Wednesday, October 12, 2011


It's after ten at night, and in a room that feels more subterranean than it should, the florescent bulbs give off a glow that's harsh and unforgiving. I know if I look in one of the mold-eroded mirrors hanging over the dirty sinks by the door, the blue-white light will make every mottle of my face into a crater. It's silent. Every shuffle I make with my boots, every clink of my belt buckle against the porcelain urinal at the restroom's far end resounds like an echo chamber.

This dank rest stop men's room feels more underground than most because it's at the lower point of a building built on a grade. Upstairs there's a restaurant and light and soft music playing over the loudspeakers. Down here is silence, and dark, and a flickering bulb over the entrance. Trees overhang the separate entrance, making it seem even gloomier, more remote. Out in the hallway beyond the restroom threshold, beyond the turn in the room that renders me invisible to anyone outside, I hear the sounds of opening doors, of footsteps, of voices, and then the distinct sound of my privacy evaporating as someone joins me in the room.

My dick is hard in my hand. It has been for three or four minutes as I masturbate into the urinal, waiting to see who might show up. I stand close to the grimy porcelain, though, hands cupped around my meat so that it looks like I'm peeing. He comes in, and, after a moment's hesitation, stands at the urinal next to me. There are four urinals total. I've chosen the next-to-last, number three, at the room's far end. The laws of the men's room dictate that he choose number one, to give himself the maximum space possible from a stranger. But he chooses number two, and gives me a sidelong glance as he sidles up.

I take a look. He's beautiful. His hair is a deep brown, carefully cut close to his head. His eyes are the color of coffee and cream. He has one of those triangular faces with a broad brows, distinct cheekbones that make his mouth and chin appear smaller than they actually are. On his skinny frame, it's a look that really suits him. His skin is perfectly smooth, and in this light, so pale it's like snow.

He hasn't unzipped his distressed jeans. His hand toys with his zipper as if he's thinking about it, but in reality he's just looking at me. He knows why I'm there. I back away an inch from the urinal, and allow my own hands to unfurl from the angry flesh they conceal. His eyes drop to that pillar of pulsing blood and nerves and desire. His pretty lips part unconsciously.

I pull all the way back this time, so he can see the entire length of it. He's a little shocked at the sight, I can tell. Maybe he hasn't seen anything so big before. His own fingers still trail over his zipper, as if he knows he should go through the motions and pretend to urinate. Yet he can't. He's fixated at the sight of my dick.

There's no one disturbing the near-silence of the room. The only sound I hear is the slightest wetness as I stroke for him and my dick's slit separates with a sticky pop of precum. Then he sighs, and it renders the quiet like a weapon. His eyes flick to mine, asking for permission to look. I nod. It's okay, the gesture says. Look all you want. Touch.

He understands the permission for what it is, and stares. I can see the lump in his neck bob up and down with every deep gulp, every swallow. He's forgotten about his own zipper, now. His hands hang at his sides, quiet and unmoving. I show him every inch of my meat—the red, swollen head, the long shaft, the balls with their light, short coat of blond fur. He wants to see it all.

He wants more, I can tell, even if he's not sure what. I step forward, bringing myself closer. Then I reach out and put my hand on the back of his head. I've wanted to touch that hair since I saw it; in this harsh light it gleams, and leaves him with a halo that my fingers destroy as they work through the thick locks. He resists when I begin to pull him down toward a dick that's already pointing directly at those thin, sexy lips. It's not a serious resistance, though. It's the sort of token resistance that men exert when they know they're about to do what they shouldn't, so they can think well of themselves after. I know exactly what it is, and am not in the least worried by it.

Then it happens. Just as he's close enough to my dick that I can feel the hot breath from his open mouth on the crown, there are footsteps in the hall. A woman calls a name in through the men's room door, wondering if its owner is the hell done yet.

