Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Bate and Switch

The old bait and switch—when the guy opens his door to reveal a self completely different from the photos he’s sent. Maybe the photos are ten, fifteen years out of date. Maybe he’s gained a hundred pounds. Maybe years of partying has added sags and wrinkles or an unhealthy pallor to a once-handsome face.

The last time it happened to me was about three years ago, when a guy on Adam4Adam lured me to his remote cottage using some photos of a young, worked-out, furry body only to show up at the door in a woman’s lacy robe with all the physical fitness of a late-day Ron Jeremy. I balked on the front stoop, and it showed; the guy had to physically grab my wrists and yank me over the threshold to get me into his home. Even then, after I asserted that I was very disappointed he felt the need to lie so blatantly about his build and age, he couldn’t believe I was leaving without fucking. “But you wouldn’t have come if you’d know I looked like this!” was his yelled backwards logic, as I returned down the driveway to my car.

The shirtless fellow who answers the door of the Provincetown hotel room, late this Tuesday night, though—he looks like his photos. Exactly like, in fact. Short, lean, muscular, with a furry chest and a treasure trail that leads down into his cargo shorts, between a pair of obliques that obscenely slant to the goods below. A beard of light brown fur covers his face; his eyes are big, brown, and sparkling. The dude is hot enough to be some kind of porn star, frankly. I’m itching to get inside him.

“Glad you could come,” he says in a deep and masculine voice.

“My pleasure,” I say, trying to match his bass.

“Glenn,” he says, holding out his hand. I tell him my name, and let him give me a strong and manly shake.

Well, I’m thinking to myself. I’ve lucked out with this furry little fucker. He is going to feel mighty good slicked up and wrapped around my dick. I’m practically licking my chops at the sight of his buns bouncing in those oversized shorts as I follow him down the short passage from door to bed. And then, once I step from the shadows into the bedroom’s light, I stop short. There’s another man on the bed I hadn’t known about. Naked, sitting on the sheets with the duvet pooled around the foot of the mattress.

“Oh, this is my boyfriend, Mark,” says Glenn. Casual-like. As if the presence of a nude third is nothing to write home about.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend with you,” I say, keeping my voice level.

“No? You sure?” says Glenn, sounding all the world like he was one hundred percent certain he’d mentioned it. He hadn’t.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”


“I don’t mind three-ways.” The guy on the bed is maybe in his late twenties. He’s got a pair of barbell piercings in his nipples and a smooth boyish chest. A shock of blond hair spills over his forehead and into his eyes, which dart back and forth as he follows the conversation. There’s something about the way he wrinkles his forehead and the amount of concentration he’s exerting that makes me think maybe English isn’t his first language . . . but I might just be spitballing that idea in my head. “I’ll fuck you both.”

“Oh,” says Glenn, looking kind of blank. He gestures at the blond. “It’s him I want you to fuck.”

“You said,” and in my mind I’m thinking and I quote, “’I need your big thick cock up my ass, buddy.’”

Glenn seems absolutely flabbergasted that I could’ve interpreted such a message to mean that he needed my big thick cock up his ass, buddy. “He’s the one who needs a fucking.” He points to the blond kid, then crosses his arms. And waits.

I interpret the stance to mean a challenge. Put up, or shut up and get out. Inwardly I’m kicking myself, though. Fucking bait and switch. And I walked right into it, too. I could just walk the fuck out—and I should, just to show them.

On the other hand, the kid is pretty sexy. I would definitely have fucked him if he’d approached on his own. And I enjoy having an audience. So without saying a word more, I kick off my sandals, unbutton my jeans. Glenn nods with approval and moves over to my side to help me off with my t-shirt.

The kid, in the meantime, digs into the mattress with his heels and scooches himself over to the mattress’ edge. His feet clutch the edge of the bed like a monkey’s as he bends his neck and dives for my cock. I feel his fingers scrabbling in the edge of my shorts to yank them down, and then the sensation of wet warmth around my dick. He brings me to hardness quickly. Any resentments I might have about the situation evaporate when I see his blue eyes looking up at me, craving praise for his performance. “Yeah,” I say, as I stroke that blond hair out of his eyes. “Good boy.”

