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Saturday, May 29, 2010

A Prairie Homo Companion: Meet the Irregulars

I spend so much time at the Prairie during the spring, summer and fall that I’ve come to view it as its own little community. Like any small community it has its share of oddballs – or as I like to think of them, the irregulars; people who don’t seem to quite fit in. While I’m sure that many of the Prairie residents would probably include me on such a list, I like to consider myself part of the regular joes; the guys who frequent this little plot of earth for the purpose it was designed for: hooking up and having sex with other men in the great outdoors. I spend a lot of time on here writing about the activities of the regular joes, so for a change I thought I’d shed a little light on some of my favorite irregulars.

If you’ve read some of my previous posts then several of these guys will be familiar. The others? I don’t believe I’ve ever mentioned before. I view them as possible candidates for a little musical I contemplate writing, titled “Boys in the Bushes: A Prairie Homo Companion”. The show would focus mostly on the regular joes and the fate of the Prairie in the hands of the evil Park and Rec folks (or as celebrated in a proposed musical number “Park and Wrecks”. However, I might feature a few of these dudes as well, in brief cameos. I’m already working on a song celebrating Bicycle Mary which would be choreographed using bicycles. Think: Grease meets Boy Meets Boy meets Beach Blanket Bingo, and you have an idea where I’m headed.

Maybe. Here are a few of the irregulars:

DiapermanThis guy is an odd but frequent sight on the Prairie. Picture a sturdy, squat man, with a ruddy, square face and dumpling cheeks. Then place a pair of plastic rim, oversized poindexter glasses adorning his fatty mug and a large, cloth diaper covering his bottom. Yes, seriously, a big cloth diaper. If I was casting this role, I would look for a slimmed down version of Stephen Root, the actor who played the stapler guy in Office Space (although, yesterday this guy was at the Prairie and upon closer inspection he looks more like a lighter-haired Al Franken). We, at the Prairie, refer to this guy as Diaperman. Usually he tools up on a bike wearing some kind of work out clothes. After stowing the bike, he disappears in the trees for a bit only to emerge sans work out clothes, wearing only a diaper. He then picks up a long log the sits in one of the shady enclaves hidden on the forest side of the trail, places it on his shoulders, like a farmer might take up a yoke and then proceeds to walk about the Prairie doing various ‘exercises’ and calisthenics while making a series of grunting noises usually reserved for the type of activities that take place in the bushes. His presence is horribly disruptive to the general mood of the Prairie and very off-putting for those a bit skittish about pursuing sex in the great outdoors. Whenever he appears I simply wish he would disappear. Yes, I have an appreciation for the truly ridiculous, but that sort of thing never mixes well with sex.

His reason for being at the Prairie doesn’t seem to be sexual in nature, although, if not sexual, then I have no idea what the diaper has to do with anything. I’ve never spoken to him, other than to say ‘hi’, nor do I want to have a conversation with him or get to know him better. For me, I think it best that he remain an enigma; a distant, instantly recognizable character, preferably in tableau. I do have one suggestion for him: get a cape!

Confession time: As of last fall, and this spring, I sort of took it upon myself to go and pee on that log of his whenever the urge struck me. I have since stopped doing that because I guess if I had a favorite log that I hoisted up on my shoulders and paraded about like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, then I would probably not appreciate people peeing on it. Probably.

Bicycle MaryThe legend, the star, the original! And by the original, I mean that she appears to be about as old as the Prairie itself. One of my darkest fears is that someday I will be the one to replace her, you know, like the sentinel of the Prairie that she is. She is a he, of course; an aged, leathery, tanned, drawn man who visits the Prairie as frequently as the sun itself. Forever astride his bicycle, he circles about, diving in and out of the various nooks and crannies that surround the grassland, wearing the skimpiest of jogging shorts and nothing else. As the wind catches the long, sliver locks that adorn his skull like features, he instantly brings to mind that evil puppet the Crypt Keeper, who used to host “Tales from the Crypt”.

What? Too mean? Maybe.

I’ve seen her several times at the Prairie so far this season, sans bicycle. It could be her knees can’t take it anymore. Of course, if her knees are ruined, I don’t think the biking is at fault.

The post I wrote about Bicycle Mary can be found here:

The Goon
This one is probably more sad than funny. I simply don’t understand him – but then, throughout my life, I have stumbled upon people like this and failed to divine what it is I am supposed to learn from them. As much as I want to push them away, I find myself allowing them to at least temporarily clutter up my life. He stands about 6’8” and everything about him, and I do mean everything, is a bit oversized from his large pumpkin head, to his arms which dangle at his sides like gigantic, dead sausages, to his sausage itself which is eye-poppingly inflated, and about the size of a large, fat baby’s arm. So, what’s not to like? Him. He’s so vacant and odd. He stands around with a big old hard-on bulging out the front of his shorts like one of those safety arms that drop in front of the tracks when a train goes by. Rarely does he engage in conversation and when he does it’s a mix of the very odd and very unreal. Unreal, as in, he tells a lot of lies. He told one Prairie regular that his parents once owned all the land the Prairie sits on (not likely). Last year he spent the whole summer speaking in some strange concoction of vaguely European accents. It would vary from sentence to sentence, so the entire time you’re listening to him, your mug would be making that ‘Huh? WTF?” face.