He backs off immediately, the spell broken. My fingers slip out of his hair as he breaks away. He shouts out a stammered response, telling the woman he's almost done. It's too high, too shrill. I can hear the sexual tension in those brief words, even if the woman can't. Across the room, he make noises with the sinks, with the towel dispenser, All the time he's staring at me, his lean body pointed to me. He balls up the towels in his hands and pauses, looking first in my eyes and then at the dick that I'm still displaying for him. Then with a basketball-practice wrist, he tosses the wad into the waste bin.

He's gone, but not before he looks me in the eyes again. I see regret there, and yearning.

He'll be thinking about me later, I know. In the dark, in the quiet of the night, with his hand under the cover. He'll be thinking about me, all right.


  1. Stupid cow! Why couldn't she have just waited upstairs?!

    God, I miss your dick.

    I love how you made the light and the place isolate you from the world, but it also made everything in that world seem to stand out so starkly.

    Very hot read. :) Good way to start the morning.

  2. What a heat must have been set up in the wordsmithy when you wrote this one, Steed. Hammer and tongs, fire and anvil; I smell hot metal and smoke all around these words you've given us today. (And yes, I know your rule about writing these posts. That you produce prose like this under those constraints renders me a slightly uncomfortable stew of awe and envy.)

    Some day you must take me to this place, this cave of wonders. We shall take positions one and four at the urinals, posing a momentary conflict for the man stepping in. Seizing that second or two of uncertainty, no matter which urinal he chooses he will be our toy between us, a mouse between cats, a happy time of playing catch-and-release....

    We must make this happen, don't you think?

  3. Poor husband. Could it be that it's inconvenient to be married for convenience? That was very erotic. Everything fit together beautifully, like a play on a stage. Even–especially–the fluorescent light was perfect. I hope for you, and for us, the readers, of course, that he'll be back for more :)

  4. Alas, isn't it always a woman that comes between two men? This was a very well-written post. Dare I say it sounds poetic? Your descriptions are great for putting the reader in the moment, feeling that tension. Very good post, my friend.

    And I have to second Writer's comment about missing your dick.


  5. Absolutely perfect. Nothing else to say. Your blog entries should be required reading for college level literature courses (imagine putting that syllabus out there!).

  6. @countess: Your Grace, quite possibly not a marriage of convenience. Was a time when I firmly believed that any man who claimed bisexuality was simply in denial. I'd grudgingly accept the theoretical possibility of bisexuality, but didn't really believe it actually existed. My narrow view of sexuality and desire was schooled by experience, and I've come to believe that the varieties of sexual experience are near infinite. This beautifully described young man was without doubt caught in wrenchingly unfulfilled and conflicted desire. It's impossible to know where that desire might fit in the rest of his life. It's frustrating not to have backstory for some of the people we encounter, yes? Others, of course, we want to know nothing about at all -- but others...

    Unless this venue is frequented by both our gracious host and the halo-haired lad, it's unlikely they will meet again. Or unless the lad in question doesn't find Mr Steed's unforgettable, magnificent cock when he's cruising the hook-up sites. You know he is ;-)

  7. I've been married for nearly 20 years to a woman who was told I was gay before we were introduced by a mutual friend. Although a degenerative illness has robbed us of each other's intimacy, we love each other, still, and had a very good sex life for a few years. I love her enough, that because she didn't want to be embarrassed in front of her family, I went back into the closet. There is nothing particularly convenient about our marriage, but I have few, and only minor, regrets, all of them more than outweighed by the benefits of a loving partnership.

  8. Your discription of the location of the men's room reminded of a family restaruant in San Francisco years ago. You went downstairs to the dark creepy underbelly of the place to pee or whatever since you could do whatever down there and no one would know. I'm sure many people have open the door and stood at the top of the stairs and thought "I'm not going down there"

  9. Good morning RedPhilip!

    Did I offend? I never mean to but sometimes it happens. I apologise.

    You are quite right, I made an assumption because it seemed to me that the woman didn't know what her husband was up to. If she knew about her husband's preferences–wouldn't she have guessed and politely remained in the shadows? Powdered her nose, discreetly handed him a Kleenex when he re-emerged after half an hour?

    To make assumptions though is always a dangerous thing to do so I am prepared for that (sometimes well deserved) verbal slap.