“He’s good, huh?” asks Glenn. He’s shucked the cargo pants. There’s nothing beneath them save for a chrome cock ring. His fat little dick has a slight curve; it fits nicely in the palm of his hand. He takes a couple of steps and lands at the top of the bed with his back against the wall, where he starts masturbating as he watches. “Trained him myself.”

“Nice job,” I say, sparing him a quick glance. The sight of Glenn stroking his dick while he watches me is hot, but I’m enjoying watching Mark more. The kid knows how to suck. What’s more, he’s got a hunger for it. “He is a very good boy.” The praise has a narcotic effect on the kid. His muscles relax; his eyes close halfway. He loves hearing it. “He’s real pretty, too.”

“Fuck, don’t I know it,” said Glenn. He’s fisting his rod now; his hand is wrapped around that thing so tightly the head’s a dark beet red.

“How’s he fuck?” I ask, after a few more slurps.

“Spin the little cocksucker around and find out,” Glenn suggests.

I let my dick linger in the moist recesses of Mark’s mouth for a moment. Then I pull out and motion that he should change positions. The kid has been playing with his hole with one hand and using the other to position my cock, the entire time. Now he’s assuming the position like a champ—butt up, back nicely arched, legs spread at the perfect width. I spit on my fingers and spread it around his already-wet hole. It only takes a couple of fingers to judge that this hole is already well-stretched and much-fucked. My suspicions are confirmed when I shove in my cockhead and meet with zero resistance.

I slide in to the hilt. At the bottom I rest. He starts squeezing and milking me almost immediately. “Fuck,” I say. It’s not voluntary—just sheer reaction.

“Told ya,” says Glenn.

He seems content just to sit there, bating away as he watches. From time to time as I fuck he’ll reach up and squeeze one of his nipples. Once he reaches over to the bedstand and from the litter of bottles retrieves a container of poppers that he holds to his nose and inhales from, deeply. He holds it out to me with raised eyebrows. I shake my head.

“Sniff,” Glenn says to his boyfriend. The kid’s neck cranes out to reach the bottle. He takes a whiff, but Glenn grabs the top of his head like a basketball and forces it down against the brown glass neck for a sustained period of time. He gives Mark a moment to recuperate, then repeats the ritual once more with the other nostril. When Mark inhales the vapors, his ass blossoms around me; his hole becomes softer. Wetter. Slicker. More fuckable. I haven’t inhaled a fucking thing and already the aphrodisiac is working for me.

I’ve got one foot up on the mattress and the other planted on the carpet as I plow in and out of this boy’s open hole. Even though we’ve only used spit for lube, the pubes around the base of my cock are matted and wet, like they’ve been soaked. The kid’s producing his own lube. Some guys are better about that than others, that’s for sure. I can see my dick’s nearly as red and flushed as Glenn’s, as he beats away at the top of the bed.

“I’m gonna breed him,” I say at last.

It’s not a question. I’m not asking for permission. Glenn knows. He nods. “That’s what he’s for, buddy,” he says. Then, to his boyfriend he adds, “Wanna get bred by the nice man? Want your hole seeded by this total stranger?”

“Yes,” says Mark in a strangled sob. It’s the first word he’s said. Like I suspected, there’s a Germanic tinge to his accent. “I want to be bred.”

“Do it, then.” Glenn’s voice has an edge now. He’s close, I can tell. “Breed the little fucker.”
He gets himself off with his own words. Cum shoots out of his dick an onto his fur. There’s a string of them up and down his chest, all the way up to his neck, each one the color of pearl. “Fuck,” he exclaims, still shuddering. “Fuck!”

I’m too lost in the flow of my own orgasm to reply. It washes over me in waves, each stronger than the previous. I’m drowning in the sensation of it, unable for a few moments even to see. Then the waves ebb and I’m left panting with my dick half-out of the kid’s asshole. It flops out completely when he crawls forward to lick the semen from his boyfriend’s chest. Then he lays prone, limbs sprawled, with his head between Glenn’s inner thighs.

It’s a pretty tableau. I watch Glenn stroke his boyfriend’s hair for a moment. Then I reach for my tee, ready to head out.

“Hey hey hey,” says Glenn. His eyes meet mine, but they drop down to the pendulous weapon between my legs. It’s softened somewhat, but not completely. “I don’t think you’re done.”

