Hipster

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Poolside Encounter

It’s the one day of my week that’s as advertised: morning sun blazing in a sky of deep blue, cabana roofs rippling in a gentle breeze, waves lapping gently at the concrete edges of the pool. Attendants have set out row upon row of deck chairs that only now are gradually filling. A rolling cart near the central walkway holds hundreds of beach towels folded neatly into rectangles. The temperature is warm, bordering on hot. The breeze is cool. I’m wearing shorts and smell of sunscreen. There’s a magazine of crossword puzzles in the bag at my side. A novel on my lap. I’m here to stay for a while.

There’s a parade before me, to distract me from the pages of my book. Some of the bodies are bronzed and built; the men strut confidently in their trunks as they pad with wet feet across the boards to their chairs, where they spread out the beach towels to lie upon. Some of the men have flown down from frigid places, as I have. Their bodies are paler, their shoulders caught in a perpetual hunch to ward off the cold. They’ve all come out to enjoy the warmth, though, to sit and ogle each other, to chat, to read. To relax, and forget their lives for a little while.

I don’t even know how long I sit there in those morning hours, digesting my breakfast and letting the warmth gradually work the seemingly permanent chill from my muscles. This, I think to myself, is all a vacation should be about.

After a long while, I have to pee.

The restroom’s indoors, past the nook where the attendants stand gossiping as they collect used towels for the laundry. Inside, the air conditioning blasts the light layer of sweat from my skin. I walk down a narrow hallway and push down on the latch that opens the restroom door.

The men’s room is small, but well appointed. Urinals stretch to the left when I step in; three toilet stalls are immediately behind them. Each has marble partitions, and wooden shuttered doors that reach down to the shiny, reflective stone floor. There’s an orchid sitting in the center of the sinks, across from the stalls. Wooden spikes curlicue out of the peat and up beyond the mirrors. Someone could seriously put out an eye on one of those things.

At the urinal I yank down the waistband of my shorts. They’re made of a sweatpant fabric, and stretch easily. I’m just finishing my business when another man comes in. He’s built like a bulldog—stout, muscular. His eyes are wide and blue, his hair a buzz of auburn on a suntanned head. He’s shirtless. His pecs are bulging. He steps up to the urinal closest to the door, angles his hips at the porcelain, and stares straight ahead.

Or not quite straight ahead. When I let my waistband snap back up and turn to pass him as I walk to the sinks, I can see his eyes tracking me. I’d only taken a quick glance at him before, but when I’m at the sink I study him a little more in the mirror’s reflection. He’s a hot little fucker, this one. Five foot five, five foot six, maybe. Round, built ass. Metal rings glint from his fat little nipples. He’s got his hands positioned around his dick like he’s aiming . . . but there’s no noise. He’s not pissing.

I’m deciding what to do when the door opens again. Some other guys intrudes into the silence, talking on his cell phone as he heads to the urinal I’d recently vacated. I prolong the washing of my hands, soaping them up thoroughly, rinsing them again and again as I observe the pair in the mirror. Phone call guy is oblivious. He’s just peeing and talking away, getting his business done and completely bypassing washing his hands.

The shirtless guy, though, continues to stare straight ahead. When the guy entered making his call, his stance closed in slightly, became more alert. As the stranger exits, though, he relaxes. Pulls away from the urinal a little bit. Glances over his left shoulder, in my direction.

Time to act. I ball up the paper towel with which I’ve been wasting time, walk back to the urinals, and stand next to him. I tuck the elastic of my waistband beneath my nuts. Start pulling on my meat. When I turn my head in his direction, his own head turns. Our eyes meet. We nod.

He steps back from the urinal, just slightly. I follow suit, dick in my hand. Now he faces me directly, pointing his cock in my direction. It’s not long—maybe five inches—but it’s fat, that dick. When I reach out to grip it, feverishly hot in the palm of my soap-scented hand, it’s like gripping a baseball bat. He grunts when I squeeze. Nods. I want that dick as much as he wants me to have it.

I jerk my neck in the direction of the first stall. My erection still flopping as I walk, I stride inside it. When he follows, I push the door shut behind him. No one’s going to see us in there. The partitions connect to the floor. There’s no crack beneath the door to peek under. I let my sweat shorts drop to the marble floor, discard them, and sit on the toilet. He in turn steps out of his swim trunks. He’s naked in front of me save for his sandals.

We’re thinking in sync. When my mouth opens, he thrusts forward and fills it with dick. The dude tastes good. He’s been in the pool, I’m guessing by the faintly chlorinated taste of his skin. But that chemical taste is rapidly replaced by the all-organic tang of his precum as it begins to ooze in thick globs onto my tongue. In and out he thrusts, using my lips and mouth as his personal pussy. He grabs my hands and pulls them up to his chest, where he coaxes my fingers to pinch his tits. Beneath the soft flesh I hit the metal of his piercings. He grunts again, then growls as he pistons his meat more fiercely into my mouth.

Someone opens the restroom door. We hear it close. The noise doesn’t stop us, nor the reality of the intruder just on the other side of our partition. Whoever it is can’t see us. They can’t stop us. My eyes water as the man seems determined to puncture my gullet with his stiff rod. While my left hand continues to torture his nipple, my right cups his balls. Moves between his legs. Starts to finger the crack behind it.

The move drives him wild. He’s yanking me up and dropping to his knees. The sounds of someone washing hands at the sinks right outside our door cover up the greedy slobbering he makes as he gobbles down on my cock. The fucker deep-throats it expertly to the base, lets it pop out of the tight ring of his throat, and then goes down on it once more. I’m trying, more or less successfully, to suppress my groans of pleasure. While he sucks and slavers, he grips his own meat more tightly than I dared. He squeezes it hard. Chokes it, really, until it turns purple.

I sit down on the toilet again. My turn. Eagerly he shoves his cock back in my mouth. I let one of my hands caress his thick, shaved nuts while the other explores his ass. He’s more than willing to widen his stance and give me access. I continue sucking while I squeeze his muscular butt. My finger roam back into his crack. Nudge at his hole. Start to edge their way in.

It’s the last bit that pushes him over the edge. He grabs my skull with both hands and yanks my face down on his dick. I feel my cheeks fill up with his cum. It seems like an impossible amount. I must look like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter. After a long, long time he backs off. He’s still letting my lips rub the crown of his head, as the last bits of cum dribble out.

When he pulls out, I swallow my prize. It’s slightly sour stuff, but I’m still hungry for it. He watches me gulp it down, then grins. “Thanks,” he says. One of his hands instinctively reaches out to caress my head. He ruffles the hair, grins again. “See you later, maybe.”

I nod. My head is still swimming. The entire encounter has lasted maybe all of five minutes. I wait as he swings open the stall door and steps out; I shut it closed again. I myself wait until I hear the restroom door close and his footsteps vanish down the hall. Then I pull up my shorts—though the fabric doesn’t do a thing to conceal the boner still pronging out to my right—wash my hands once more, and make my own exit.

I pass him on the way back to my own chair. He’s with another man, allowing the guy to reapply sunscreen to his back. Boyfriends? It’s possible. He’s wearing sunglasses now, but I think I clock his head following me as I pass.

Back at my chair, I adjust my pants, pick up my book, and settle down. It’s still warm. Still sunny. This, I think to myself. This is what a vacation should be all about.

M.J., Part One

His name sounded like a weighty bludgeon of patriotic shout-outs: Franklin Madison Jefferson Washington. To me, he was always M.J.

I met him on my knees in the second floor restroom of my college library, where I spent a lot of my cold winter nights. The restroom’s most active hours were shortly after dinner, when students and staff would casually pour into the building, disappear into carrels, and settle beneath the blanket of white silence to study. I would usually start the evening at my favorite spot—the desk with a direct view of the men’s restroom door, just down the aisle of British literature to its left. From there I could listen to the door’s creaky hinge and peek down the aisle to see who was entering and leaving. If some of the more notorious campus trolls were out and about that night, I could stay in my seat and get some studying done. If it was someone hot, all I had to do was scoop up my books into my backpack. I could be in the heat of the action in ten seconds flat.