When he’s not baffling you with bullshit, he stands about three yards away from you and just… stands there. Looking at you. It’s kind of creepy, but it also incites something in me, causing me to want to run up and attack him like Karen Black assaults Donald Sutherland in ‘Day of the Locust’, screaming ‘You big dummy! You big stupid piece of meat.’ But I discourage my inner actress from engaging in such outbursts. It would not be pretty and would not be in keeping with the calm of the Prairie. That… and it would be pointless.

Bottom line… he’s another one I wish would go away. I’ve even gone so far as telling him to on several occasions. You have to do so very deliberately and distinctly, as though speaking to a small child, a small, slow child. The guy doesn’t take hints well, nor does he take suggestions or barked orders quickly. Maybe there’s something actually wrong with him, but I doubt it. Embarrassingly enough, I must confess that I play with him once a year because I feel sorry for him – that and the fact that there’s no one else around. It’s never any fun; I get bored and abandon the activity after about ten minutes. Afterwards, I always feel guilty, like I’ve just molested someone who’s mentally challenged. Doing this only encourages him and I probably shouldn’t encourage him; this is one of those cases where I get what I deserve. He’s already hit on me once this spring, stalking me about the Prairie. I end up feeling like I’m in some life-sized version of a video game; with me as PacMan being chased by those stupid ghost things.

Something tells me it’s going to be a long summer.

The FlashEach time I see this one coming I run the opposite direction. His body is the color of boiled okra with the texture of melted wax. Yes, it has seen better seasons, but then haven’t we all? His hair is this mass of oily, silver and grey and as unkempt as the mustache which hangs on his upper lip like a deceased Lhasa Apso. Wearing only a pair of black jogging shorts and white tennis shoes, he haunts the many trails that snake their way through the woods. He’s an exhibitionist; a pursuit I normally applaud, but in his case it leaves me colder than Tiger Woods wife the day the sex scandal broke. I think it’s because he’s so… dishonest about it.

I like honest exhibitionists. The honest ones share their ‘gifts’ with the world with a sly wink and a sense of adventure. The Flash has a tendency carry out his fun with all the grace of an oil-slick-covered sea gull. He never allows you to get closer than 30 feet (not that you would want to), nor are you allowed to get an actual glimpse of his tepid little member (yeah, I’ve seen it – not that I wanted to). Loping about in such an obvious and driven manner, he has a tendency to creep people out. Add to that, the obnoxious, sadly futile way he jerks off and it’s enough for you to sic the dogs on him. He never cums, and he never gets hard. So what’s the point of it? Of him? Usually, I err on the side of live and let live, but in his case it would be nice if he did his living somewhere else.

The Pale RiderI’ve written about him on this blog in the past. He was one of my first encounters this season and while I’ve played with him in the past on occasion, his mode of operandi more or less leaves me feeling a little used and unfulfilled.

He’s cute: bald, mid-twenties, nice eyes, nice body, with a decent dick (small, very serviceable). He’s one of those who wants to touch you all over and get you off, however, you aren’t allowed to touch him at all. And while he may beat you off, he rarely cums and if he does it’s by his own hand. Again, I don’t see the point. It’s so limited and boring. Where’s the connection? It’s like something two cub scouts do in their tent their first night in the woods – only not as exciting.

Read more about the Pale Rider here:

John DeereJohn Deere has been mentioned on this blog before. Last year he ground my face into the dirt as he fucked me, then faked an orgasm and tried to dispose of the condom so I wouldn’t catch on. But I did. And I have… caught on. John Deere? I’ve got your number.

I call him John Deere because he always wears a t-shirt with the tractor company’s logo on it. I’ve run into him several times this spring and fucked him once (I filled my condom.). He also weaseled his way into some fun I was having with one of my regular buds. This time he wanted to be the top, even though fucking wasn’t on the menu. He wanted to fuck me and the other guy bareback. We both declined, despite his gay porn actor bod and archetypical appeal, but he persisted and actually slipped inside the guy I was playing with before being told no again. There’s something thick and stupid working inside that head of his. Or evil. Maybe it’s evil.

