The best

It was one of those thrilling, happenstantial, stall-to-stall encounters in the old Greyhound Bus Station's  big, upstairs men's room in Spokane, late one afternoon in the late winter of 1973/74. The peepholes in the partition between our respective toilet stalls were too small really to give us a good view of one another, and I wasn't sure if he understood me when I said "Meet me downstairs, outside, okay?" so I   repeated it a couple of times, till he fairly shouted "Yes!" and I stood up, flushed the toilet (for appearances' sake), pulled my clothes up and headed out without looking back.  I was surprised, a few paces down from the outside entrance, and needless to say gratified, when a toothsome youth some fourteen or fifteen years old strode up beside me, gracile of form, with eyes like molten copper and hair like burnished gold.  At thirty-one, having spent the summer and autumn before doing hard manual labor, I myself was probably as good-looking as I ever was in my life.  Evidently, we pleased one another, and he, who called himself Marvin, and said he was nearly fifteen, followed me home, where for the next several hours we fucked like bunnies. One thing: Boyishly, he wouldn't suck cock.  But he did everything else I wanted him to--including a certain knack or trick of massaging my dick with his rectum, like a milking-machine kind-of, that was unlike anything I've ever experienced elsewhere, ever in my life.

A half dozen times over the next couple of months Marvin visited me.  Always pre-douched, always ready, always with the insanely orgasmic internal dick massage.  For a month or so I didn't hear from him, then I got a kind of valentine/birthday card (It must have been about his birthday--I had figured out that he was a Taurus), saying,

 "Good-bye forever.  If you can help it, don't forget me.  Love, Marvin."

That's when I realized that it had in fact been love.