Every Friday the 13th, bikers from all over the northeastern U.S. and Ontario ride to the tiny town of Port Dover, on the north shore of Lake Erie, for a weekend of partying. When the weather is good, as it was this past July, over 150,000 bikers converge on this community of 6,000 people. The whole place is a sea of denim and black leather. There are also dozens of private parties held on the farms surrounding the town, and this year, after enjoying the entire Friday and part of Saturday in town, I was invited to join one of them.

That Saturday was a hot, sunny day, and as often happens in Ontario, a small thunderstorm blew up in late afternoon, drenching us in a sudden downpour as we rode to the farm. The hundreds of bikes pulling into the dirt field quickly turned the entrance into a large mud pit. Many bikes, especially those with big, slick rear tires, were getting stuck, so after parking my bike, I went back to the entrance to help push stuck bikes through the mud, to keep the flow of bikes into the property from jamming up. Several others were also helping, and in no time at all, our leathers were splattered all over with mud, and our boots and pants were covered with it. While I didn’t go out of my way to get muddy, I certainly didn’t avoid it either, as mud is a huge turn-on for me.

Right beside the gated main entrance was a giant BBQ pit, a few tables selling cold drinks, t-shirts and leathers, as well as a makeshift stage where a local band was setting up. The organizers kept bringing us bottles of cold water, both to thank us for helping the stuck bikes, and also to wash off with. Of course, being bikers, we ended up splashing half the water at each other, which only made the mud sloppier.

Before long, the BBQ was in full swing, somebody’s stereo was loudly cranking out tunes, the smell of weed filled the air, and the party was underway. The flow of bikes had slowed to a trickle, and then stopped as the large main gates were closed in the early evening. There had been a dozen or so of us helping out at the main gate, and as we walked over to the stage area, quite wet and covered in mud, we got a small cheer from the assembled bikers, and cold beers and hot burgers were pressed into our hands. The group of us stood by the stage and enjoyed our reward.

Although we were all covered in mud, it didn’t show as much on one of us. While almost everyone else at the party was in denim and black leather, Dan, a clean-shaven, well-muscled 40ish guy of about 6 feet, was wearing tight lace-up pants and a biker jacket made of “distressed” brown leather. His biker boots might have been black, but they were so muddy you couldn’t tell. The snug leathers looked great on him, but the real reason I kept glancing at him was the huge bulge in his crotch. I tried to not think about it, as my own cock was getting hard in my tight black leather pants.

The band took the stage, and started belting out very respectable covers of the usual biker rock-and-roll staples, much to the delight of the crowd.