He’s like serial rapist or something, except when he wants to bottom, and even then, you the top, end up feeling assaulted. He’s pretty blunt, in a mono-syllabic manner, about what it is he wants out any given encounter. In all the time I’ve known him we’ve never had a single conversation. I suspect engaging in such banter would make his victims seem too human. He’d rather view them as objects to be abused for his pleasure. Once he discovers his sex partner has a personality it probably ruins the whole fantasy for him. They advise you to tell your kidnapper as much as possible about yourself and your loved ones so they start to see you as a real person and not merely as a piece of meat to be disposed of. I’d tell John Deere about myself, but he never sticks around long enough. It also surprises me, given our history, that I don’t know anything else about him.

But then again, anyone can surprise you. Yesterday, I spent the day at the Prairie with a new found friend – a real cutie who is over-the-moon sexually and has that hunter’s instinct that I admire so much. John Deere hit on us twice… with the last time resulting in my friend taking it up the ass from both John Deere and myself. It was quite satisfying and John Deere actually spoke more than the occasional syllable. I guess I should keep an open mind where he’s concerned.

Read about one of my encounters with John Deere here:

Rude DudeFuck this guy. In the ass. With a dirty toilet bowl scrubber. What a total dick.

He’s tall and somewhat, classically handsome. Red hair, great features and a bod, that while lacking definition and in need of a few weeks at the gym, is pretty acceptable. People tell me he has a huge dick. I have to rely on what other people tell me, because I’ve never seen it. He’s not into me. That is not a problem for me, I take rejection fairly well – I’m used to it. But this dickhead is friends with people who I consider my friends and every time I join the group or he happens upon the group and I’m there, he huffs away like a giant wussy.

I don’t get it, because I’ve never done anything to him. I take hints well, and could tell immediately that I, for whatever reason, was not his cup of pudding. It’s not like I’m his stalker or anything. He truly dislikes me.

So the other day, I am lying on my blanket catching rays with this nudist who recently befriended me. The nudist is a college student who gets off on being naked in the great outdoors. We like to jerk off lying next to each other. On occasion he will hump or smack my ass, because he likes the looks of it, but that is the extent of our fun. Along comes Rude Dude, who sees us, pauses and then continues along the trail to the shady area dotted with trees just behind where the nudist and I are laying. As he passes, the nudist and I say ‘hi’. We get no response, but something tells me he’s interested in playing with the nudist, mainly because, after about five minutes of waiting in the shady area, the Rude Dude makes a point of reappearing on the trail to get our attention before returning to the shady area.

The nudist dude does not leap at this opportunity. In fact, it is only after the Pale Rider (see above) appears and floats back to where the Rude Dude is that the nudist dude starts to pay attention. The nudist dude is sort of a jerk-off only enthusiast, so I am thinking that he and the Pale Rider might hit if off. The nudist takes his bike and heads back to the shady area. I trail behind at a distance because I want to see what is what without upsetting the apple cart. The Pale Rider can be quite skittish. From at least 12 yards away I can see that the Pale Rider and Rude Dude are doing something together. I never go any closer. The nudist trails past the spot where the other two are playing and within seconds the Pale Rider abandons Rude Dude and follows. The Rude Dude stays in hiding for about five minutes before he reemerges.

This is the first time this year I have seen Rude Dude, and figuring that it’s a new year and an opportunity to make a fresh start I say ‘hi’ and ask how he is as he passes me. He storms off and disappears on the other side of the Prairie. Of course I’m offended, even as I do my best to talk myself out of taking it personally. Rejection always sucks, but an ill-mannered rejection has that extra sting that moves through your body like anti-freeze. As I’m walking away, I glance over to where the Pale Rider went and sure enough, he and the nudist are messing with each other. Good for them. I decide to take a stroll and give them lots of privacy. On my stroll I pass by the outer edge of the other side of the Prairie and spy, standing in the bushes, none other than the Rude Dude. That’s when I make a decision; it’s time to say something.

And I do. Remaining a good six yards away from him, I confront him. I tell him he needs to be cordial. He tells me he’s not interested. I explain that I know that, that I can take a hint (especially one so tactlessly delivered). I then tell him that when somebody says hello, he might want to consider saying hello back. When they ask how he is, maybe he should say “I’m fine.” We don’t have to be friends, but being cordial never hurts anybody. Then I walk away.

And now I’m done with it. Him. Maybe what I did wasn’t cool, but mean people suck and I won’t have that kind of sucking going on at the Prairie.

The Hispanic StareI touched upon this one in my blog re: the black dude who fucked me early this spring. He’s an early 20’s, very boyish looking, Hispanic. I’ve seen his dick: uncut and simply okay – like a large size tootsie roll wrapped in a whole wheat tortilla. What bothers me about him is the way he hovers around on the fringe of things, wanting in on whatever action is going on without ever putting himself out there – as in, never participating.

I guess he wants to watch, and yet, he’s not nearly as benign as your average, respectful, voyeur. He always manages to stand just close enough to make his presence known which is enough to ruin whatever intimacy might have been achieved by me and my sexual partner. Adding to the weird vibe, he never speaks. Not even to say ‘hello’.