Watching was usually my goal, anyway. The reality was that I was so perpetually horny that I’d spent an hour studying—maybe—and then finally give in to temptation and spend the rest of my night in the restroom until I got laid, or satisfied . . . the latter took a lot more work than the former. It was on one of those evenings when I met M.J. I’d already given a couple of handjobs to unknown men beneath the marble partition when the door creaked open. There were only two stalls in that particular restroom; I liked to sit in the first of them, so I could peek at the men as they walked into the room. It had a perfect view of the urinal opposite. That’s where M.J. stood when he entered. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches, a pair of pressed khakis, and a button-down shirt. The faculty uniform of our institution, in other words. Over his shoulder hung a khaki-colored soft briefcase from Land’s End, with all four of his initials embroidered beneath the handle.

He looked over his shoulder. Stared at me, through the crack in my doorway. I saw he was a short man. A very, very old man. (He was forty-three. Which is younger than I am now.) Bearded. Grizzled and gray at the ends. His forearms were covered with a thick, thick coat of fur, which I interpreted then to mean the rest of his body was hairy as well. (It was.) I really went after the older guys at that time, so I had no problems in opening my stall door and showing him that I was hard and stroking.

He moved over to show me his hard cock. It wasn’t big, by any means. Four and a half inches, maybe, and I suspect I’m being generous in my imagination. I didn’t care. I wasn’t a size queen. I opened up and sucked him through the fly of his khakis, as he ran his fingers through my hair and looked at me fondly. He came quickly, shooting a sour load into my throat and then lingering in my wet mouth until he’d softened again.

I’d closed the door to the stall and had wiped down my mouth when he tapped gently at it again. He’d zipped up and washed his hands, and he looked over the top of the door down at me. There was a torn-off slip of paper hand towel between his fingers. “Are you a student?” he wanted to know. I nodded and told him I was. “Can you come to my office tomorrow at two?”

It was an unusual request, but I didn’t see any reason why not. The paper he handed me had an office number in Morton Hall on it. I did some recognizance that evening and found out not only his name, but from the department newsletter hanging in the hallway that M.J. was a visiting professor in Economics that year. It was the best I could do, twenty years before Google.

When I appeared in his office door shortly after two, he looked up from his desk hastily. I suspected that he’d been anticipating my arrival for some minutes. “Come in, come in,” he said hastily. “I hope this wasn’t too much of a bother.”

I told him it wasn’t, and asked if I should close the door.

He looked shocked at the suggestion, rightfully picking up on the fact I assumed he wanted my mouth again. I’d blown and taken fucks from several other professors over the previous year. There was no reason to presume he was any different from them. “Good heavens no,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for oral attentions last night.”

That’s the way M.J. always talked, when he spoke about sex. He sounded like someone’s maiden aunt, or a Victorian spinster reflexively smoothing down the antimacassars of her spotless parlor. “You mean the blow job?” I asked.

He looked horrified that I’d refer to it by name. “I wanted to thank you with a gift.” From one of his desk drawers he pulled out a box. I recognized it as a gift box from one of the tiny Williamsburg men’s stores in Merchant’s Square. He pushed it across the table. “Open it,” he said.

I’d been expecting more dick. Not a gift box. I pulled I across the desk and opened it. Inside was a sweater. It was a wool sweater of black and yellow horizontal stripes, each roughly four inches wide. It was pretty hideous. “Try it on,” he said.

Now, in college I was not the best dresser. I was also not the richest kid around. I was working two jobs in the afternoons and on weekends in order to pay for my expenses, and clothes were not at the top of my priorities list. I had three pairs of corduroys between which I alternated, and a couple of clean but worn cotton shirts. M.J. stood up from his desk, shut the door most but not all of the way, and out of sight of the hallway, tugged me into the sweater. It had one of those tight necks that raked all the skin cells from my face as it went over the head.

“There,” he said. “Very handsome.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic comb, which he ran through my hair. When my hair was longer, it always parted itself naturally in the middle. He made a very artificial part on the right side, and swept the hair over my forehead. “What do you think?”
I looked in the little mirror hanging on the back of his office door. I thought I looked like a Young Republican. And in that sweat, I thought I looked like an enormous bumblebee. “I guess it’s okay,” I said.

“You look very handsome this way. Now, I am going to pick you up tonight at seven-thirty and I am going to take you to my place,” he announced. “Where’s your dorm?” he asked. I told him. I was living at the very back of the campus, in housing supposed to be for creative artists. “Now, I want you to be waiting out front for me, and I want you to comb your hair nicely and wear this sweater and a pair of nice pants so I can take you out to dinner.”

I’m afraid I gaped. This sounded like a date. Men didn’t date me. Men fucked me. I’d never been on a date. Somehow I stammered out an okay.

“And wear nice shoes,” he added. I figured I had a pair of Top Siders that would suffice.

Then the next thing I knew, I was being ushered out of M.J.’s office and deposited in the hallway. “No sneakers!” he warned me, before sending me on my way.

I guessed I had a date.

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.

Alma Mater

I hadn't intended to visit my old college campus last week, when I was visiting my dad in Virginia. Considering that the temperature soared up above one hundred every day I was down there, walking around the dusty tourist town in the sun was one of the last things I wanted to do.

My father, who's also an alumnus of the college, wanted to take advantage of my chauffeur services. So I found myself on a Wednesday morning driving along I-64, past the long avenues of trees overgrown with kudzu, in the direction of the little college where we'd both spent a congenial four years of our lives.

Once we were off the tourist tracks, the campus itself was hushed and silent, its bricked walkways empty. Its picturesque buildings radiated heat, its expansive sunken garden baked in the sun. We kept to the shade, walking around the oldest part of campus, ducking into the air conditioned buildings when we could. Some of the dorms were under construction, their approaches cordoned off and inaccessible; it looked as if they were having air conditioning installed before the school year started. At the height of the day, though, there weren't any construction workers around. They were either all indoors, or they'd knocked off early because of the heat.

Toward the end of our circuit we stopped off at what used to be the old campus center, when my father and I were both students. It's an administrative building now, but it's air-conditioned, and provides a convenient cut-through on the way back to the commercial district. As my father stood with his face pressed against the glass of a former cafeteria, reminiscing about days of old, I stood with my arms crossed and enjoyed the cool. The doors from outside opened and a pair of men walked in. They were both dressed in polo shirts. The taller of the two, a goateed middle-aged guy with a former jock's build and an unflattering pair of navy pleated Dockers, caught my eye.

We looked at each other for a moment before he started talking to his colleague. And they were colleagues. I guessed from their dusty clothing and clipboards and holstered cell phones that they were some kind of contractors or construction supervisors, probably connected to the dorm renovations just down the street. My dad continued to peer and talk to me while the goateed guy and I continued to exchange glances. It was pretty obvious he was more interested in me than in the conversation he was pretending to have. At last he and the other guy parted, waving their clipboards in parting.

The colleague headed off toward the back of the building. The dark-haired goateed guy walked down the hallway towards which my father was headed, now that he was finally done telling me about the old days when he'd been a student waiter. As my father rambled on, the man looked over his shoulder several times, catching my eyes with every turn of his head. Then he diverged from his path and entered the men's room.

Now, I'd had so much sex in that men's room when I was an undergrad. I'd gone there lunchtimes to suck dick. I'd hung out there in the evenings, getting laid so I wouldn't have to go back to my dorm room. The last time I visited the college, I'd fucked an undergraduate in there. I wasn't about to pass up this opportunity. "Hey," I told my dad. "Why don't you head to the bookstore?" I gestured in the direction just across the street. "I'll meet you there. I have to hit the bathroom."

"I can wait," said my father.

"I need to poop," I amended. Because there is no information that is private or sacred in my family, you know. My dad, of an age to appreciate the merits of a good poop, nodded with understanding and ambled in the direction of the door and the campus bookstore.

I made sure he was on his way, then nudged open the men's room door with my shoulder, and headed in.

The restroom was always built for play. To get to the urinals and toilets, one has to push open the noisy door and walk a distance through the U-shaped enclosure, past the sinks and waste bins. The noise and distance gives a cruiser plenty of time to assume a less compromising position, if interrupted in the midst of the act. I walked to the urinal and unzipped, then pulled out my dick. The whiff of sexual intrigue had already made me swell. A few strokes brought me to hardness.

