His apartment building is in a rough part of the town where I grew up. When I was a kid, my parents would never, ever have let me venture there. Thirty years ago it had a reputation of being marginally safe by day, but a free-for-all at night—the kind of neighborhood one drove through in a hurry with the windows rolled up, hoping that the traffic lights would all stay green.
I park my car on a street of neatly-manicured turf, next to a spanking-new modernist brick set of condos, and across from a set of old row houses so completely refurbished that they look like they’ve descended from the future. Nowadays, of course, the area is gentrified. Young couples are walking on the streets pushing strollers. Medical students are streaming from their shifts at the hospital down Broad Street, back to the condos and new-construction apartments and renovated spaces. The building I’m looking for is an old tobacco warehouse. Its only tie to the past now is the plaque over what used to be its front entrance, stating its construction date sometime after the Civil War. Everything else remotely period has been erased with double-paned plate glass windows and dark alloy trim.
He’s waiting for me inside the lobby. Looks just like his Scruff photos. Skinny little thirty-one-year-old hipster shit with ear plugs and a thick, bushy beard. He obviously pays a lot of attention to that beard. It’s a thick curtain that covers most of the much-washed, distressed t-shirt advertising a band I’ve never heard of. I can see his nipple rings protruding beneath the shirt’s thin fabric. He’s leaning against one of the massive circular sofas, waiting for me. His thumbs are hooked beneath elastic red suspenders holding up his ratty jeans. He’s got some beat-up old Chucks on his feet. At the sight of me through the glass, he springs forward and opens the locked door. “Well hey,” he says, with a soft Southern drawl.
“Hey there,” I tell him. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same here!” There’s genuine enthusiasm in his voice, and he puts a hand on my biceps. “So . . . there’s a little bit of a problem.”
Oh, fuck, I’m thinking. The guy had been after me for two days. I’d gone to sleep the night before grinding a permanent dent into my childhood mattress, thinking about nailing this skinny little hipster’s hole. And now he was going to flake out on me? After I’d gone to the trouble to tell my dad I was going to be out for a few hours, ‘catching up with an old school friend’?
“My roommate was supposed to be out for the weekend, but now she and her fiancé have decided to spend the weekend at home.”
“Oh,” I say. Already in my head I’m thinking that I have to stay out for at least a couple of hours before I head back home. I guess I could just part ways and grab a coffee somewhere, or hit one of the city’s couple of gay bars. It’s evening, but still daylight; I could even grab my camera from my bag and get some shots of the downtown skyline in.
“Yeah, but I was thinking. . . .” His words yank me back from my quick alternative plan making. “There’s a men’s room off the gym down the hall, there. . . .” I follow his glance, down a stone-tiled corridor leading past the fancy gas fireplace and the glassed-in lounge off the lobby.
“Is it quiet?” I ask.
He nods. “No one ever uses it.”
I pause for a moment, considering the offer. “I’ll fuck anywhere,” I say at last.
He grins, relieved to have salvaged a bad situation, then takes my hand in his. Without a word more I follow him. He leads me out of the lobby and down the hallway, tugging me impatiently toward our goal.
The bathroom’s one of those enormous wheelchair-accessible rooms, tiled with black stone on the floors and walls. He ushers me in gallantly, like a gentleman, then steps in behind me. The door closes automatically. He pushes the button to lock it. Now we’re alone.
He’s already apologizing. “Okay, so it’s not ideal—“
I push him against the black tiles so hard that he lets out a whuff of surprise. I plant my lips on his and shove my tongue inside his mouth. It tastes sweet, fruity, like cherry Kool-Aid. He responds to the rough kiss by going limp against the wall, as if I’ve thrown him there. His beard grates against mine. His hands reach up and cup my face, drawing me closer. I’m so much taller than he that he’s having to lift his hips to grind against my own, hardness against hardness.
I grab his suspenders and attempt to yank them from his shoulders. One of them is pinned by his weight against the wall. It snaps down suddenly and stings the side of my hand. He shoves me away, roughly, stares me in the face, and then pulls off his tee by crossing his arms and yanking it over his head. It flies through the air and lands in the sink. Then he’s on me again. This time it’s he who pushes me back so that I’m stumbling the long way to the opposite side of the bathroom, our mouths furiously gnawing at each other.