I raise my eyebrows. “It’s kinda late. . . .”

There’s an awkward moment while Glenn attempts to untangle himself from Mark’s limbs. But finally he detaches himself from the limp shell of his boyfriend and stands. He struts over, stands directly in front of me, and uses his hand to pull my face to his. Our lips wrestle in a rough kiss. “You don’t have to go.”

“I’ve gotta. . . .”

“You don’t have to go,” he repeats. “Not yet.” He stares me in the eye, then turns around. His knees connect with the edge of the mattress. He spreads them wide, lowers his chest, and arches his back. His round ass parts to reveal a hole surrounded by fur. “Get the lube,” he orders his boyfriend.

My cock comes back to life, rising to meet the challenge. He’s right. I don’t have to go. Not yet.

Bait and switch. Fuck yes.

Monday, July 13, 2015

Dick Dock 2015: Camp

Usually beneath Provincetown’s dick dock I’m paying attention to only two things: either the man bent over or kneeling in front of me, or else the periphery where hostile intruders might suddenly appear. I’m not worried so much about the cops, really. I understand they’ve descended upon the secluded cruising spot from time to time. There are other outside forces to worry about. Unsuspecting hetero couples mistakenly wandering down this particular stretch of sand, for example. Maybe some straight guys looking to make trouble. It’s best never to get too complacent in public sex situations, no matter how safe they seem.

It’s a weird night, though, and for the last several minutes I’ve not really been doing much of anything. I’ve got my shoulder resting on a girder deep in the shadows, my right hand’s in my pocket, my left hooked by the thumb in a belt loop with the fingers draped decorously over the half-hard cock pointing to my hip bone. Guys are shuffling in the sand back and forth in front of me, but for the moment I’m not liking what’s on parade.

Then I see a streak of something out of the corner of my eye. My focus shifts to the beach. Although beneath the deck it’s pitch dark, the beach beyond the dock is light brightly by the resort’s floodlights above our heads. Down the beach, trotting on little feet, is what for split seconds I think is a dog. Then I notice the large triangular ears, the reddish-brown coat, the bushy tail, and I realize that I’m watching a fox scampering down the beach toward the center of town.

That’s unexpected.

A man stops in front of me. I haven’t been paying attention to the crowd, so rapt I’ve been in puzzling what a fox might be pursuing down the beach on a Saturday night. I take stock of the guy as best as I can in the small measure of light reflected off the water. He’s of average height. Athletic. He’s wearing a spandex top that hugs his muscles, and the way he’s thrust his hands into his pockets shows off his brawny forearms. His hair is cropped short. He rocks from side to side, his hips pointed in my direction as he studies me back. He must like what he sees; he steps forward.

I unhook my thumb from my belt loop and hold out my upheld hand. It’s the universal sign of invitation, in this dark climate. He steps forward and rests his crotch in the cup of my palm. He unzips, pulls apart his jeans, thrusts forward about six and a half inches of hard cock, and waits. Just waits.

Fuck. Like I said, it’s been a weird evening—all cock feeders and no cocksuckers. At that moment I’ve already swallowed down five loads from guys like this, guys who just unzip and wait for service. I’d like a little service myself, you know. But these cocks aren’t going to suck themselves, and I happen to be good at it. Considering the five loads in my belly, good and efficient.

My knees are buried in cool sand; I’ll be washing the black flecks of the New England seashore from the crevices for days. The stranger likes what I’m doing to his cock; he’s grabbing what short hair I have and pulling my mouth down on the shaft to make me swallow every last inch and then some. “Yeah,” he growls in a light tenor. “There’s a good cocksucker. Make it feel good. Make it feel real good.”

I’m liking the way his cock tastes—clean, still soapy from a recent shower. His pubes smell fresh as he grinds them against my nose and cheeks. “Lick my balls,” he commands, pushing me down by the back of the head.

I obey. I pop one, then both of his shaved nuts into my mouth. He spits out obscenities in a low voice as I swirl my tongue over their surface. His inches thrust into the air, still slick and shining with my spit, waiting for my mouth to engulf it once more.

