The Incident: Part 1

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When I moved to the midwest I was young. The furthest I'd been from home on my own was the fifty miles it took to drive from my parents’ house to the college I’d attended. I’d applied to a graduate school in the midwest on a whim, and ended up receiving a full scholarship, a free apartment, and a little bit of a stipend to live on. My parents used a rental van to move me and my too-many books up to my previously-unseen furnished apartment in a scary city in a scary part of town, dropped me off, and left me on my own. That’s pretty much how I took the first jump onto my life’s path.

I flourished somewhat. I made friends. I learned my way around the city fairly quickly, and figured out what neighborhoods to avoid and where I could find a local supermarket that wasn’t held up once a week. (Really.) I landed some teaching jobs outside the university, and had the first artistic success that would eventually lead to my current career. I don’t know if I realized it at the time, but I managed to establish all the roots of my current life fairly quickly and firmly.

I was, however, kind of lonely. I was a solitary person overall, and enjoyed my alone time—I still am. My new friends, however, lived well off campus in neighborhoods far better than my own. Once my classes were over for the day, that was it. They went home, and I was left to my own devices. And usually my devices and vices were pretty much the same. I picked up guys on campus, either in the cruisy restrooms or in the gym. I managed to lure guys to my apartment using my very first computer and the Prodigy service (anyone remember 1200 bps modems?). I met the guy who showed me how to top for the first time, bareback, and found myself slowly switching from bottom to versatile to top.

I was somewhere between versatile and top when I met the guy I’ll call Tom. We collided in the restrooms of the campus library. Back then, the university had a number of cruisy spots. It was possible to hit any one of four different classroom buildings and get a mouth on my dick within ten to fifteen minutes, any time of day. (These days, on the same campus, only one of the spots is still active, and it’s iffy enough that I never visit.) My favorite men’s room was in the library’s deepest recesses, however—way back in the periodical stacks, up a flight of stairs, and hidden behind a public telephone booth (remember those, too?). It only held two stalls and two urinals and frankly, the telephone booth was probably roomier. But anyone who showed up in that remote spot was there for one reason.

Usually I sat in the toilet stall opposite the sinks, where in the mirror I could see who was entering and leaving the room. When Tom barged through the swinging door, I thought at first he was a good twenty years younger than he was, simply because his hair was so blond it was almost white. It was also long, hanging down to his slumped neck in a straight fall. When he emerged from the shadows by the doorway and rounded the corner, I could see that he was probably in his early forties, round-shouldered, and mean-looking. He walked with a stomp and a shuffle, as if he were a grouchy old man looking for kids on his lawn to scare off with a hose. He even wore an old man’s baggy plaid shirt and a pair of jeans riddled with holes. He wasn’t wholly unattractive, but the fact he looked one handout away from looking totally homeless didn’t give off a good vibe.

When he stood in front of the urinal and stroked himself to hardness, though, I couldn’t help but peek through the crack in the door to look. He turned around and pointed his dick at my stall, and I responded by standing up and opening the door. My pants were around my ankles, my shirt was unbuttoned, and my own stiff inches were in my hand, sticky-tipped from beating. I remember his dick to this day: it was about seven inches long, thicker than mine, and ugly as sin. The color of his shaft was pale and white as parchment, while the head half-hidden beneath his foreskin was an ugly beet red.

I was repulsed and fascinated at the same time. Mostly repulsed, I admit. “Suck it,” he said.

I didn’t want to. His dick looked like it might smell, up close. “I gotta get going,” I whispered, and started to pull up my pants. He merely turned and faced the urinal again, to wait for the next student.

I ran into the guy many times in the toilets after that. He had an affect of dampening whatever fun I was having with other guys, when he’d bang open the door and stomp in. Usually my trick of the moment and I would slip back up onto our toilet seats, or point our business into the urinals until we’d made sure the newcomer was a sex-seeker like us, and then resume playing once we knew it was cool. When the long-haired blond man would arrive, he’d stare at us so balefully that I and the other guy might play with each other half-heartedly for a bit, and then give it up and drift away. The blond would bring out that ugly dick and try to join in. Sometimes the other guys would kneel down to suck him, but I just wasn’t interested. I’d zip up and leave to cruise somewhere else.

I'm aware that I'm describing him in the worst possible way. My memories of Tom are tainted because of what happened, I frankly admit. If I were being honest, I'd have to say that except for his dick—which really was the ugliest dick I've ever seen—he probably wasn't as hideous-looking a guy as I seem to be implying. Students sucked him off. Sometimes I'd slink into one of the cruisy restrooms and find him deep in a boy's ass. So obviously, despite a few characteristics that put me off, he probably wasn't as vile in appearance as I seem to remember.

Still, I never found his gait or his sullen demeanor attractive. If I knew it was his regular cruising time, I'd avoid the spots he'd haunt. Tom’s hair was so shockingly white that it was possible to spot him stomping across campus from a distance. I’d be crossing from my apartment to class, look south toward the science complex and see that shock of hair, those hunched shoulders, and that plaid shirt, and I’d know he was clomping his way to the library for a mid-day suck.

Occasionally I’d see him trudging down the street past my apartment building on the way back to where I presumed he lived not too far away. Avoiding him became part of my daily routine. I was never rude to the guy. I’ve got too much cruiser’s courtesy to treat someone like a troll. I didn’t make faces, I didn’t tell him to fuck off. I’d nod when we encountered each other, and acknowledge him, but I simply wasn’t interested in engaging with him sexually. He didn’t seem to care. In fact, we never even spoke.

Not until the night I saw him at a local bar.