Learn more about the Hispanic Stare here:

Quite a circus, huh? But then what do I expect? Hang out with a bunch of freaks and you’re bound to meet a couple of real ones. Eh, we’re all freaks in our own way. I don’t mean to judge, and I do my best to refrain from condemning others for their bad behavior. However, some things are beyond the pale and people need to be held accountable. In the end, I’m simply sharing my point of view – tainted and flawed as it is. I’m sure if they were to write about me in their blog what they would have to say would hardly be flattering.

It takes all kinds to build a village – or in this case, a Prairie. To quote one of my all-time favorite songs, written and sung by that gorgeous earth-mother Melissa Manchester: “We need gardens to grow in, and there must always be room enough – for all of us.”

Still, based on the above list of characters, you can see why some yearn for the shelter of a gated community.

Friday, May 21, 2010

Confessions of a Football Manager Part III: The Roar of the Showers, The Smell of the Jocks

Note: In an effort to tie up a few loose ends, this is the final part in a series about my experiences as a high school football manager. As a reminder, football manager is just a fancy way of saying ball boy or towel boy. I guess they found those terms demeaning; odd, considering the titles that were bandied about back in those days.

Being a football manager at such an early time in my physical and emotional development exposed me to a lot of adult and adolescent dicks which probably warped my mind in ways that Catholicism never could or would. I knew I was gay very early in life. It terrified me, but because I hadn’t put it into context with what I’d been exposed to in the real world, it remained this unnamed terror, running just beneath the surface of everything I did, coloring my experiences without overtly informing them. That changed the first time I stepped into a locker room in 6th grade. At the time, my mind struggled to deal with all those naked, screaming boys, none of whom I thought of in a sexual way. Rather, I only saw them in terms of their propensity for cruelty, grossness and popularity. Each day was like a game of verbal dodge ball with their taunts and ridicule providing the sting normally derived from the smack of those strange red rubber inflatable balls against bare skin. There was a hysteria trapped within the confines of that steam-filled shower room that repulsed and terrified me. The experience has marred my ability to appreciate the voice of any pre-pubescent boy; to my ears they all sound like fingernails on a chalk board.

Of course, what I was actually struggling with was my own nakedness in relation to theirs. I didn’t want to be judged and it was in that moment that I dealt with and experienced for the first time the concept of my own body as viewed through the eyes of others. Suddenly the size of my penis and its lack of development became something to focus on and contemplate. Unlike most boys my age, I did not participate in any kind of sexual play. That was dirty and something that would have to be confessed and not wanting to have to talk of such things even in the relative anonymity of the confessional, I avoided these activities as best I could by playing naïve or stupid – which, in hindsight, wasn’t much of an act; I really was naïve and stupid about all things sexual. That’s why I didn’t share the abundant glee with which so many of my classmates abandoned their gym clothes and ran naked towards the roar of the showers. So traumatized was I by this experience that I chose, for the first time in my life, to skip a class and hide out in the library rather than face another episode of enforced group nakedness. The librarian was only too happy to accept my help re-shelving books, but after a few weeks the Phys Ed teacher, who also happened to be my home room teacher at the time, caught on. He kept me after school one day and asked my why I wasn’t attending gym class. It was an awkward conversation, mainly because I stared at the floor the entire time, too numb to speak. I remember how he blushed as he struggled to find the right words. His ineptitude laid the groundwork for a major man crush on my part that flourishes to this day. Finally he gave up and told me that I had to attend gym class and that he expected me to be there from now on.

Needless to say, my appreciation of locker rooms changed dramatically once I became a football manager. At first, I don’t think this was due to any change in my own body’s maturation, for I didn’t figure out how to masturbate until I started babysitting which put me in contact with a book called “Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (But Were Afraid to Ask)” and I’m pretty sure that did not occur until I had taken a series of babysitting classes sponsored by our church. Needless to say, one of the things they failed to cover in those classes was the consequences of snooping through people’s underwear drawers and bookshelves. Since I was the only boy who had ever taken the class, I assume that is why it wasn’t part of the curricula – snooping probably wasn’t considered something girls did, but then, at the time, sex was also something girls that age didn’t do – and we all know now that simply wasn’t true. I think my new appreciation of the locker room had something to do with being exposed to all that untethered, well-developed dick swinging in my face on a daily basis - mesmerizing, hypnotizing and tantalizing my future sexual self. Keep in mind, in 7th grade I had yet to experience a real growth spurt, so that is pretty much where my eyes hit at the time – right at cock level (or at least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it).

If you happened to have read parts I and II of this series you know that during my first year as a football manager, I was treated as a golden boy, I think in part because I still was still a child and all my over-the-top enthusiasm and eagerness to please was viewed as sweetness and not with a jaundiced eye. I remember developing these weird crushes on guys who were seniors that year – but my yearning was just that, a type of emotional desire. I had an older brother whom I viewed as gross and evil, so I think whatever was lacking in my relationship with him transferred to these older boys. That year, other than appreciating their worked out bodies and the plethora of different dick types, there wasn’t anything sexual per se going on in my head.