My mouth. Any mouth. A cock like that doesn’t usually dry off beneath the dock. Before I can return my attention to that dick, another cocksucker falls to his knees to my left and consumes it. He’s so hungry for the meat that he forces me off the guy’s nuts.

That’s okay. The guy getting sucked helps me to my feet and reaches for my cock. I’ve been squeezing but not beating it during the blow jobs I’ve been giving, though I’ve been tempted to beat off during this last. I’ve seen this cocksucker before. I remember him from last year, actually; he was a German guy who took my cock in his holes and attempted to make me walk back with him a long distance to the trailer park in the town’s west end. He’s a good looking guy, though—and more to the point, good with his mouth. “Good boy,” says the guy next to me. He runs a hand through the German’s curly hair.

I run my hand over the man’s Spandex-clad chest. He helps me out by lift it up over his head and wearing it, yoke-like, over his shoulders, leaving his muscular chest bare. It’s sparsely hairy, and firm beneath my hands. He reaches out and plays with my nipples. “Your turn,” he tells me, pulling out his cock from the German’s mouth with an audible plop.

The German opens wide and takes all of my meat without effort. He’s deep-throating me effortlessly, taking my cock in seconds from dry everywhere except around the tip to sopping wet from head to base. I groan a little. “Yeah, he’s a beautiful little cocksucker, isn’t he?” asks the shirtless guy. I’m betting it’s a rhetorical question.

After a moment I withdraw, and guide the German’s head to my buddy’s cock. “Suck daddy,” he commands. The German grunts loudly and opens wide. “Oh-ho!” chuckles the guy. “Did you see that? He loves his daddy’s dick. Suck it, boy.”

Even in the dark it’s obvious how much the German is digging the dad/son talk. He’s moaning around the guy’s dick, sputtering saliva and precum so far that it spatters against my own skin. The guy ups the ante. “My own son, suckin’ on his daddy’s big dick. Yeah, just like I taught him. You love the dick that made you, huh, boy? Now, suck your uncle again.”

We’re attracting a bit of a crowd, now. The two or three guys who had been crowding in to watch turns into four or five, and then seven or eight. More guys are standing on the sidelines to watch the action between the three of us. “Yeah, my son’s sucking on his uncle’s big dick. Big dicks run in this family, huh?” announces the self-styled dad of our group. “Takin’ my boy on his first camping trip. Teachin’ him what being a man is all about. You like your camping trip, son? You learning lots?”

Honestly, I’m rolling my eyes a little bit at this point. To me, dirty talk or roleplay is like salt or pepper at a meal. Used sparingly, it’s great. A little bit even enhances the flavor. Too much just insults the cook. And this guy is just ladling it on, at this point. “Dad and his big brother are loving his little boy’s mouth on this camping trip, I tell you! Little boy’s going to go home a man!”, the guy’s saying loudly, so that everyone in the immediate vicinity can hear.

Corny as I find the chatter, though, I’m not leaving. I’m getting good head every now and again. And shocking as my readers will find the confession, I like an audience.

But then it just gets weird. “Maybe I should dress him up in his little sister’s panties, make him bitch out his cunt to daddy and his uncle, too! Get him back in that trailer and show him how daddy fucks little sissy boys!” The German, though. He’s so excited by everything that’s going on—the dirty chat, the cocks going down his gullet, the crowd—that he’s pushed over the edge. He makes a high-pitched whine as his throat engulfs my dick; I feel moisture spew from his nostrils into my pubes. Then, as he convulses on the sand, jerking back and forth, I feel another moisture all over my toes. His load spatters onto my feet and sandals. It’s a violent orgasm. He nearly chokes on my dick as he comes.

Then, abruptly, it’s over. “Come on, son, suck daddy’s dick like he taught you,” says the guy. But the German’s having none of it. It’s over. Gulping for air, he struggles to his feet. A few men from the crowd grab at him, trying to cajole him into giving them attention, but he’s done. He shoves them off and stumbles away toward the east end of the dock, where stairs lead back to the street.

The crowd realizes there’s no more show. They evaporate like a popped soap bubble. All that’s left is the other guy and myself. He laughs slightly as he pulls the Spandex back over his head, and I try to stuff my still-hard cock back into my pants. “You can’t be arrested for what’s only in your head, right?” he says, slapping me on the chest. “Know what I mean?”

