I meet my weed dealer in the Dairy Queen parking lot. We park at the side of the building, where there’s no windows outside. No one’s ever there. We do this once a month or so, usually just a quick hand-off. Sometimes, if the DQ is really slow, he’ll get into my car and smoke up with me.
The DQ is really slow. There’s occasionally a car in the drive-thru, but they never look at us.
His name is Mason. He’s younger than me, his early-thirties to my mid-. He’s an army vet. I stalked him on Facebook one time after a deal. He always makes me hot. I think about him a lot when I jack off, especially the first time I do it while smoking the new weed. I get myself nice and high and stroke and smoke, alternating between the two until the only thing that exists is the porn on my iPad.
He takes a pull on the small joint, a treat he keeps with him to share with customers. His eyes close, and it’s easier to check him out.
Mason used to be in the army and he’s chubby. He’s got dirty blonde hair, and the kind of dirty voice that comes only from growing up in the rural Midwest. He’s got oil stains embedded in his fingernails and he smells of cars and sweat.
He hands me the joint and exhales a heavy plume of smoke. He takes a sip from his extra-large soda, he went through the drive-thru himself before parking next to me. He’s drinking like he’s been stranded on a small desert island. Weed can do that to you.
Mason’s chubby and sometimes he’ll wear basketball shorts or cut-offs that bunch at his crotch, hinting at the shape of his cock and balls. He didn’t used to smoke weed himself even though he’s been dealing it for years. Only when his psych recommended he get a medical weed card did he start using himself.
Yeah, medicinal is legal, and recreational’s legal across the river, but it’s still way cheaper to buy from Mason. I should probably care where he gets the weed from, but I don’t.
But, I mean… look at him.
“Fuck, I gotta piss.” Mason shifts his hips on my car seat and pulls at his crotch.
I laugh to cover up how turned on I am. “You did just slam almost an entire forty-eight ounces of soda there.”
“Would it weird you out if I pissed into my empty cup? I promise I won’t spill.”
“Why don’t you just go inside?”
“Oh, nah. Too many old people without masks on.”
We’re not wearing masks, but we’re both vaccinated. It’s not perfect, but Mason and I are old friends at this point even if I’ve only ever hung out when buying weed. I trust him when he says he’s careful. And I believe him when he doesn’t want to go into a DQ full of maskless fucks to piss.
None of that matters because I would do just about anything to watch him piss, and he’s offering me a literal front-row seat.
“Go for it,” I manage to say.
Mason puts the straw to his lips and sucks up the last of the soda from his cup. He tosses the lid and the straw to the floor and then uses his free hand to pull open his fly. He’s wearing plain grey boxer-briefs, old and stretched out. He lifts his shirt up over his belly–oh, fuck–and then pulls his waistband down below his balls. His cock is short and fat, his balls hefty. He tips the head of his cock into his open cup.
It takes him a moment. He chuckles, and I take another hit from the joint, figuring he didn’t want it back while he was trying to piss in my car.
His piss, light and golden, splashes into the cup. Mason mutters “oh god damn.” Then he seems to notice how closely I’ve been watching.
I turn my head quickly, eyeing the horizon of trees and telephone poles, the three cars in the drive-thru line.
“You can watch if you want,” Mason says. I look at his cock–did it just throb?–then up to his eyes. He looks sincere and sweet and something makes me bold:
“I’d like to do more than watch,” I say.
His cock definitely throbs and swells some as he continues pissing. He says “oh god damn” again, then says “Go for it.”
I don’t need to be told twice; piss isn’t an infinite resource and there’s little time to waste. I hand Mason the joint while I unbuckle my seatbelt. I take his cock from him and aim it at my tongue. It splashes down into the cup. It doesn’t taste strongly, but it’s so warm.
I don’t know if I can actually express how fucking arousing it is that piss is so warm.
I lean forward and wrap my lips around the head of his cock. His stream halters, but he puts a hand on the back of my head and continues pissing. His wet warmth fills my mouth quickly, and I swallow it as quickly as I can.
“Oh god damn,” Mason says. “Oh god damn god damn.”
I moan, a spiritual vibration in my chest bone as his piss splashes onto my tongue before filling my mouth. I swallow and swallow and swallow, and he keeps pissing. Jesus Christ, I know he just drank a ton but this is truly impressive. Luckily this isn’t my first time drinking from the tap. I keep a hand tight on my hard dick through my jeans, squeezing it tight as my mouth fills again and again.
Finally his stream starts to weaken. I open my mouth and let some splash down into his empty cup. His cock jumps and piss streaks up into my mustache. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he says as he takes control of his cock again. He squeezes out a few more splashes of piss onto my tongue, and then shakes his cock off into the cup.
“God damn,” he says. I don’t need him to say a lot.
Mason bends over and collects the lid and straw to his cup, fitting them back into place before setting it into his cup holder.
I use my sleeve to dry the piss out of my mustache.
“Fuck, that was really hot.” Mason’s cock isn’t hard, but it is thicker.
“That was wild.” He hands back the joint. We finish smoking it in silence–except for the sound of my heart thundering in my head and in my cock–and then he opens the passenger door and says “I’ll see you next month, buddy.”
When he starts his car, he looks back and makes eye contact again, gives me a nod. He’s smiling. Maybe next time I’ll ask him to do more. For now, I need to sober up some.
I have an erection and a DQ cup a quarter full of Mason’s piss and nowhere to be.