He occupied the first of the toilet stalls. It was the only one with a closed door. I could tell by the play of shadows inside that he was bending over to look at my feet, to see if I was the one who'd followed him in. After a moment he stood up casually, as if pulling up his pants to go. Our eyes met over the top of the marble partition. I turned to show him my hard dick.

He stared for a moment. Then he opened his stall door.

I stepped around, still stroking. Those awful Dockers were around his ankles, hanging around a pair of white athletic socks. The clipboard was balanced on the toilet paper dispenser. His dick was short, and fat, and uncut. With his left hand, he peeled back the skin to expose a purple, swollen head. I caught a glimpse of the wedding band he wore, for the first time. "Fuck," he whispered. "You are hung."

I lifted my chin in appreciation of the compliment, still stroking. Instead of saying anything, though, I merely pushed my hips forward. I wasn't there for conversation.

He took the hint and, after sitting down on the toilet seat and looking up at me for approval, he opened his mouth and took my dick in his mouth. The guy had a bushy goatee that rubbed against my balls in a pleasant way. I sighed, leaned back, and let him go down on me.

The man's phone started to go off in its holster as he sucked. His hands left my nuts and shaft to scramble for the switch that would shut it off. He didn't stop sucking, though. When he had the use of his hands back, he lifted my dick and jacked it while he nuzzled my nuts. His tongue darted out and licked beneath my balls; he ground his nose and mouth against my junk as tightly as he could before he started sucking once more.

I was keeping an ear out for the sound of the exterior door, the entire time. I knew I couldn't take long, so luckily the randomness and sudden heat of this encounter was already causing a load to simmer in my nuts. The contractor must have felt the same, because I felt a sudden spray of warm goo over my legs and onto my sandals. He'd shot on me; sperm continued to leak out of that furiously purple head as he grabbed my dick at the root, squeezed hard, and sucked me roughly.

When I came, it was with a violent buckling of my knees. He grabbed my ass to support me, spreading more of his stray seed on my skin. My sperm went into his mouth, though. His face contorted in pleasure, or effort, as he ate every drop. His face was wet with his own spit when finally he pulled off, and let my dick drop and swing between my legs. "Fuck," he said, eyes wide. "I got my stuff all over you."

Again his hands scrambled, this time for some toilet tissue. He dabbed at my legs, my ass, and at the tops of my sandals, murmuring apologies all the while. I didn't listen. I rubbed his hair affectionately after I pulled up my shorts, and went on my way.

My dad was browsing through the T-shirts at the bookstore when I joined him a couple of minutes later. "That didn't take long," he said.

"Nope," I agreed.

"Sometimes when you've got to do it," he said, "you've got to do it."

He was obviously still talking about pooping. "That's the truth," I agreed fervently.

"Feels better after, too."

We meant different things, of course. But I couldn't agree more.

Spooked

The beach was empty, save for the seagulls strutting up and down its length. Their proud chests puffed out as they screeched and cawed at each other as they argued over scraps of torn crab in the sands. The tide was low; the water lapped far out, leaving behind rippled and smooth sands. The air hung over me like a blanket, wet and cool. From inland the prevailing wind blew, warm and comforting. From the direction of Long Island, barely visible beneath the clouds across the Sound where the storms still flickered in the distance, the wind would sometimes shift, dropping the temperature by a few degrees. Every time, it raised goose pimples on my skin.

The woman at the gate had given me a surprised look when I'd pulled up and presented my resident's pass. Apparently she was used to bad weather keeping people home, this late in the day. But I'd been looking forward to going to the beach that evening and had been disappointed when thunderstorms had blown through the area during my dinner. They'd disappated to the south while I was washing up, though. The sand was already wet, I figured. And mostly I enjoy walking up and down in the surf, anyway. That could be done just as easily post-storm as in better weather, right?

I was the only one who seemed to think so. That's why, for a very long time, I had the beach entirely to myself. I squelched in the shallow waters and let the sand and the waters of the Sound gush between my toes. I enjoyed the sensual sensation of the wind and my gooseflesh, and of the giddy, almost naughty feeling of being entirely alone in a place that usually was overrun with people. For the better part of an hour, I walked and enjoyed the solitude.

A few people began to venture out before sunset. One older gentleman with a surfboard and a paddle floated out to the deeper end of the swimming area, stood on his board, and began to row himself around the island. An elderly woman came out onto the sands and began delicately to pick her way across, wrinkling her nose every time we passed at the seaweed and storm flotsam nudging against our ankles.
And there was a blonde boy, preppy and pretty, of nineteen or twenty, who hung around the concession area. He nodded at me the first time we passed, his frank blue eyes staring into mine without fear, or hesitation. I'd just met and fucked the Latin kid in the mall the day before; the sight of his eyes staring so candidly into mine made my dick twitch. I walked down to the rocky end of the public beach and waited for a moment, keeping him in the corner of my eye the entire time. I watched as, hands plunged deep into his oversized trunks, he ambled around the picnic area and kicked up sand with his bare feet. Occasionally it seemed as if he were looking in my direction.

Well, I thought to myself. Nothing ventured. . . .

On any ordinary day at the beach it would've been too crowded and hectic to cruise. There wasn't a soul around, though. The concession stand was closed. Only the boy and the old woman and the paddle-boarder, who was now a speck on the horizon, were around. So I walked back toward the boy and the restroom beyond the concessions, nodding at him and staring him in the eyes as I passed.

Those blue eyes met mine again. He was a pretty boy, with tousled, thick hair and fine, pale features. He stared at me soulfully, as if he wanted to say something, but didn't trust his lips.

I must have had my mojo back.

The men's room at the beach is a decidedly grungy affair. The urinals overflow with every flush, spreading water and waste alike toward a drain in the middle of the floor and leaving the cement enclosure stinky. There's usually so much traffic from the beach, though, slopping in salt water and sand that it's tough to tell where all the wetness is coming from. I walked past the single shower enclosure and over to the urinal, my heart pounding, my dick hardening in my shorts.

Like the day before, I wasn't at all surprised when the boy followed me in. I looked casually over my shoulder and caught his glance. His lips parted slightly.

I was about to swing around and show him my hard-on, when without warning, the door to the shower enclosure opened. I hadn't even realized anyone was in there. An older man stepped out—he had to be somewhere in his sixties, and his physique had taken on the general appearance of a pillar candle left forgotten to slump and bulge, on a hot day in the direct sun. His face was red from too much exposure to weather, and he wore an oversized pair of glasses. I'd turned back around at the first sound he'd made, but when I looked over my shoulder again, the old man was standing with his madras shorts around his knees, hovering over a pair of unfortunate black socks pulled up to his calves, and a pair of sandals. His dick, I had to admit, was pretty impressive. I would've guessed it to be a solid seven inches, and thicker than mine by half. The head was so big and bald (like its owner) that it almost looked as if the old man had been carrying a smaller version of himself in his pocket.

The boy vanished. Like a frightened deer, when the man had stepped out of the shower, he'd bolted out the door.

"I've been trying to get him for a half-hour now," creaked the old man, shaking his head. "Pretty boy, too. Think he'll be back?"

I shrugged. Part of me was annoyed that my sure thing had been ruined by the man's unexpected intrusion. Another part of me realized that in this game, just about anything is fair game, and it's unreasonable to get one's hopes too dashed.

"What you got there?" asked the old man. "You want it sucked?"

I like older men. I wasn't too attracted to this one, though. "Nah," I said, then politely lied, "I'm not really into the public thing."

"Okay," he said, still playing with his mini-me. "Thought I'd ask. Hey, you think that kid will come back in?"

I didn't think he would, no, not with that guy letching after him. I was wrong, though. I'd zipped up and was washing my hands with the boy made a return. He stepped into the men's room and peeked around the corner as if trying to figure out whether I'd hooked up with the older man or not. Our eyes locked once more, and his mouth opened. This time, I was sure he was going to say something.