Somehow it seems to me that if you’ve told a crowd of strangers and a couple of sex partners a pretty involved fantasy, it’s not merely in one’s head any longer. But whatever. “Fair enough,” I tell him, before he walks off in the opposite direction.

In my periphery, I see another streak of reddish fur. Another fox, running down the beach in the same direction as the first. Or is the same fox, circled back to make the route once more? I watch it chase its invisible prey until it disappears from where the pools of light from the floods end and the shadows begin.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Dick Dock 2015: Get It Done

So I’ve had one of those days. No major disasters, knock wood, but enough encounters with idiots that I’m not suffering fools gladly. I’m not snappish. Not short-tempered. But all through the evening with friends, sitting in a tourist-filled restaurant at battered picnic tables eating fish tacos and clam chowder, I’m less jovial than usual. At the bars we hit afterward I’m not as amused by the little battalions of single straight girls woo-hooing it up with their Fireball shots or their tuneless rendition of Meredith Brooks’ “Bitch,” getting good and drunk before they have to take the ferry back to Boston in the morning.

It’s just a little much on my nerves.

I’ve had a great vacation so far. But after a hot and irritating day, feeling that itch down below after midnight, my instinct is just to get it done.




So, the dick dock, then. I pad my way down Commercial Street, nodding at the couples wandering my way. Men walk hand in hand, rapt in their own conversations, chests held proud, sunglasses on despite the late hour. There’s a crowd around the pizza place, but more men are cruising and people watching on the benches outside than eating slices. Finally I reach the Boatslip. The hotel’s quiet; I can see a few men sitting beyond the plate glass window in the lounge, but most of the windows are dark. The pool area is empty. I turn down the sandy driveway that’s public access to the beat, take the steps down to the and, and make the tight U-turn that leads me to the dark area underneath the hotel’s deck.

There are already dozens of men wandering among the rafters here. I duck my head and hunch over as I make my way forward. My sandals scoop up sand between my toes and empty it out at the heel. There are already groups of men between some of the girders. I hear the sounds of slopping sucking as I pass one set, but I keep moving. I’ll know what I want when I see it.

Like I said, I’m in kind of a weird mood. Aggressive. No-nonsense. Ready just to get it done. As I get closer to the dock’s mid-section I’m spotting guys I find attractive. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman in expensive leisure clothes. It’s dark beneath the dock, but there’s enough light that when my glance rests on him and my head turns, he notices. He starts to follow.

There’s a short muscle dude in a sleeveless T proclaiming allegiance to the Cincinnati Reds. I stare into his eyes—or where I presume his eyes are, on that shadowed face. He follows too.

A few steps later I encounter face-to-face a bearded hipster type. Shaved head. Beard that reaches his nipples. Square nerd glasses. He’s shirtless, furry, lean. He’s like a super-fit and young version of comedian Brian Posehn. I stare in his eyes. He follows me.

I feel like one of those over-privileged, entitled white Greenwich matrons back home, hitting the highway underpass to pick her immigrant workers for a few hours of day labor. Boom, boom, boom. Let’s go. Get it done.

I play Pied Piper to the trio and lead them to a niche between girders only a few feet away. They all obediently follow. The bearded nerd immediately drops to his knees, starts to unbutton my shorts. The older guy stands behind me. His hands start to roam around my waist, under my shirt, up my sides. The muscled dude reaches for my neck. His lips search for mine. His mouth tastes of beer. Sweet. Yeasty.

I haven’t said a word, but all three of them are working in unison. The bearded guy has sucked me hard. He goes right for the root, choking himself in the process. As he coughs and gulps and sputters, I feel the spray of his saliva on my pubes, across my thighs. The Cincinnati Reds guy pulls away from making out long enough with me to say, “I love the sound of a cocksucker choking on a big dick.” He dives to chew on one of my nipples. The older guy behind me has pulled down my pants and my shorts. He’s got my shirt unbuttoned. His muscular arms surround me; I lean back against his chest. One of his hands reaches down and parts my crack. I feel his fingertips probe against my hole.