    Let's see if Le Lad finds his way back to The Steed ;)

  10. Kevin,

    I apologise for my insensitive joke.

    Twenty years! What a wonderful relationship.

  11. Rob,

    You wrote this post so well. I can only hope that I can get to a point in my life that I can write this well. Every word drew me in so that I thought I was there watching and/or participating.

  12. I loved this post! Someday, I'll be the guy standing there ready to take a lick when my wife will yell into the restroom for me to hurry. That's what wives do, you know.

  13. My eyes, my senses, somehow lock onto yours, and what you write I experience. I am taken back to one of the last ones to get away: After a couple of quick interruptions, we are side-side at two urinals. He's an engineering student, as tall as I am, and we reach for one another. There's an awkwardness in his approach, and I ask, "Are you a leftie?" He nods, "yes," and I am thinking that we should switch positions. Our cocks look identical, except I am graying everywhere and his hair is auburn every where. Our worship is again interrupted, and I am permanently left with a longing for this man and for the openness of his welcoming spirit.

  14. @countesszero: No, you did not offend at all. I hope my tone was not so severe as to be chastising, since that was not my intention. And I'd never slap you -- unless, of course, I knew you'd enjoy it ;-)

  15. Rob my dear friend,

    That was one amazing post. I just love the way you said those things about men staring at men and these glances. I know that the man would have love to take that great piece of yours in his mouth but to bad that the wife or girlfriend calls him. To bad also for you that he went away, another great time lost, lollll. I am sure that he think about that great time he just lost with you. He could have just go for it when he had the time but really miss his chance for a great time. Sorry for him.
    Thank you again for a well written post man.


  16. Writer,

    Thanks. My dick misses you, too.

  17. RedPhillip,

    I think you're the wordsmithy one today. Jeez. Thanks. I'm honored.

    You know I'd love to go prowling with you.

  18. Countess,

    I appreciate the kind words, as you know. Thank you.

  19. Ace,

    It's not always a woman, but lately for me, it always seems to be something coming between. Ah well.

  20. Rawhidetreat,

    Wow, thanks. Very kind words indeed. It'd have to be a specialized undergraduate class, though!

    Note: I am available for lectures for a reasonable honorarium.

  21. Cyberi4a,

    I knew another truck stop in Pennsylvania that had a men's room actually in the basement. The poor people who wandered down there sometimes had no idea what they nearly stumbled into.

  22. Vers RAW,

    Thank you, but you know what they say about a bunch of monkeys in a room with typewriters. Sooner or later one of those monkeys is going to type out a post about aborted restroom sex.

  23. JFBreak,

    Don't women know that it takes time to pee? Just because we do it standing up doesn't mean it happens speedily.

  24. Wharton,

    I am left with wishing more had happened, and with loving the way you told the story. Thank you.

  25. Yves,

    Even if you were my only audience, it'd still be a pleasure to write for you. Thank you.

  26. I'm somewhat glad I saved this to read at home... I'd have been useless--a drooling mess, in more ways than one--had I read it at the office.

  27. Richard,

    I'm glad you enjoyed it, wherever you were.

  28. One of the best written stories of this kind ever written; especially the opening that describes the venue so vividly.

    Next time, carry a business card so that Mr. Coffee & Cream can walk away with the means to connect with you at a more convenient time and place.

  29. @Pat: It always makes sense to have what used to be called 'calling cards' available at need. Whether our host should have handed this lad such a thing is harder to say. Things had not progressed sufficiently to know whether he was worth the effort. There's also the aspect that doing something like that destroys the anonymity that is a huge part of the eroticism and allure of this kind of play.

    A middle ground strategy might be to have prepared slips of paper with just a phone number - a phone you use exclusively for hooking up. No names, just digits.

  30. Pat,

    Thanks for your generous praise. I appreciate it.

    Your idea about carrying some kind of trick card is a good one. It does require a level of pre-planning for which I have never been famed, however.

  31. I love your writing. I read this and felt like I was right there, observing it all. I can feel the desire in your words. And I love the way you ended it with the description of what he'd be doing at home. All very sexy! Great post!