"Hey kid, you want a blow job?" The old man had withdrawn into the shower stall when I'd started to wash my hand, though he'd left the door ajar. Like a perverted jack-in-the-box, though, he popped out at the sight of the boy. "Let me suck your boy dick off."

And once again, I saw the youth bolt out the door. He wasn't running at top speed toward the parking lot, but he certainly would have blown past all the casual strollers on a usual beach day.

"Damn," said the man. "All I wanted to give him was a blow job. Something spooked him. What do you think it was?"

I shrugged, privately rolled my eyes, and exited.

The kid drove past me in a battered old lime-green Wrangler as I went to rinse the sand from my feet under a spigot at the edge of the parking lot. He stared at me, slowing down a touch, and lifted his left hand from the wheel slightly, in a private wave. He then gunned the accelerator and vanished down the narrow access road and back to town. It was the last I saw of him.

Spooked. I'm pretty sure I know by whom.

Like That

I first saw him in the pit, the odd centerpiece of my new local mall, a deep, steep arrangement of carpeted risers around which three stories of stores and a bank of elevators loom. He was sprawled out on one of the ledges there, young and lean, no more than nineteen or twenty, his knees pointed in impossible opposite angles. One of them, bony and hairy, protruded through the ripped denim of his jeans. His hair was thick and dark, and so glossy that the mall's soft lighting left a blue sheen on its black surface. His eyebrows were broad and arresting, as if a pair of large and confident thumbs had smudged quantities of charcoal in twin lines across his brow. He smiled like a sphinx that knew something the rest of didn't. At nothing in particular he stared. He seemed cocky, and together, and yet slightly vulnerable, in the way that young men sometimes do.

I had my notebook computer under my arm and was on my way to the Apple Store for a little checkup. Even on my best day I find the new mall confusing, with its seven levels and its bewildering, wrap-around parking deck; I've managed to figure out exactly one way to park and enter the place through its very lowest level, and I've stuck to it ever since. As I took the first of several escalators to the floor I needed, I couldn't help but keep my eye on the Latin kid lounging in the mall's center.

When I was leaving, a trio of black nannies in charge of blond toddlers had taken up residence on the ledge. Strollers and diaper bags had taken his place. I supposed it was unreasonable to hope to see him again; I'd been in the store for nearly an hour. I took my escalators back down to the lowest level of the pit, and turned in the direction of the cavernous entrance to the parking deck.

But then there he was again, outside the men's room. He sat on vinyl-padded sofa immediately opposite, his legs spread wide, his arms crossed over his clean, white-and-blue basketball sleeveless basketball shirt. The muscles of his arms were light, but firm.

I diverted from my path. He looked up at me with surprise when I walked past in the direction of the men's room door. He looked me up and down, in my camo shorts and my skimpy blue T-shirt. Our eyes met; his bored into mine.

I was already three-quarters hard when I reached the urinal inside. That hadn't been a casual exchange of glances between two strangers. It had been a look of intent. I wasn't at all surprised when the door opened less than thirty seconds later. I turned my head to see him sauntering in, one slender hand already stuffed down the front of his jeans. He stepped up next to me at the urinal, unbuttoned, and unzipped. Then he stood there, hand still rubbing the dark skin of his flat belly, as the two of us stared at each other.

I stepped back and showed him my hard-on. He turned to display his. When it came to size, I was the winner by a long shot; his cock had skin so dark it was almost black, and a hooded head that was already sticky with pre-cum, but it couldn't have been more than five inches. "Damn, pa," he whispered as he stared at mine. His fingers danced over the length of his own meat. "You got a big white dick."

All I did was nod. He took it as the instruction I intended. His eyes stayed upon mine as he lowered himself to his knees. With a worshipful expression that made me melt, he opened his beautiful lips and wrapped them around my shaft. Only when the head of my dick hit the back of his throat did he close his lids and give in to the pleasure of sucking.

I didn't know for how long he could've been active, or who'd taught him, but the kid sucked dick like he'd been doing it for years. He opened wide and took the entire thing into his mouth and throat, opening his gullet to accept me with absolutely no gag reflex.

We were in what had to be the quietest part of the mall, but I was still very aware that at any moment the door could open and someone would find us like this. "Come on," I told him, motioning in the direction of the toilet stalls. I held open the door to the largest, and the furthest away from the door.

He followed without question. "I need that big dick, pa," he whispered to me. Up close, I could detect a faint trace of mustache on his upper lip.

I closed the stall door behind us. There was enough room for one of us to maneuver our feet out of sight, should someone come in. I'd expected him to sit on the toilet and resume sucking, but instead he had loosened his jeans so that his ass hung out over the dropped waist. It was smooth, and creamy, and fucking beautiful. A faint line of dark hair fringed the crack. "Where do you need it?" I asked him. My hand reached out to stroke his butt.

He gasped, and closed his eyes, then sighed. He didn't have to answer the question. Suddenly it had become rhetorical.

I wasn't planning to linger in that men's room for long. I spat on my hand and rubbed what was there into the warmest part of his butt, already slightly moist from his natural sweat. His head dropped and hung low. I pulled down his jeans and let them drop to his ankle, then spat again to slick up my shaft.

He almost cried out when I entered him. His head jerked up and back and his eyes closed in pain. He bit down on his lower lip and huffed out air through the corners of his mouth. Then he opened his eyes and looked back over his shoulder as if he hated me. When I got all the way in, he let out a groan. "You so big you hurt, pa!" he growled, clawing onto the handicapped rail for support.

I held myself at my deepest point for a moment for him to grow accustomed to the size. He hadn't been fucked much, I could tell. He was too tight. He didn't push me away, though. Nor did he try to wrestle himself off my dick. He bent over and grit his teeth and encouraged me to get on with it.

It was as necessary for him as it was for me.

When I started thrusting, he loosened up. I could tell by the way his body relaxed from hard right angles into soft curves that he was beginning to enjoy it. When he looked back over his shoulder a second time, it wasn't with hate in his eyes, but love. "Yeah," he whispered, his eyes droopy and half-closed with adoration. "Like that. Just like that."

His hairless balls swung low as I plunged in and out of his hole. He straightened his back to pull his face to mine. His pillowy lips met mine in a light kiss; his tongue darted out to taste the inside of my mouth.

"Like that," he breathed again, over and over. "Like that, yeah. Like that." He bit his lower lip, enjoying it now.

I held his slim hips in my hands and pounded. Outside the men's room I could hear voices and footsteps, but no one violated our privacy in the way I was violating his hole.

I came swiftly and smoothly, announcing its arrival with a quickening of breath and a heightening of my thrusts. When I was close, he started jacking furiously at his dick. We shot at the same time, me deep inside his hole, him all over the toilet seat. For one short moment afterward, we both paused as the blood left our dicks and returned to our brains. Then he pulled himself off me, yanked up his jeans in a swift movement, and exited the stall without a look back at me.

I was cleaning up the cum he'd left splattered on the seat with wadded-up toilet paper when I heard him laugh aloud. "Damn," he said, as he yanked open the men's room door to exit. "Now that's the way it's supposed to be laid down!"

It was a last parting gift between two men whose paths crossed at the mall.

Old Haunts

My time in this part of the country is limited. I’ve known that fact for almost a year now, but only in the past month have I been able finally to assign a date to the end point. I move in less than two weeks, so if there’s anyone I want to see, any place I want to revisit, the days are running out.

I woke up Saturday to a beautiful spring morning, one of those golden Michigan days in which the sun seemed to caress the new leaves on the trees, and for which the skies had clarified themselves to the intense blue of a child’s paintbox. I didn’t want to spend the day stuck indoors, packing, so I decided to take a nostalgia tour.

I hopped in my car and visited the first house I owned, far on the city’s east side. I’d managed to move out when prices in the area had tripled, yet the area was edging into decline. Driving by the old home, which now has bars on the downstairs windows and a metal gate over the front and side doors, very nearly took the sweet edge from my mood. No matter how valuable it is to be reminded of the bad things we’ve avoided, sometimes, I didn’t want to spend much time in a deteriorating neighborhood. So I went back downtown, to the university for which I’d originally moved, for graduate school.

