reading tabloids." 

The goth laughed at this, then threw me a pleasant smirk and extended his hand.  "Douglas is the name." 

When his hand retreated, I noticed that he had left behind a scrap of paper in my hand.  "Call me, eh?" he said and winked at me.  I said I would and got off the train, with my member so big that I thought the whole train station could see it, even through jeans.

I wondered throughout the entire workday about this man.  It may just have been an astute sense of gaydar on his part.  I'm gay too, so it seems he was just trying to pick me up.  But there was something else too.  His penchant for leather and spandex, for one thing.  And the way he rustled that newspaper.  People don't normally make THAT much noise while reading the paper, not even broadsheets.

But I was glad that he seemed attracted to me.  I considered myself a looker: 5'9", slim and medium-brown hair nearly as long as Douglas's.  Only my attire was a bit more low-key than his: chamois shirts and slim-fit jeans with Converse sneakers were my style.

I called him that evening, when I got home.  He answered straight away.  "Meet me in the back lot of Fitzgerald Place in half-an-hour," he told me.

"Why there?" I asked him.

"I have some business to take care of there.  Just meet me there and then we'll do something fun," Douglas said.

It was a strange request, but I trusted him.  I was curious more than anything else.  Fitzgerald Place was a large office complex located on the edge of town.  I rode my bike there and saw Douglas standing next to a Porsche 911, the only car in the parking lot.

"Wow, swish car!"  I exclaimed.

"It was my ex-boyfriend's," Douglas told me, confirming my suspicions of his homosexuality.  "He's the rich one.  We broke up under amicable circumstances, so he let me have the car.  He wanted to buy a BMW and was looking to get rid of the Porsche anyway."

"That's a helluva parting gift," I observed.

I noticed that, as it was an unusually warm night, Doug was now wearing just a white undershirt and spandex shorts with sneakers.  The spandex of his shorts was quite thin and I could clearly see that he wasn't wearing any underwear beneath the shorts.  I started getting massively turned on.

"Well, let's take care of this business, shall we?"  Douglas said, and led me toward the building.  He took a left turn down a narrow path and opened a large gate in a fenced-off area.  This was the office building's dumpster area.  Douglas wasted no time in explaining why he'd brought me back here.
"My ex was not only rich, but he was a trash fetishist.  Loved being bagged, loved being in the trash, loved anything to do with trashbags and trash.  Newspapers was a big thing of his.  He loved lots of paper in his trash." 

Douglas winked at me and continued: "I noticed that, whenever we sat together on the train, and I read a big broadsheet newspaper, with all the rustling that entails, he would constantly keep crossing his legs.  Every two minutes, he'd shift his legs, left over the right, then right over left, and so on.  Exactly the sort of thing YOU were doing on the train earlier today."

I laughed a bit nervously.  I had, in fact, been crossing my legs quite a bit during that train journey when Douglas had been rustling the paper.  I also, as Douglas had just predicted, had a trash fetish.

"Michael could never resist a session of good trash play," Douglas said.  "And, I suspect, neither can YOU."  

I was amazed at just how perceptive Douglas was, how he had summed me up perfectly in just one short train journey.

"Now," Douglas said. "Be a good boy, take your clothes off and get on in."  

I looked at the dumpster.  It was full.  Not overflowing, but big, black bags of trash were piled all the way up to the top.  I prepared to jump up in order to climb up from the front of the dumpster, but Douglas held me back.

"No, no," he said.  "Through the side door."  

I took my clothes off and stood there naked.  I could see Douglas's hard-on straining at his spandex shorts.  I slid open the little side door of the dumpster and saw no way of getting in through the wall of trash that pressed against the opening.

"I don't think I can get in there through that," I said.

"Oh yes you can," Douglas insisted.  "I've seen it done before."

I had to spread my legs wide in order to give myself the thrust I needed in order to break through the trash.  While getting a precarious footing on the holds, I spread my legs wide.

"Now THAT'S a nice view," Douglas commented.  He was referring to the fact that I also had my ass checks parted and that my anus was on full display.  I farted several times through exertion, but Douglas kept licking and stroking my poophole while I mashed my way into the trash.  Paper rustled, cans clinked and plastic packaging groaned as I worked my way through the trash.

I was halfway through all the trash when I rested.  I was surrounded by bag after bag of office and cafeteria trash, I could feel loads of disposable plastic trays, styrofoam containers, plastic bottles and wastepaper everywhere.  I finally crawled through the trash and rested on top of it all.

Then Douglas did exactly what he'd instructed me not to do.  He athletically hopped up onto the front of the dumpster, scaled the little trash hill and lovingly layed on top of me, wrapping his arms around me and licking my neck.  The trash beneath us groaned as we made out.

We stayed there for what seemed like forever when Douglas got up, the trash rustling beneath him, and said, "OK, now let's get dressed, take a ride in that car you find so sexy, and have a nightcap at my place."

I couldn't resist.  I slid down the front of the dumpster, sort of butt-surfing on the bags of trash, donned my clothes and followed Douglas to his car.  I was completely and totally his.

06.11.08