One guy, a very ruddy, Hispanic with a pristine body and a hefty cock, once came on game night and confessed to me that he had forgotten his jock strap at home. He asked me if I would run and pick it up for him. Without missing a beat, I said yes, and was on my way. His mother opened the screen door just a crack and passed the jockstrap to me. She had placed it in a brown paper bag the size one would normally use for school lunches. There was something dirty and secretive about the jock strap – not just his, but in general. I remember the way the salesmen teased me when I walked into the only mens shop in town to ask for my first jock. One of them asked what size. Dumbfounded, I shrugged and said small. Much to my embarrassment, they all burst out laughing. This must be some kind of ritual with salesmen who run the only mens shops in small towns - that, or it’s their own means of entertainment because I believe this same thing has probably happened to countless others. After picking up the jock at his house, I returned to the locker room and handed it to him and that was the end of it. Except it wasn’t. I think that’s when my fascination with jock straps and underwear began. Next year? I was constantly checking out whatever jock or underwear happened to be hanging in any guy’s locker. I’d even go so far as to strip and try them on. That I was not caught doing this is kind of a minor miracle.

It was in 8th grade that everything got intense, no doubt thanks to my new hobbies: theatre and masturbation. In a way the two will be forever entwined in my mind, and, if you think about it, in another, bigger way, they sit side by side like a pair of twins. Theatre people have become synonymous in my brain for world class wankers – but that’s another topic for another post (maybe). Masturbation was an activity I picked up over the summer and carried me into the 8th grade. It’s discovery - timed with the fact that I was now the football manager who got to decide if I wanted to be outside with the team during practice or inside by myself snooping about in unlocked lockers and the unexplored crevices of the school (guess which I chose?) - probably had a lot to do with my preoccupation. That year and for the remainder of my high school years, I seemed to make it my mission to spray baby-batter wherever and whenever I could. I was not intentionally intrusive with my endeavors – in fact, just the opposite, as leaving any evidence of my activities occurred not as part of my pleasure, but more due to my naivety. In retrospect? I left a lot of DNA all over the place. It just never occurred to me that anyone would know what it was. I viewed semen as a substance with the same properties as water and assumed it would evaporate. Of course it doesn’t… and it didn’t, but no one ever said anything to me about it because it was something one simply didn’t talk about – partly because it was gross and partly because it was taboo. Also, in all likelihood, while they might have had their suspicions, there was no way to tie me to the offending deposits. Even so, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to all the janitors who had to deal with the crusty carpets, gooey urinals, and stained concrete, wooden and linoleum floors I left in my wake. Even if wet wipes had existed at the time I probably wouldn’t have known enough to use them. While making my life pleasant it was not my intention to make yours unpleasant. My bad. I owe you all a blow job (but only the cute ones).

Yep, from the start of my freshman year of high school, it was all hands on deck - or dick, as the case may be. My fantasies were infused with the sights and smells provided by the locker room, the players and the coaches. I was in an almost constant state of arousal and this enthusiasm bled into the rest of my life, school and church, as I managed to sexualize just about everything I came in contact with. In one of the previous posts, I listed several of my all time favorite jerk-off spots at my high school. I have to say, looking back on all the masturbating I did, I’m amazed I still have any dick left – though I do remember a couple of times when I had no choice but to take a serious break or risk having to seek medical attention.

In those same posts I covered my interactions and obsession with the coaches. I had an equal yen for the players, who were not without their charms. The ones that fascinated me the most were the popular guys; the ones who eventually would be nominated for homecoming king. These guys came from well respected families and/or were prized for their athletic abilities. Bottom line? They were cute guys and even cuter naked. There was something very macho in their posing and preening in the locker room and the athletic equipment they wore seemed to add even more testosterone to the fire. I never saw any of the players with a hard-ons, though I did catch two coaches with semi-hard-ons. One was a redhead who blushed like there was no tomorrow. They both winced with shame the moment they realized I saw them, but who wouldn’t? Throughout my entire career as a football manager, I only got yelled at once for staring at a dude’s dick. That was by one of the quarterbacks after a really bad game and performance. As he, naked, handed me his equipment, I could tell that he was already pissed off; the rage evident in his eyes as he approached. He spat at me, “What are you looking at?” Fortunately, no one else was around at the time, but it still stung and, of course, I knew exactly what he was talking about. Not that it prevented me from using the image of him for the purposes of getting off. If anything, that experience added fuel to the fire for that particular fantasy. After yelling at me, I always imagined him wrestling me to the floor and having his way with me right there in equipment room.