I snapped photos of my first apartment building, and the classrooms where my department had offices. I revisited the department for which I’d worked temporarily, when I decided to regroup and take my life in a different direction. I snapped a few shots of the buildings where I’d spent evening after evening during the first blush of my off-and-on teaching career, lecturing about the great English novel in front of students who were only there to fulfill a humanities writing credit.

Then I revisited the more interesting spots.

First I revisited the oldest building on campus. Back when I was a student, it had been a run-down, decrepit, and frankly scary place full of twisting hallways that never went where you thought they ought. It was basically the Winchester Mystery House of academia, and an amazing place for sex back then. There was a rumor that the behavioral sciences sciences, during the nineteen-fifties and sixties, had run a decades-long study of men’s cruising behavior in the basement restroom there, and I’d had it on the very good authority of a university building engineer that there was indeed an observation room (long in disuse) on the other side of the wall-long mirrors that hung over the array of urinals. It had been possible to walk in there at any time of day or night, when the building was open, and score dick, when I was a student.

I peeked into the auditorium where one of my tricks, a university psychologist from the counseling office, had taken me after we’d met in the men’s room. He’d locked the doors and fucked me on the lecture table in the dimly-lit room until we’d been interrupted by a janitor who wanted to empty the trash cans.

I checked out the old restrooms where I’d cruised and met the Spaniard who’d earned me the nickname of Beef Boy, and of the romantic actor who’d broken my heart when he didn’t call me as he'd promised, after our mind-blowing fuck. I visited the basement stalls that had been the absolute last hurrah of my career as a bottom, where I was fucked repeatedly by the quarterback of the football team. (And since I know that sounds like a cliche, I’d like to point out that the university had a football team that even the football team members laughed at.)

But mostly I went to the university library, where I’d had more encounters than anywhere else.
The library had as many as four active restrooms over my history there. There had been the secluded, tiny men’s rooms in the periodicals section stairwell, where sometimes the walls had been covered with so much profanity and scribbles of men seeking sex with each other that it was as complicated to comprehend and absorb as a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. There had been the larger restroom on the ground floor before, where for three years men flocked to take advantage of a large, smooth-edged gloryhole that some enterprising fellow had created with a circular router. I’d spend many a lunch hour in there, snacking on dick after dick, or feeding my cum to strangers who were no more than a curious, guarded eye and a mouth to me.

The gloryhole had been bolted over with sheet metal long ago—I could still see the rivets beneath layer after layer of paint that’s been applied since. And no trace of action remained there. In the last of the four restrooms, though, the one in the highest reaches of the library’s main section, I could immediately tell that the place was still used for sex. I hadn’t cruised there in a couple of years, since I haven’t been affiliated with the place in some time. But even though they’d painted the stalls over recently, they couldn’t erase the giant peep hole that someone had made in the metal partition, probably using nothing more than a bolt hole from some previous toilet paper holder, and a sharp, rigid object like a screwdriver.

I’d spent so much time in those stalls, both as a student, then as a staff member. I’d come there almost every lunch hour for weeks at a time, sometimes. I’d anticipate the first day of school with an ungodly glee, because it was the day that all the curious new students looking for action would appear, and I could feast all day long on freshman dick. I’d met long-term fuck buddies there, and relationships that lasted for longer than a restroom trick ought.

Remembering all that, and knowing it was the last time I’d see the place, made me want to spend a little time there. So I slipped into the farthest stall, dropped my shorts, and started to work on the erection that had started growing the moment I’d stepped into the place.

I’d only intended to stay for a moment or two, tops, to smell the smells, to hear the old familiar sound of the old-fashioned urinals being flushed with violent sweeps of water every five minutes. The campus had been nearly empty, on a summer semester Saturday. A few tour groups had been roaming across it, where guides walked backwards followed by nervous-looking youths in shorts and T-shirts. The library itself was even more deserted. To my great surprise, though, I heard the sounds of footsteps in the stone stairwell outside, followed by the swinging of the bathroom door. Someone walked in, paused, and then walked over to occupy the stall next to me.

My boner doubled in size.

I leaned forward and looked through the peephole. Almost immediately I saw a dark eye on the other side, a swoop of black eyebrow, and skin the color of caramel. Both he and I adjusted positions, trying to take in more details. I saw a fringe of dark hair on his upper lip—not thick enough yet to be called a mustache, but obviously a point of pride. There was a young Latin boy on the other side of that peephole, and he was cruising me. I stood up and showed off my dick in profile, stroking it, displaying its length. I could tell from the shadows on the tile that he was watching. Then I sat down again, leaned forward, and waited.

He stood up. The kid wore a striped polo shirt that was clearly too large for his lean, pole-like body. His dick was a dark sausage, the foreskin clustered around its tip giving it the impression of having been pinched off into shape when it had been formed. When he stroked for me, the skin pulled back slightly, displaying the wetness at its tip.

I dropped down my hand, letting it dangle beneath the partition. I would have jerked him gladly, even sucked him some. To my surprise, though, he pulled up his jeans. I heard his stall door open, and then saw his silhouette outside my own. When I opened the latch and let the door swing open, he was standing there, clutching his baggy jeans so they wouldn’t fall to his ankles, his hard dick jutting out over the open fly. His hair was cropped short. His eyes, the color of obsidian and just as shiny, regarded mine, and then he nodded, before staring at my dick once more.

I stood up. Almost immediately he dropped to his knees, right there on the tile. I didn’t know if he’d cruised that particular restroom before, but I made sure that if someone came in, I could close my stall door at a moment’s notice.

No one came in, though.

He sucked me like he’d been denied his favorite treat for far too long. Forgotten was his own dick, though it still jerked and dripped on its own, over the teeth of his zipper. His hands cupped my balls and his mouth consumed me. His eyelids closed in ecstasy, and he moaned and grunted to himself as he used my meat to fulfill the need he had, deep inside.

He was so damned pretty. His lips extended as far as they could to take in all my dick. I could have cum for him, easily.

And then he stood up. “Fuck me,” he said, turning around.

When he dropped his jeans and showed off his caramel-colored ass, I threw all caution to the wind. “Get in here,” I told him, and drew him into the stall.

I shut the door behind me and positioned him over the toilet. I’ve fucked men in toilet stalls before. It’s risky, and if anyone comes in, it requires one guy to perch atop the john while the other sits between his legs, and it requires waiting out whomever’s invaded the restroom. I thought the risk was worth it, this time.

His pants fell around his knees. His hole was hidden beyond a fringe of dark hair. I spat on my fingers and rubbed the impromptu lube over that hidden place, satisfied when he let out a grunt. My cock was angry—beet-red, engorged almost beyond recognition, ready to punch and spit. I entered him roughly, not really caring that he had to bite down and suppress an outright yell. Because I knew that within moments, his hole would start to grip and clutch my dick, pulling it more deeply inside.

My instincts were right. The pain was only momentary. He wedged his shoulder against the low hardware of the toilet and looked behind at me, eyes full of gratitude and—I might even say—love. This is what spur-of-the-moment sex was supposed to be. Spontaneous. Rough. We both wanted to feel it, to remember it, to know that despite the enforced silence and the need for secrecy, that we’d both made our marks in that stall. Just as every other man masturbating there for decades had left trails of sperm drying on the layers of industrial paint, we were leaving sexual psychic residue of our own, forged through heat and need and connection.

My own noises were limited to small grunts and the odd catch of breath; he panted and lifted his ass higher, higher, for me to penetrate and use. The soft sounds of my thighs slapping against that ass echoed across the men’s room. They were soon followed by a soft sigh as I released myself into him, and the rattle of the toilet seat as he too, came across it.

I pulled out, let my dick drop, and was happy to note it didn’t need rinsing. He still knelt on the toilet seat, hole gaping, dick dripping with sperm, his head resting against the cream-colored subway tiles of the wall. I pulled up my pants, tucked my three-quarters-hard dick into my shorts, buttoned, zipped, and stepped out of the stall.

I heard the sound of him ripping toilet paper from the dispenser as I washed my hands. He stepped out, adjusted and back to normal, as I pulled some paper to dry off. Our eyes met for a brief second, and we nodded at each other. Transaction complete.

I wouldn’t see him, or this place again. But we’d remember each other. Of that I was certain.

