We had an unsanctioned tradition in the USAF that flight instructors would spooge the front seat of an F-15B the first time a new guy flew in it. "I'm making an Eagle pilot!" I quite enjoyed that.
There was one flyboy under my tutelage I was particularly enamored with. Never did get with him the way I wanted to, but I did jerk off in his flight suit and/or helmet on a number of occasions before he donned it. I don't know if he ever was aware of it.
Back in high school, the mother of one of my buddies owned a beauty parlor, and he'd often clean it up in the evening. One time, he got me to help him. We had about 15 minutes to kill after finishing up before his mom came back to take us home, and being the ever-practical and efficient German I am, decided we should shoot off. We hauled 'em out and were stroking away when I had a monumentally capital idea: "Hey! Let's shoot in the hairdryer domes!" Next thing you know, two of the dryers were loaded with horny Catholic high school boy cream. We joked that it was probably the closest the women who would sit under them in the morning have been to cum for at least 3 decades.
In auto shop in high school, one time I snuck into the garage before class and shot straight across the back seat that had been removed from a '57 Bel Air we were working on. (Lordy, I wish I could still "go long" like that!) Unfortunately, the guy I wanted to "discover" it wasn't the one who did. Talk about a wated load!
I was on a crush-loaded, un-air conditioned, NYC subway train one PM rush that got stuck under the East River for almost 2 hours. It was a sweltering summer day, and I decided to step out onto the passage between the cars (it was one of the slanted-front trains that has a balcony-like deck between the slanted end cars). There already was a guy out there, and I could tell he'd been playing pocket pool. I gave him an approving nod, and he resumed. A couple of minutes later, he came toward me, pulled his out, unzipped my slacks, and hauled out my goods. He sucked me some, but was nervous that folks in the cars might see. We stroked each other off, and shot a couple of mighty righteous loads on the glass in the door.
When I was at Berkeley, a couple of my buddies and I had a weekly j/o club that met in the evenings during the spring of 1972 on the east walkway of the Golden Gate bridge. If there wasn't a lot of ped traffic, we'd haul 'em out and spew mid-span; otherwise, we'd go to the Marin end and shoot down from the bridge onto Conzelman. Sometimes unsuspecting bicyclists or peds below got spritzed.
I was leading a corporate retreat in Jackson Hole. Five of us arrived a couple of days early to set things up, and one of the gals booked a private hot air balloon tour for the group. As things would have it, the others had gotten plenty wasted the night before, and I wound up as the only passenger on the trip. I was really glad about that! The pilot had major wood-and-leak inducing good looks; rugged, handsome, amazing blue eyes. He also had a wonderful personality. It turned out he was also a former zoomie, and we talked some about how more sedate and soothing this kind of flight was. When he found out I had done a stint as a flight instructor, he got a really mischievous look on his face. "Ever shoot your wad in the cockpit?" he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be. More chitchat, our dicks came out and I was stroking both of us as we just floated through the sky. I sucked him off and swallowed his load. I then positioned myself to get a clear shot over the basket and spewed down from the heavens. That was one heck of a nice way to "commune with nature."