They’re getting it done. The muscular guys drops to his knees and joins the beardo in the sand. They start taking turns sucking. I can tell them apart by their style. Cincinnati’s mouth feels firmer, more insistent. He might be using a hand in there. The bearded nerd is soft, sloppy. Extra wet. My older buddy takes a moment to raise his fingers to his mouth. He wets them, then spreads the spit over my hole. At some point he’s managed to release his own dick from his tan slacks. I feel it pressing against my ass. When I reach back, I feel that it’s uncut. Thick. At least seven inches.

As his head teases my ass, he rubs his jaw against my cheek. Whispers in my ear. “Come to the corner. I’ll fuck you over there.”

“Fuck me right here,” I grunt back.

Cincinnati’s mouth is on my balls. The beardo has his fist around my meat; he’s squeezing it hard to make it swell. The lenses of his glasses glint as he looks up at me. “I’m gonna get your cum,” he announces. It’s not a question. He’s not asking. He’s telling me.

I just nod. I expect him to get it done.

Back to work he goes gobbling my inches, while Cincinnati licks and slobbers over my nuts and the bottom two inches. The older guy, in the meantime, is proving himself no gentleman. He shoves me roughly forward. My lower back arches for him. He stabs at my ass with his cock. The first two tries, he attempts to impale the bottom of my spine. Third time’s the charm. My hole stings as it parts for his rough entry. I yell out as he slides up and into me.

Two men on my cock. One man barebacking my hole. There’s a crowd gathering around us, watching the show. Someone reaches for my nipples. Someone else is reaching down and attempting to grope my cock despite the warring mouths around it. I think someone tries to kiss me. I don’t know. It’s tough to tell. I’m all sensation in the moment; all my resentments and anger at the day, all my quirks and dickishness erased by sharp pulses of pain around my hole, blooms of pleasure where his cock head hits my prostate, and the urgent need to spray my seed. I can’t keep track of what else is happening. All I feel is the pain of the cock and the pleasure of the tongues, and the scratchiness of the sand in my sandals, the occasional cool of the ocean breeze, the sound of surf and sex and sighs.

The older guy shoots first. I hear him grunt, then quickly reach for his cock. He pulls out; I feel a warmth coat my hole and my ass cheeks, and then the ticklish descent of his semen as it starts to drip downward. He shoves his cock back inside me. It’s that sensation that pushes me over the edge. The bearded dude grunts as he tastes a big glob of my precum; then I start to gush my load down his throat. Cincinnati struggles back to his feet, rising through the crowd of strange bodies to pull my face down to his once more. I continue to cum as Cincinnati and I make out.

The older guy’s cock slithers from my hole just as the last of my orgasm subsides. I feel him rest his head on my shoulder as his arms surround me; he gives me a tight squeeze, then releases and vanishes. Cincinnati lets go. He pulls up his shorts. Conceals his boner. Gives me a pat on the chest, walks off. The bearded nerd is the last to go. I help him up to his feet. He’s been wearing his t-shirt as a yoke, and now he lifts up his arms and rearranges it so that it falls back into place. We exchange one deep kiss. “I love your load,” he tells me. “You are fucking hot.”

I nod as I button myself back up. The crowd around me dissipates. The action’s over—nothing more to see. They’re moving along. I hunch over once again and maneuver my tall frame beneath the rafters holding up the deck overhead. My shoes are filled with sand by the time I squeeze between the deck’s edge and the staircase leading up from the beach. I take a moment to empty them, and look at my phone for the time.

Twenty minutes. That’s how long I was under there, from start to finish. Two cocksuckers, one top. Twenty minutes, some multitasking, and some supernaturally efficient cruising is all it took to get it done.

Thursday, July 2, 2015

No Man's Land

The first cruisy restroom I discovered in my youth lurked in a forgotten basement corner of the downtown public library of the town in which I grew up. Even calling it a ‘downtown’ is a little bit of an overstatement. Nominally the library was only two blocks from one of the town’s busier intersections, where the buildings were at their highest—but compared to the places I’ve lived since, I’ve realized that what I thought of in the nineteen-seventies as our bustling Southern metropolis was fairly podunk. The highest architecture there scraped the sky from four stories off the ground. Our biggest attraction was a Planter’s Peanuts shop, where a mechanical Mr. Peanut sign limned in neon lowered and raised his top hat a slow, metronomic style and the fragrant smell of hot nuts enticed hungry visitors.