Nighttime at the Rest Stop

When I step into the men’s room, Monday night, the familiar scent of urine and floor cleaner assaults my nostrils. I breath it in, letting it fill my lungs, and inflate my dick. I’m already half-hard by the time I’m unzipped, and pissing into the closely-spaced floor-to-waist urinal. Once I’m done, I shake, and stroke, and wait. It doesn’t take long until I hear the tentative creak of the door leading to the parking lot, and the sound of footsteps.

New York City had been buffeted with high winds earlier that afternoon. I’d spent most of my Valentine’s Day sitting in LaGuardia, which had shut down all but one runway. My flight had been delayed by about three hours. I spent most of the long day planted in my seat in a super-crowded waiting area, afraid that if I’d gotten up to piss or grab some food that I’d lose the rare commodity that was my chair. By the time I hit my car, it’s late at night. I’m tired. I’m hungry. Common sense tells me to drive on home.

My dick tell me to drive to the rest stop on the way home, and take a break.

When the man walks into the room on soft leather soles, I’m glad I listened to my dick. He’s a short fucker—maybe all of five-foot-six, thirty-five or so. Broad-shouldered and thick-chested in a way that’s like a former muscle stud gone slightly soft. There’s some narrowing between his chest and his round, bulging ass, but not much. He’s wearing a pressed cotton shirt printed with broad stripes in aquatic colors, and a pair of dress slacks fastened by a glinting monogrammed belt buckle. His shaved head is as shiny as his expensive shoes. He’s a businessman, cruising the rest stop at nine-thirty at night.

He stands at the furthest urinal from me and hauls out his dick. It sprays a thick stream of piss against the porcelain. When I glance over, casually working over my hard meat in the recess of the urinal, I can see his thick mushroom head, his hairy nuts. I want that dick in my mouth.

He flips his meat when he’s done, gives me a look, and walks over to the sinks to wash his hands. I stuff my hard dick into my pants, zip up, and follow him there. We look at each other in mirror as we clean up. Our eyes are locked, save for the moments when they dip down to look at our bulges. He stands at a hand dryer across from the toilet stalls; I lounge by the one at the room’s other side. We rub our hands together, over and over, as if we’re both plotting Machiavellian schemes.

Then his machine shuts off. Still staring at me, he walks over to the toilet stall and disappears inside. I hear the clink of his belt buckle as it slams against the tiles.

I wait until my hands are dry. Casually I stroll over. His toilet stall door is open. He’s sitting on the john, legs spread, little hand wrapped around his short, thick meat. He’s whipped his tie up and over one shoulder, to keep it out of the way. One of his knees is propping open the door. He looks back at me, spread his legs more widely, and nods.

I look toward the men’s room entrance, then step forward.

His hands lunge for the snap of my jeans. He yanks down the denim and roughly tugs down my trunks. When my cock springs out, unleashed, his mouth envelops it. He’s hungry. He doesn’t give a shit who I am, or where I’m going. I’m some stranger in a rest stop with a big dick—a dick he wants. A dick he needs. He uses more teeth than I usually like, but from him it almost feels good. The gentle scraping gets me harder.

His eyes are closed as he sucks. Occasionally he’ll open them to look up at me, checking to see if I’m enjoying myself. Mostly, though, they’re shut tight. His face looks almost pained as he slurps up and down my shaft. It’s obviously how badly he’s wanted to suck.

Up and down his stubby shaft flies his fist. The two eggs below bounce up and down, flying furiously. The guy is seriously loving my dick. He gulps the shaft, then rubs his smooth face against it , eyes shut, mouth open and drooling.

There’s a sound outside. The door opens and shuts. I pull up my pants and prepare to bolt into the adjoining stall, but what I hear is the sound of tapping heels. He half-stands, fingers poised at the waistband of the pants around his ankles. But when we hear the women’s room door open, we relax. His eyes close again as he nurses at my dick.

My hand reaches for his ass. It’s a muscular, sexy round butt of a type I really like. When we connect, he turns around. He knows I want to see. He bends over the toilet, his hands on the wall. For the first time I notice the ring on his left hand. The tips of my fingers dip into his smooth, warm cleft. They nudge against his hole. My dick follows, nosing its way into the flesh and rubbing against the entrance. He groans, more loudly than he probably should for a public restroom. Somehow it only turns me on.

“You fuck bare?” he whispers.

I don’t reply. He already knows the answer. Instead I put a glob of spit on his hole and rub the head against the slickness, working it into the hole. He braces himself, and pushes back.

“I shouldn’t do it raw,” he whispers.

Again, I say nothing. I’m halfway in him now and not doing a damned thing save stand there. He’s the one backing up on it, taking the stranger’s raw dick more and more deeply into his most private place. He reaches the bottom of the shaft. There’s no more to take.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters. “Goddamn.” His breathing is shallow and labored. “You’re so big.”

When he starts to shake and shudder, I think it’s because he’s trying to deal with my length and girth. But no, he’s shooting. All over the toilet seat lands his seed. Onto the floor it spills as it flys from the tip of his dick. His wedding ring is covered with the stuff, a fact I note and find hot. Almost immediately my dick starts to slide from his hole as he pulls off me. It doesn’t matter. I’m shooting myself, onto his round butt, down his thighs. A hefty squirt lands into the wells of his pant legs, on the floor.

We can hear the tapping heels again as the stranger leaves the woman’s room. The noise brings us back to reality. I pull up my pants and button them before visiting the sinks again. He shuffles in the privacy of the stall for a moment before he emerges. His slacks have a large splotch of a wet stain in the back, where I shot. We watch each other as we wash up. When we leave, I’m walking ahead of him, but we exit at roughly the same time.

I watch him wander back to his SUV as I return to my own car. Our lights flick on in unison. He gives me a quick salute as he passes behind me on his way back to the freeway. A moment later, and he’s nothing more than a memory and a flash of lights across the horizon.

Then I’m off, back into the inky night, and homeward bound.

The Rest Stop at Dusk

I had an hour to go on the road, back to the home I hadn’t seen all weekend. It was dusk at the rest area, and the cars were gathering. I stuck my hands deep into my pockets not so much to hide the erection growing there as to adjust it so that it would be more visible. Then I stepped out of the car and walked past the parked vehicles and the staring eyes within them.

My visiting family was supposed to fly back home on the first day of the year. On new year’s eve, however, I discovered that instead of merely driving to the airport the next morning, I’d be making a twelve-hour trip to drive the family all the way to the east coast, then return again on my own. The trip out was miserable. The journey back, however, didn’t wear me down as much as I thought I would. So when I passed the rest area where occasionally I’ve been known to spread a little seed, I decided to stop.

At this time of day, during the rush hour home and after dark, almost every car held a single man in the driver’s seat. Some fiddled with their phones. Some pretended to be listening to their stereos. A few made no pretense why they were there. Their meaty hands rubbed over the bulges in their slacks as they cocked their heads and stared at me through the windshields. A couple I found unattractive; I avoided their glances as I passed. One kid caught my eye, though—a young guy with a pencil-thin mustache whose black knitted wool hat made his head look like a bullet. He leaned forward onto the steering wheel of his old Mustang to stare at me as I walked by. I held his glance for as long as was comfortable before I passed by his car and strolled up the sidewalk to the restroom.

The restroom urinals are right inside the men’s room door at this particular location, and the door’s always propped open. Anyone could poke a head around the corner from the waiting room and spy men peeing, if they really cared to. The outer doors protest loudly when they’re pulled open, however, and at this time of day there was very little foot traffic inside. The only person occupying the entire restroom was an older guy examining himself in the mirrors over the sinks, further into the washroom’s interior.

He was in his late fifties or early sixties, this guy, with a long braid of a dirty silver color hanging from beneath a distressed suede hat. His shirt was faded denim. That of his jeans was even more faded and worn. The boots he wore were pointy and so beaten that it was impossible to tell what color they once had been. He looked a little like Willie Nelson, in fact, though not as lean or likely to ask my assistance for FarmAid. He looked at me in the mirror, measuring me.