My experiences as an athlete also lent a certain authenticity to my masturbatory fantasies. I played basketball and then joined the track team for one season just so I could earn my school letter. As a member of these teams I gained a different point of view, mainly because I was standing naked right next to other naked guys as I slid on my jock strap. My time playing basketball was a blur of bench warming, preceded and followed by mind-numbingly boring hours of practice. Track, on the other hand, had its moments. As the fates would have it, I ended up being assigned the two-mile run with two dudes who also just happened to have two of the largest dongs in the school. Unfortunately, these large appendages were also attached to a couple of the biggest doofuses in the school. And that is one of the weird things about the guys with the really, really big dicks: either these guys acted like big dicks – as in snotty and mean, or they were total doofuses.

Let’s deal with the snotty, mean ones, first. There were two at my school. These two dudes both had fly-away blonde hair and a permanent sneer on their kisser. Their faces were as angular and mean as their bodies. Their dicks, on the other hand hung, full, pendulous, and succulent, offset by a pair of low hangers that could cause one’s mouth to water. They were total fuckheads and you risked permanent psychological scars if you flew anywhere near their tempting flame. Another thing they had in common? Drugs. By senior year they were both total burn-outs and embarrassments to their families, but no worries – they got laid a lot, I am sure.

The two dudes I ran the two-mile with? Not so lucky. One, a tall, square-headed, blonde Frankenstein, gave off the vibe of a future serial rapist, while the other, a short, squat, meaty redhead, confounded any intention I might have had to be nice to him by bombarding me with a billion questions about everything under the sun. In fact, he rarely shut up, unless I literally screamed at him. He was a total social nit wit, but then again, considering that the other guy had that sexual predator vibe going for him, I guess you could say they both were. They were a year younger than me and I outran both of them at our very first track meet. That would be the last time. After that, he of the Frankenstein head took the sport rather seriously, managing to best me for the rest of the season. The three of us always ran together during practice, taking turns setting the pace. My only entertainment, other than being in the locker room with them, came on those days when one of them would forget their jock and run commando. On those days I seemed to have no trouble keeping apace. Size-queen? Guilty. Size-wise? They made the snotty mean ones look like average johnsons. Seriously? I have never encountered such big, fat pieces of meat in my life, except in porno films. I’m sure, in spite of their lack of social skills, that both have managed to marry at least once and make their wives very, very happy – or, in the case of the taller of the two, have a plentiful career as a porn star (he kind of had that Donnie Wahlberg/Dirk Diggler thing going for him). I spent many a night jerking off, creating imaginary scenarios in which we would have to go to a state meet and stay overnight in a hotel room, sharing a queen-sized bed, or how one of them might invite me for a sleepover (at an age when sleepovers were very over). In either case the sheets would end up very crusty by morning.

As for the other members of the track team, they were all easy on the eyes. I think it was due to all that enforced running. I remember a time when one of the cutest members of the team, a dude with a body that looked like it was carved out of marble, placed a catcher’s mask over his private parts and proceeded to gleefully run around the locker room naked, doing this odd little cowboy dance. Another time, I and a teammate with whom I had very little interaction returned to the locker room midway through a practice because we had some event to go to. We were alone in the locker room. He stripped naked and lay down on the bench that ran parallel with our lockers. He kept talking to me as I undressed. I went to shower and when I returned, he was still lying there, all exposed. He continued to talk to me as I dressed, looking sexy as hell as he languidly posed there. I think he wanted me to do something, but, despite my many fantasies, I was a total coward when it came to reality and the moment passed.

In the end, it’s my time as a teammate that I treasure most. Being a football manager had its prurient, salacious components, but if you recall from my previous posts, that all ended rather badly once the golden child was no longer so golden or much of a child. Of the two, I recommend being a member of an athletic team. Had I discovered track in 7th grade, I’m sure my high school years would have played out differently. Perhaps then I wouldn’t have been attracted to theatre, which is what finally ended my time as a football manager once and for all due to scheduling conflicts – not that the sign wasn’t already on the door (as in, exit here). At the time, I was only too happy to put all that football nonsense behind me and do something else – something less subservient and more about developing me. That said? Sure wish it had been track. I loved running. Still do.

To this day I love working out and using the locker room at my gym. It’s an activity that I find very sensual and rewarding. I’m sure my formative years have a lot to do with that. That and my fondness for jock straps. And on occasion, the men who wear them.

All said, it was pretty much heaven for a future gay sex addict.

Though I still feel sorry for those janitors.

Friday, May 14, 2010

Bumping My Head Against the Latex Ceiling – Part III: Sometimes Life Shouldn’t Have a Third Act

Tentatively, I place two fingers on the bottom rim of the glory hole. I’m pretty sure I know what to do. Whether I get a response? That remains to be seen. Not that I have to wait for long. The dude bends down and peers through the hole and it’s easy to understand why; there are a lot of really questionable trolls lolling about and I bet he’s been hit on by quite a few during his brief residence inside this box. Dutifully, I open my mouth and press my lips through the hole. He must like what he sees because I am soon rewarded with a nice, semi-hard cock. It slides easily between my lips and I engulf as much as the limits of the glory hole allows.