But to someone searching for excitement, downtown was the place I wanted to be. I grew up in an age diametrically opposite to the current era of helicopter parenting. My folks pushed me out the door at every opportunity. They were thrilled to let me board a bus that would take me from our sleepy neighborhood with its one-room branch library to the downtown area, where the new library building offered opportunity after opportunity for illicit sex.

The main library had been built around and on top of an older building. Although the bulk of the circulating books were in the brightly-lit newer section, where patrons bustled around to find their reading material for the week, and students congregated at the big birch tables to study. There were restrooms in the new section, but they were antiseptic, busy, and devoid of action.

No, the real action took place in the building’s neglected no-man’s-land, where shadows and echoes alike gathered. I’d detour from the bright lights and low ceilings and take my business to the existing older section of the building, where the hallways were made of dark stone. The only people who ventured into this area were those visiting the music archives, where patrons shut themselves into glass booths to listen to scratchy classical LPs or pore over old operatic scores among the musty stacks. The men’s room was at the bottom of the basement staircase. There was a children’s library at the basement’s other end, but it had its own facilities and entrance. There weren’t any stacks or offices or amenities here. Anyone who ventured into this particular section was either lost, or there specifically to visit this bathroom.

I’d first discovered this particular restroom in the heady days of exploration after I’d read in the notoriously homophobic sex manual Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask)—which happened to be the only sex manual my parents owned, and which they’d casually given me to read when I was ten—that homosexuals gathered in bowling alley restrooms in order to meet and have sex with each other. Since my part of town lacked a bowling alley, I figured that our local homosexuals were probably having to improvise in other venues . . . and thus there was a period of a couple of years in which I would Nancy Drew every public restroom I came across.

The two-stall basement men’s room turned out to be the first place where I found traces of cruisers’ graffiti. I need somebody to suck my sock, read a scrawl on the tiles followed by a recent date, the first time I went there. Sock-sucking sounded exotic (and erotic) in my imagination for several days. Not until a week of rubbing myself at the thought of it had passed did it occur to me that some other wag had added an extra curlicue to the original cruiser’s C, neatly turning it into an S. I frotted all the more furiously at that realization.

It was in that basement I encountered my first gloryhole of sorts. Peep hole, really. The library had taken out the original toilet paper holder on the wall between the stalls and left the smallest of holes to peek through. Usually men sat on the toilet and immediately stuffed small twists of tissue into the hole to prevent voyeurism, but there were men who, upon seeing my iris reflecting back at them through the tiny fissure, would immediately stand up and show me their wares. Most of the first glimpses of a partial erect cock I ever saw were through that tiny hole. The gloryhole at my parents’ college was larger and had more activity, but there was something inescapably erotic about seeing a man’s meat through that narrow hole, one inch at a time.

When I finally screwed up the courage to have sex in the restrooms a couple of years later, the library basement was one of the first places I returned. I’d lost my oral and anal virginity the week before and was raring for more. I remember how hard my heart beat during my descent down that twisting staircase from in front of the music listening rooms to the basement. By the time I reached the basement, the pounding sounded like timpani.

The restroom was empty when I sat down, but I didn’t have long to wait. I’d only just shut my stall door and pulled down my pants when I heard footsteps echoing along the hallway outside. The door creaked open a moment later, and I heard footsteps cross the floor. The man went straight to the other stall beside mine, closed the door, and played with the buckle of his pants. I heard them drop to the floor.

I looked through the little peephole, and saw motion. The man was leaning down to look underneath the stall; I could see the top of his back bob into view as he attempted to see who was sitting next to him. I knew what to do by that point. I raised and lowered the front half of my foot, keeping the heel firmly on the floor. A casual tap of the foot. Nothing forbidden about that.

His own shiny black shoe tapped. My turn. I moved my foot a little closer to the partition. Let it rest for a brief moment. Then lifted and lowered the toes once more. He responded in kind. Our feet were only a good dozen inches apart. I moved mine to close ten of those inches, and tapped once again.
Then his foot touched mine, seemingly sending electricity through my spine. I dropped my hand and held it right underneath the stall, my fingers cupped to give a resting place for his cock. He withdrew his foot almost immediately. I heard him pull off a length of toilet paper. Then, a moment later, he thrust a scroll of it beneath the stall, wrapped around a ballpoint pen. How old are you? he’d written.