When my shoulder blades connect against the cold stone of the wall, I shove my hands down the back of his pants. He’s wearing a jock. I play with the straps as he grinds against me. His muscular globes rotate beneath my cupped hands. The kid’s a good kisser. I don’t want this part to end. But he’s already tugging at my jeans. He’s got the button fly undone and is pulling them to the floor.
Before he kneels, he digs off the Chucks with his feet and kicks them to the side. He skims his narrow waist out of his jeans. His Bike jock used to be white, I’m thinking, but it’s seen a lot of use since then. It’s a tattletale gray, worn around the edges. The elastic looks chewed. Knowing this little pig, maybe it has been. He’s already on all fours on the floor, knees against stone, ripping down my jeans the remaining way and slobbering over my shorts.
“Is this what you want?” I ask, pulling out my erection. No, not pulling. Yanking. I haul out that thing like it's a weapon and slap it in my hand, showing it off. Keeping it at bay. The slap is louder than my voice, but he can hear the command my volume belies. My waistband forces my ball out, but the dick is standing straight up all by itself, the skin a deep red from the pressure I’m keeping around the base.
“Yes sir.” His brown eyes are big. He’s got hair falling into them across his forehead. He opens up his mouth. It’s a small, wet hole in an expanse of beard.
Next question. “Are you gonna treat it right?”
“Yes sir,” he rasps. His voice is heavy with sexual need.
He gives good head, this hipster kid. He doesn’t start with tentative tonguing, or little licks or slight attention to the tip. He goes whole hog, opens his throat, and takes it all down. I’ve got that beard grinding against my groin; it’s chafing my balls as it cups them like a bird’s nest holds eggs. When he withdraws, my inches slither out, wet, glistening in the florescent light.
“C’mon,” I say, goading him. “Suck it like you mean it.”
One of his hands is gripping the handicapped bars so tightly, his knuckles are whitening. He’s learning forward to suck me, his shoulders bent back, his neck straining to extend as long as possible. He looks like an awkward bird, a fledgling attempting to spread his wings. I take pity on him. I grab his chin, lift him to his feet, then lead him over to the john. My own pants are still strangling my ankles, so I kick them off. They join his clothing in the corner. Then I sit down on the john, spread my legs, and let him kneel down once more.
“You probably wanted this all along,” I tease, a slight sneer in my words. “Oh, my roommate and her fiancé didn’t go away for the weekend. You knew I’d come over and you’d lure me in here because you’re nothing but a hungry restroom cocksucker.”
“No sir.” He takes his mouth off my dick and looks up at me, breathing heavily. His hunger has stripped away all pretense. There’s nothing but sincerity in his eyes. I know he’s telling the truth.
“Shut up and suck,” I tell him. He obeys. “Restroom whore, sucking on some stranger’s cock. Trying to get some stranger’s cum down his throat.”
Once again he pulls away. “Yes sir. I mean, no sir. I don’t want cum down my throat.”
“No?” I ask, my cock jumping. His was the correct response. “Where do you want it, then?”
“In my hole, sir.” He’s been so focused on cock that he needs to sniff deeply to clear his sinuses. “I want your cum up my butt.”
He nods. This hirsute little hipster has been reduced to a naked little boy, begging the neighborhood bully for his favorite toy. “Yes, please.”
“Big raw cock up your sweet little ass?”
He’s pulled out his cock sometime during his sucking. It protrudes over the loose elastic of his jock, red and thick and uncut. It bounces at my words. “Oh god, please.”
I stand up. Nod at the toilet. “Then bend over,” I tell him.
Without question he stands where my feet have just been. He grips the bar behind the toilet, and bends. Then he spreads his legs to lower himself. His hole lies beyond a dense thicket of fur; it’s like a black eye, winking at me when he contracts his ass muscles. I hadn’t thought to bring lube. In one of his texts the day before, the hipster had sent me a photo of the bottle of poppers and lube that he’d bought in preparation of our fuck. I guess he’d left them upstairs. No matter. I’ve got his spit as a base layer on my skin, and a thick outpouring of precum atop that. I work up some saliva, transfer it to my cock via my fingers, and spread it around. He’s good to go.
