Subterranean

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.