I was twelve. I had a baby face. I probably looked all of ten. I didn’t even have pubes. I didn’t want the guy thinking I was an unsophisticated virgin. 14, I wrote on the paper. I thought the number might make me sound like a jaded habituĂ© of this dank haunt.

There was a long, long pause. The poor fellow was probably wondering what to do. It never really occurred to me during my jailbait days that I was putting anybody at risk with my age. Gay sex itself was outlawed; man-on-man contact between adults was already taboo and forbidden. Accosted homosexuals got written up in the newspapers and were drummed out of town. The situation was already grim in theory. Realistically, sex with a minor in those days probably really wouldn’t have made it any worse. At last the tip of the pen reappeared beneath the stall. I unfurled the toilet paper wrapped around it. If you stick your dick under the stall I’ll suck it, it read. If you come around to my stall and suck me off, I’ll give you $20.

I stuffed the note in my pocket. I still have it, somewhere. I pulled up, but didn’t fasten, my pants. A moment later, I stepped out of my stall and knocked at the door of his. He opened the door and welcomed me in.

The man had thick auburn hair and an impressively bushy red mustache and matching sideburns. He wore a plaid suit that must have looked fashionable in the pages of the previous year’s Montgomery Ward catalog. His pants were puddled around his ankles, though; in his hand he held a very thick six inches. We didn’t need formalities. He stood up, eased me around to the toilet, pulled down my pants, and took my cock in his mouth. I wasn’t a big boy then. My meat was long for my age, but very thin.

He had no problem taking the entire length into his mouth. He must have sensed how quickly he was getting me to orgasm, because he backed off when my thighs began to quiver, then sat me down. He stood up and pointed his dick at my mouth. “You know what to do?” he asked.

They were the only words he spoke that day. I knew what to do.

I opened wide and let him sink his cock into my mouth as deeply as he could plunge it. I was still a novice cocksucker, but I’d been given a few tips the week before. So I wrapped my lips around my teeth, kept them as moist as possible, and moved my head back and forth along the shaft. His thick head nearly choked me several times as it pounded the back of my throat. I kept going, though, trying not to sputter or choke and remember to gulp air whenever I could. After a minute I lifted my hand up to grab onto his big, very hairy balls.

It was the last action that pushed him over the edge. He took my skull in both of his big hands and held it stationary. In and out he started pistoning his dick, not really caring how well I was coping with my first face fucking. After a couple of minutes of that rough treatment, he pulled his dick all the way out, held it a moment . . . then plunged it back in to hold it there. I felt his cock contract and expand. The back of my mouth started to flood with his seed. The load was much more bitter—and bigger—than the first load I’d taken the week before. I wasn’t prepared for that much quantity. I kept swallowing and gulping, though, until he’d unloaded it all in me. When he pulled out, finally giving me a chance to breathe, his dick squirted out a little bit more. It dribbled onto my chin and onto my shirt.

The blow job left me half in love with the guy. I remember gazing up at him with puppy dog eyes, still hard and my own cock unsatisfied. He maneuvered himself in the little stall so that he could pull up those plaid pants and buckle that enormous belt of his. Then he reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet, and pulled out a bill on it. I’d never seen Andrew Jackson on currency of my own before. That single bill represent about two months of my regular allowance. He pushed the money into my hand and wrapped my fingers around it to make sure I had a grip. Then he nodded and, without making eye contact, he let himself out of the stall. I heard the restroom door creak and his footsteps vanish up the stairs.

I haven’t been back to that restroom since I was about seventeen years old. Partly it’s because I’m not sure it’s even there any longer—that library’s undergone a few renovations since. I’d hate to go hunting for it and discover it had been demolished to make way for a cell phone charging station or corporate-sponsored virtual reality demonstration on Our City’s River Heritage. Mostly, though, I’m afraid to erase the nostalgic and even romantic view of it I still retain. In my youth it was a Pandora’s box of mystery and eroticism, where every echo spoke of possibility. I’m afraid to see it as it really probably was—dilapidated, small, poorly-lit, and smelly—when it still exists in my memory as a wonderland.