I stood at the innermost of the urinals and unzipped. It only took a few seconds for Willie Nelson to join me. He stood at the urinal next to mine, the tip of his booted foot nearly touching my black Converse. I didn’t even bother to pretend I was trying to pee. There was no need. Willie unzipped and pulled out a dick that made my eyes boggle. Soft, it had to be a good seven inches, and thicker than mine is hard; as it began to stiffen, I knew I was in for one of those rare massive dick sightings.

The thing was about ten inches when it finally stopped swelling and growing. He pulled back the hood from his monster and pointed it at me, giving me a broad, toothy grin. I nodded back, displaying my meat, as my eyes detected traces of yellow in his mustache and beard.

The outer doors swung. Willie and I took our places in front of the urinals, pushing our hips close to thrust our hard-ons into the shadows. Again, there was no need. The guy who joined us was the kid from the car, the one who’d stared at me on my trip in. He was wearing the Michigan white boy’s equivalent of hip-hop clothing—baggy pants with the waist hanging at the base of the ass, puffy winter coat, new sneakers with blinding white laces.

And he stared at me like he wanted to eat me alive.

Willie Nelson stepped back and displayed his dick again. He wasn’t exactly an attractive guy, but you don’t see dicks like his all that often. The kid’s eyes flicked from his massive erection to mine, and back again. He took a place next to Willie, his thumbs hooked into his pants pockets, the tips of his fingers rubbing the hard bulge they shrouded.

“You ever put out in a rig before?” Willie Nelson asked me. His voice was gruff. When he exhaled the words, he smelled of cigarettes and loneliness.

I nodded. I’d been fucked in a truck in a rest area the day I got my driver’s license.

“I bet you’d look real pretty in mine,” he said. The kid reached out and tried to wrap his right hand around the trucker’s dick. The fingers barely touched the base of his palm. His other hand reached out for mine and closed around it. His skin was ice cold. I reached out and cupped the kid’s crotch. I could feel his dick just beneath the denim of his baggy jeans, hard as metal and warm to the touch.

The trucker thrust his hand down the back of my jeans. His fingers snaked down my crack, probing for my hole. I was still clean from the morning’s shower; I let him do what he wanted. “Pretty little pink butthole on you, I bet. You want that, boy? You want this monster up in there?”

It was mentally tempting. And at my age, I don’t get called ‘boy’ very often. But it’s been too long since I was fucked, and I wasn’t going to be able to climb back on that bicycle with the trucker’s length and girth.

So I said nothing. I didn’t really need to. The trucker was stroking himself faster and faster, talking dirty to get himself off. “Legs spread, presenting that ass to me . . . shit. I bet you know what the fuck you’re doing, too. You know how to get a man like me off, huh?” The kid’s eyes glittered as they darted from me to the trucker. He ground his dick against my hand, but made no move to haul it out. “Yeah, sluttin’ your hole out to me, you fuckin’ whore, taking it like a bitch while I seed your little pucker, boy. You like that? You want that?”

The trucker used his free hand to squeeze his nipples through his shirt while he jacked himself rapidly, and then he jammed it back down my pants to connect with my hole again. My own dick was hard and wet at the tip, where a bead of precum had formed and attached itself to the kid’s wrist. The shiny filament connecting us glistened in the florescent light. The trucker’s head tilted back as he stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His finger shoved inside me slightly, but not very far. He grunted, and bucked.

When his load hit the back of the urinal, it did so with a hollow metallic collision, spraying out in one massive gush that immediately began to drip down the porcelain. A much smaller second dribble followed, barely making it out the tip. The pencil-mustached kid stared as if he couldn’t believe his eyes; almost immediately when it was done, he looked me in the eye, gave my dick one final squeeze, and scampered like a frightened bunny. Willie Nelson withdrew his hand from the back of my pants, zipped up looking vaguely embarrassed, and shuffled over to the sink to wash.

And I stuffed my erection down the right leg of my jeans, fastened and collected myself, and walked back to my car. Pair after pair of eyes followed me from the single men in their vehicles, parked in the shadows in the lot. I still felt them coming in my direction as I locked the doors and pulled out my phone.

I tapped out a text message to Spencer. I really need to engage in rambunctious sexual intercourse with you at your earliest opportunity, I wrote him.

You’re back in town? he wrote back immediately. What time? I told him to meet me at my place in ninety minutes.

And then I drove home with an erection that lasted until I saw him.

Restroom Lunch

The only thing I knew about the guy was that his online name was SexInPublic, that he had a couple of photos showing a beefy, hairy body and a nice mouth fringed with fur, and that judging by his profile, we both liked to cruise the same places. Would love to run into you at the mall restroom, he emailed me out of the blue earlier this week, naming the mall where I do most of my hooking up when I’m in that kind of mood. Damn nice cock—bet you deliver a hell of a load, too.

It does. Want to suck it tomorrow at 11? I wrote him back. Upstairs or down?

Upstairs, he decided. Can’t wait to wrap my lips and throat around that dick of yours.

Short, simple, and to the point, was the correspondence. If only it were all that easy. There was something direct and honest about it, too—at least to the point that I didn’t feel the need to doubt that he’d show. I left my house twenty minutes early, drove several miles north to the mall, parked outside, and walked in. When I pushed open the men’s room door in the quiet corner behind the coffee shop, it was precisely eleven o’clock.

And he was waiting in the handicapped stall next to the one I chose. When I dropped my shorts and looked beneath the partition, I saw a pair of long, shiny square-tipped leather shoes protruding from a pair of frayed designer jeans. On the tiles I saw a shadow lurch forward, as if the guy next to me were bending over and down.

I tapped my left foot. Immediately in response he tapped his own toe, several times, up and down, moving it closer to mine. I leaned down and looked under the partition and saw a man’s head craning down to do the same; I could tell his hair was short and dark. Our eyes met briefly, but when someone invaded the quiet sanctity of the men’s room from outside, we both sat up and resumed more normal postures.

While the intruder pissed in a urinal, I stroked myself hard while looking around the back of the partition, using the shiny marble tiles as a reflective mirror. My buddy was also stroking himself, I judged by his arm motions. I watched as he removed his eyeglasses and set them on the box holding rolls of toilet paper. The guy at the urinal stepped back, triggering the auto-flush. We listened as he washed and dried his hands.

The moment the room was clear again, the guy next to me was on all fours. I could tell he wore a crisply-pressed cotton baby blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up; an expensive gold watch adorned his furry right wrist. I knelt down on the tiles, my dick stiffening as his left hand grabbed for my dick. His wedding ring was thick, gold, and sported a large stone in its flat face.

I suspected that, when he yanked my dick under the stall and stuffed it in his mouth, he wasn’t thinking about his pretty wife.

My left hand gripped the toilet seat, and my right the top of the roll dispenser as I pivoted my knees beneath the partition. The cold metal pressed into the top of my pelvis as he pulled as much of me as possible underneath, gobbling down on my dick. I was ready to withdraw, silently and swiftly, in the case of another intruder, but at the same time, he had total and complete access to the parts he wanted so badly.

And he went to town on them, too. I could feel slobber cascading down my shaved nuts and tickling the underside of my asshole before dripping on the floor. He would deep-throat my meat like a starving man and try not to gag on my length, then surface for air and gasp before going down again faster than a drowning man with bricks in his pockets. “Oh yeah,” I grunted, as he did all the right stuff to my dick.

Someone came in. With practiced calm I levered my hips out and up, and then settled onto the toilet seat. My friend did the same, lifting himself from his huddled position on the floor without any sound more than a few shifting clothes. We both waited for the new intruder to leave; I put some more spit on my dick and ran my fist up and down the shaft while the guy peed, knowing that my buddy was watching me through the crack behind the partition.

When the second intruder left, my buddy was back on the floor again, not even bothering to keep his pristine shirt off the grubby tiles. He stuck his head all the way beneath the partition and looked up at me. I could see now that he was a good-looking man—perhaps older than he advertised in his profile, but an attractive guy nonetheless. “That’s the most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen,” he whispered at me. His hand reached out to run his hands over my hairy legs.