I can feel the warmth of him even before I’m in—it’s like bending over with a dish in hand and getting the blast from a preheated oven. He gasps as my big, blood-filled head shoves inside. I can tell he’s already opening for me, though. It has nothing to do with his experience, nothing to do with preparation. He’s just ready. His hole’s in heat, and I intend to take advantage.
“That’s right,” I tell him as I glide in. He resists and starts to push me out. “Arch your back,” I order. He obeys, and the resistance disappears. “Take it,” I tell him.
He doesn’t dare disobey.
When I’m in, he sighs. I can see him letting go. I’ve forgotten we’re in a public restroom. I know he has. He lets his weight hang from his hands, as they clutch onto the handicapped rail at waist level. His feet brace against the floor; his back arches even more, presenting his hole to me.
Like I need presentation. I’m already ram-rodding the thing. Between the two of us there’s more than enough juice to keep things slick. I didn’t need that new bottle of lube at all. This isn’t making love. This is fucking. Man-to-man carnality at its finest. No dinner, no date, no need to whisper sweet words in his ear. Just pants-off primal dick-in-hole fucking with one goal in mind.
“I want that cum,” he grunts, gripping and squeezing with his ass.
I haven’t been looking to shoot that quickly, but under the circumstances, maybe it’s better. “Right up your shitter?” I ask. “Is that where you want it?”
“I need it,” he begs. His head is hanging. His beard is horizontal to the ground, scraping his chest. His eyes are closed. He whips his head back and forth as if trying to shake off a night’s sleep.
“What do you need?”
“I need your cum,” he growls. He sucks his lips in to wet them. “I gotta have that cum. You gotta breed me. Breed me, sir.”
“Yeah?” My thrusts are full-bodied, now. I’m putting all my weight in them as I slam in, pull out to the tip, and plow back in again. “You deserve that?”
“Don’t care if I deserve it. I want it.” He’s wheezing like an angry pig now. “Please give it to me. Please—oh fuck!“
He can tell I’m shooting not by the noises I make. I keep the noise level down low instinctively—I grew up fucking in public restrooms, after all. He can tell by the way my dick swells as it releases the first jet of seed into his guts.
“Is that—? Shit.”
He seems surprised to have gotten what he asked for. “You wanted a breeding,” I growl.
“Fuck yes. Fuck!” He’s talking softly, but he’s accenting the words by whipping his head back and forth. There’s a snarl on his lip. His hand reaches for his dick; he starts beating himself furiously. “Breed that hole. Make it yours.”
The last of my load squirts out. My dick ebbs and swells a couple more times. I stay in, though, still hard. “Fucking restroom whore,” I grumble, thrusting.
His forehead is resting on the toilet’s hardware. “Fuck yes I am,” he whispers. “Just a fucking restroom whore.”
“You get what you wanted?”
“Thank me for it, then,” I command. “Come on.”
“Thank you, sir,” he whispers. “Thank you, sir. Thank you. Thank you, sir.” The litany grows softer and softer the more he repeats it. “Thank you for your fucking gift of seed, sir.” He lets out a soft choking noise. Cum spews from his uncut meat and hits the tile with an audible splatter. “Christ,” he swears. Then he takes up the prayer once more. “Thank you. Thank you, sir.”
I wait until his muscles stop their spasms. “You’re welcome.”
When I pull out, my dick is sloppy. Sperm spills from the hole and trickles down his taint. Slowly he stands. When he looks over his shoulder, his beard leads. “So. . . .” he says, exaggerating his Southern drawl. “It wasn’t optimum, but. . . .”
“We made it work,” I conclude for him. I step into my jeans, then into my sneakers.
He’s collecting his clothes without shame. I watch him dress in the mirror as I wash my hands and rinse my face. We don’t speak again until we’re both ready to leave. “Okay?” I ask. He nods. I open the locked restroom door, look both ways down the hall, and step out. He follows.
It’s still sunlight when I exit the old tobacco warehouse. I look at my watch. Yeah, I’m going to have to kill some more time. Maybe I’ll grab a cup of coffee. Maybe I’ll get a Krispy Kreme. Maybe I’ll just drive around and see some of the old sights.
Then back home with a story or two for my dad about the ‘school friend’ I’ve spent the evening catching up with.