Happily, I work my magic with my mouth, getting off on the fact that I’m kneeling like a common whore outside a glory hole, sucking a dick belonging to someone I have never set eyes on. The size of the hole strikes me as less than adequate for the task at hand. Not that the dude’s dick is too big; it’s not, maybe 7.5 inches max, but I don’t like the way the edge of the plywood hole cuts into my face as I’m diving for dick. This situation only slightly improves when I decide to hold still and allow him to fuck my face. We switch off, back and forth for another ten minutes, before his dick disappears and he bends down to tell me, “That is some world class cocksucking you’re doing.” My face breaks into a grin. I take the compliment and reward his cock with an even more enthusiastic performance once it reappears through the hole. I keep fighting the need to pause and take a look around to see who might be watching me. But really? Who cares? If someone I know is here, then what the fuck do they expect? This is hardly a Boy Scout convention (of course, I’ve heard there is even MORE cocksucking at those events… but I digress).

After another ten minute stretch during which the dick disappears several times, no doubt to prevent him from unloading in my mouth, he steps out from the booth and stands against the back wall. I get up from where I am crouched, my knees grateful for the change in posture, and walk over to him. It’s the thin dude who I had sucked on before – the one who begged for a break. I decide to push the boundaries a bit and move in for a kiss. Fortunately, my lips are greeted in a most welcome manner and I melt a little inside as I realize that the dude cannot only hold onto his load for a long time and appreciates a good cocksucker, but he also knows how to kiss. Quickly, we move into Gay Vulcan Mind-Meld mode, as our bodies press up against one another and our hands madly wander. He has no ass… none – it is seriously flat and his hole is just right out there for the touching. Our kiss remains intense for what seems an eternity. Some troll tries to reach between us and grab our dicks, but neither of us is interested in sharing what we’re currently enjoying.

My mouth eventually finds his chest and then swiftly moves to reclaim that which it has come to know so well - that sweet dick of his. I work that fucker like a man possessed. At least 15 minutes pass. He pushes my mouth off his dick a number of times which only makes me hunger more for that big pay-off. I stand again and we resume kissing. I don’t know how long this goes on, but the ending turns out not be the one I’m hoping for. After working on his dick for over a half hour, I finally tell him I need to go get a drink of water. I am feeling a bit spent. Totally unsatisfied, I walk away nonetheless. If I’m lucky, he’ll be there when I get back. If not, oh, well, so be it.

I head over to my duffel bag, gargle and drink some water. Cleaning my face with a wipe, my skin stings a bit from where the plywood scraped against the sides of my mouth. Still, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Wandering into the sling room, I find my two buds from the Prairie standing in a semicircle with two other dudes, facing a couch. I walk up and tag onto the end of their group, but immediately get the sense that they aren’t looking for someone to join their conversation. In fact, once they resume talking, they all turn into one another a bit more, successfully freezing me out. Feeling the burn of embarrassment rush over my face, I take the hint and move back in line with the other zombies making the rounds. On my next swing through I see that the couch is now fully occupied by the four of them in various states of physical entanglement. Not feeling the slightest desire to be a part of it, I keep walking.

Deciding to find the dude I just left and finish him off, I head toward the darkest corner in the first room and make my way along the back wall. However, I never make it past the first corner. Brushing up against some bald dude with a goatee, I get snagged in another connection. He’s slightly shorter than I am, and his body is nicely worked out. He has a quick, handsome smile and I find myself sucked into his gravitational pull. Swiftly, we move into a hot and tasty Gay Vulcan Mind-Meld. His kisses are passionate and deep. His dick is about 7 inches and on the thin side, but sweet – especially when considering the rest of the package. My hands roam and discover that there is not an ounce of body fat on the dude. He is standing with his back against the wall and after spending a fair amount of time kissing, it is pretty clear that his right hand is very interested in my ass. I oblige by hiking up my left knee, pressing it against the wall beside his right shoulder so he can have all the access he likes. This also makes my butt cheeks tense which, what with gravity having taken its toll, I figure should show off my ass at its carefully-posed best. He toys with my hole for awhile before shoving me into the corner, where he steps behind me, spreading my cheeks and diving in with his tongue.

Dude is a very committed rimmer and I am only too happy to push my hole back onto his eager mouth. Tonguing me expertly, there is no questioning that this dude knows what he wants. Pretty sure of what is to come next, I’m grateful that I have my little baggie of condoms, lube, poppers and wet wipe at the ready. Tearing into it, I make an attempt to free my poppers. Sure enough, after eating my hole for about three minutes, he stands up and whispers into my ear, “And now I need to fuck you.” Reflexively, my left knee again rises and presses against the wall. I pull out a condom and attempt to hand it to him as his fingers work his spittle into my hole and then…

And then…?