I just nodded. I had the heels of my sneakers together, with my camo shorts bunched around them. My knees were spread as far as they’d go, and I double-fisted my big dick while he watched. I used all the same techniques I employ during my cam shows—using my full fist at different angles, grabbing my nuts with one hand and pulling them as far as they’d go, and pursing my lips like I was close to orgasm—which I honestly was, showing off. “I want it in my ass,” he said.

“Now?” I raised my eyebrows.

“Next time,” he promised. I just grunted and nodded, and then stuffed the tip of my right index finger into my slit. I withdrew a heavy bead of precum that left a long, sticky tail as I pulled it away and shoved it in my mouth.

I thought he was about to faint when he saw that. “Fuck,” he said. “I’ve gotta come.”

I leaned forward and offered my left hand. Immediately he straightened up and thrust his knees beneath the partition. With my right hand still slicking my own dick, I spat into my left and got his little member wet and hard. Then I jacked at it.

It didn’t take long. He was groaning almost immediately, and then thrusting his hips against my hand shortly thereafter. The partition vibrated with every shove; my own stall door came unlocked and drifted open to bang against my knee, but I didn’t bother to close it. We were still quietly undisturbed.

When he came, it was with a violent grunt. Little droplets of semen puddled in my hand and then onto the floor underneath. I waited until his spasms subsided, then grabbed a wad of toilet paper so that I could clean off first my hands and then the floor itself. Then I did a quick possessions check—phone, keys, wallet—and left the stall so I could wash my hands.

I saw him walking to his own car as I was pulling out of the parking lot. The man was driving a BMW parked next to mine. Out in the wild he looked like any other upper-middle-class suburbanite dad hitting the mall for a quick shopping trip.

No one save me would’ve guessed him to have been on all fours, only moments before, pants around his ankles and ass high in the air as he’d nursed some stranger’s big dick in his mouth on a dirty restroom floor. I’m sure that’s just the way he wanted it.

Flash Job

I could tell the guy had been trying to work up the nerve to talk to me. While I’d sat with my friends at a table in the far corner of the dark room, he’d sat at the bar, clutching his vodka and tonic and bobbing his head to the thumping beat, his body angled so that he could snatch little glances my way from time to time. When I went to the men’s room to wash my hands, he swiveled around to watch as I passed. I thought he was going to say something when I stood near him, picking up another bottle of water from my bartender crush on the way back. He remained silent, though, while I received my dewy plastic bottle and left my money and a tip on the bar.

It was when I gave him a sunny smile as I turned to leave that he summoned the courage to say something. “You sounded good up there,” he said.

Before my hand-washing, I’d belted out a Duran Duran tune on the bar’s stage. I don’t know how good it had been, but I’d had outstanding breath support. “Thanks,” I told him, grinning more broadly. “That’s nice to hear.”

“Yeah,” he said. The noise of the bar was loud enough that he had to lean in to make himself heard. “And I recognize you, too.” I merely raised my eyebrows. “From online,” he said, meaningfully.

“Ah.” I slapped him playfully on the shoulder with my free hand. “You probably do.”

One of the bloggers I enjoy reading, Untitled Barebacker, just yesterday posted something that made me laugh aloud in total agreement: “Boys, there is a lesson here, please listen up,” he said. “When you use pictures in your profile that look like you, guys can recognize you on the street and you can get lucky just that easy!”

He’s right. Although I have a couple of profiles online in which I keep my mug behind a ‘private photo’ placeholder, on the more high-profile sites I have it all out in the open. Clear face pics, shots of my dick, me sprawled out with my legs in the air and my goods showing, everything. I tend to be scornful of the midwestern attitude that’s ashamed of sex and the men who make a big deal about keeping either their sex photos public and their face photos locked, or the guys who have no problems showing their faces but hide away any evidence of libido—especially the ones who create high drama on the issue of for whom they will and won’t unlock their precious hidden pictures.

My attitude on those sites is pretty much what it is in my blog. Here I am, world! If you like it, say hello. If you don’t, there are plenty of other ways for you to pass your time, but let’s just be civil about it. As a consequence of being one of the minority who lays it all bare, so to speak, I tend to get approached a lot in public. I get recognized. In the mall a couple of months ago, a daddy pushing a stroller sidled up to me while I was in line at Mr. Pita to drop the line, “Hey, buddy. You’re on Manhunt?”, while his wife was twenty feet away, ordering at the Great American Steak and Potato Company. I can think of about four guys in bars in the last month who’ve walked up, raised their eyebrows, and simply uttered one of my hookup site handles as a question. Last year I had a super-handsome muscle stud smile at me disarmingly in a supermarket and call out, over the mangoes, “Hey! I know you!” Various guys have come up to me at art fairs, bars across the city, and even at IML to say, “Aren’t you. . . ?”

Then usually their second statement is, “Man, you have a really big dick in your photos.” Which is exactly what the guy at the bar said the other night. “Is it really that big?” he added.

I’m never really quite sure how to answer that question. I get it a lot. No, it’s all Photoshop and camera angles, I feel like saying, only I worry that they might believe me. I looked him over for a moment while I thought about it. He was a stocky, solid, dark-haired man somewhere in his mid-thirties to early forties, and handsome in the way some men never are until they have a few touches of gray in their hair and a few decades of living etched on their faces. The guy had a cleft in his chin that I found attractive; I wanted to dip my finger in it just to see how deep it went. “Yes,” I finally told him. “It’s really that big.”

He took a swig of his drink and swallowed. Then he swallowed again. I knew what he was going to ask. “So can I see?”

I just laughed. “Well,” I told him. “Maybe. Give me a few.”

I think he assumed maybe meant no. In my head, maybe meant sit for a while with that boner in your shorts and think about it happening, future lucky fucker. I went back to my table, sat down, and drank half my bottle of water. Then ten or fifteen minutes later, I excused myself from my friends and walked back to the guy. He still sat in his position angled away from the bar, spying my way. “Come on,” I told him, as I went to the restroom again.

The restroom of that particular bar is dank and smelly, but fairly clean. I unbuckled my jeans and pulled down the zipper, then hooked the waistband of my shorts with my thumbs and pulled it below my nuts. I’d imbibed enough water that a heavy flow of piss immediately came flowing out of the slit. He walked in after I’d started, and stood at the sink next to the urinal, simply watching. I aimed the stream so that it hit the porcelain wall, then squeezed and shook a few times once I’d done. Then I shook a few more times, simply for show.

He licked his lips, nervous.

“So whaddaya think?” Showing off makes me hard very, very quickly. I still had a couple of drops of pee dribbling out even though I was fully erect within a few moments of finishing peeing. “You like it?”

“Yes,” he said in a raspy voice.

I turned from the urinal and faced him directly. The head of my dick was flared out and purple, and shiny from the lone lightbulb overhead. I fisted the lower half of my dick; the upper two-thirds projected out over the top of my clenched index finger. I shook it, then stroked it a few times in as lascivious and self-absorbed a manner as I could. I know what I look like, when I’m masturbating for others. “So,” I said. “Is it as big as the photos?”

At that point I unwrapped my fist from around the shaft , put my thumb and index finger at the very base, and whapped the length of my dick into my other outstretched palm. It hit my hand with a mighty smack. “Yes,” he said, nodding. He was mesmerized at the sight. “Yes, it is.”

“All right then.”

When I whipped up the waistband of my shorts and covered my meat, and then began zipping it back into its denim, the spell was broken. He looked like a little boy deprived of his favorite toy. “I wanted to play with it!” he protested.

But the time wasn’t then, and the place wasn’t there. “You know where to find me,” I said. Then I left the men’s room.

He stayed in there for five minutes after, all during which I wondered exactly what he was doing. When he exited the restroom hastily, though, his hands stuffed down the front of his jeans in the same way I used to try to pull off during that uncomfortable year of constant unexpected erections in sixth grade, I was pretty sure I knew why he’d dawdled. I watched as he dashed to the bar, downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, and skittered out the exit at top speed. He gave me one last guilty glance as he went.

I’m pretty sure he’d blown a load in there. Not a bad compliment for a thirty-second flash job. Still. If he’d actually written me and offered his ass since then, it would’ve been better.

“Another broken heart?” asked my friend Tony, watching the guy go.

I rolled my eyes and went back to enjoying my evening.