I turn around. Something is wrong. Just as the dude is about to walk away, I ask him what’s the matter. He says, “I just got something I didn’t want”, and walks off. I follow. What is he talking about? I have no idea what he’s talking about. He heads upstairs to the bathroom and I’m hot on his heels, only he doesn’t realize it. As I’m walking mere steps behind him, someone on the first floor says to him, “Back so soon?” And he replies, “Yeah, well I just got a handful of something I didn’t want.” They laugh and I am mortified.

What the hell? I think it was just excess lube. I kept lubing up my hole through out the night, just in case, but then I realize that there may have been a load of something up my ass that I’d failed to unload. Only maybe I just did; into that dude’s hand! I am feeling like a total shithead. And then it dawns on me, hey… that could be the case, too. Did I just plant a doody in that dudes hand? Fuck! Oh, the horrors of anal sex.

I never do get an answer. After hitting the john, I return to the zombie circuit. Twenty minutes later I run into the same dude. He’s leaning against the back wall in the first room, behind the glory holes. I slobber on his dick some and then move up for a kiss. He returns my volley, but we both know the moment has passed and our memory of one another is too tainted to attempt rekindling whatever fire once existed between us. He turns his head away and, quietly, I move on.

I make the rounds a few more times before I start thinking it might be time to head home. I know it’s getting late and this whole scene is starting to feel played out. Still… I haven’t shot my load yet, so I am hesitant to call it a night. Surely I can find someone here to make cookies with. The sling room no longer holds any allure for me and the middle room, where I’ve been storing my duffel bag, has yet to become a place where much action takes place, probably due to the brightness factor. The idea of parking my ass on that sofa and watching porn until someone comes to sit and hit on me has its appeal, but I tried that earlier in the evening and the only dude that hit on me is this guy from the internet that I played with once a long time ago. The chemistry was not right the first time we played and it still isn’t, so I passed.

That’s when I notice what has to be the oldest gentleman in the building. He’s bald and completely hairless. His skin is loose and gives off the impression of being opaque or some odd flesh color not found in nature. It’s like watching a sculpture levitate, hovering through each room as if pulled on a very slow track. His head is stationary, never turning side to side. His eyes always appear to be fixated on whatever is directly in front of him. An odd apparition, I pause long enough to consider whether or not I’m seeing my future self. Will I one day be that naked, shrunken, melted mass of aged flesh haunting the basement of some sexual den of iniquity? There, for the grace of… go I? Aye, yi, yi, yi, yi!

I’m walking toward the darkest corner in the first room when I feel someone grab me by the elbow. I turn. It’s no one I know; a very short, stout young Hispanic guy in a g-string. He’s cute enough, with a full head of hair and a nice smile. He wants to know if I want to get fucked. Do I? I have become so nonchalant about this whole scene that I simply smile, shrug my shoulders, grab his package and lead him to the back wall.

I get on my knees and push aside the pouch of his g-string to reveal one very tiny dick. It’s cute, but it is tiny. Since I’m already in place, I figure I might as well follow-thru with it. I mean, it’s not like there are tons of guys banging on my back door. So I take his little member into my mouth and try to breathe some life into it. Soon we are joined by another dude. He’s about my height, big ears, a goofy smile, and a nice, thick 7.5 inch cut dick. His Poindexter glasses seem perfectly at home on his mug, completing the look of a picture perfect nerd. Body-wise he could do with a trip or two to the gym, but other than being incredibly pale, there’s not much to complain about.

Without missing a beat I move back and forth between the two dicks, giving them both equal quality time. The Hispanic dude is reaching over, playing with my hole, so I assume he still wants to fuck my ass. Handing him a condom, I continue deepthroating the nerd. Once the condom is in place, word comes down from above that we need lube. I offer up what I have, going so far as to break open the tiny plastic vial when the Hispanic dude struggles with it. Rising up in order to offer up my ass for what will surely be one of my strangest fucks ever, I don’t even get completely turned around before the nerd man steps in between the Hispanic dude and myself , and plants his ass on the guy’s dick!

I’ve been poached. By a fucking Poindexter. Could this night get any stranger?

Surrendering to the powers that be, I shuffle off and head over to my duffel bag. As I gargle, I’m still a little stunned by what just happened. Choosing to be totally honest with myself, I had to ask – did I really care? No. It’s not like I was going to be missing out on the fuck of my life. That said, about fifteen minutes later the little Hispanic dude bumps into me and asks me if he can still fuck me. Seems he hasn’t lost his load yet and while I feel his pain, I turn him down; the moment has passed and his dick was in somebody else’s ass when it did.

I go and stand against the back wall, knowing full well that I should be heading home. The place is clearing out and what’s left is not all that tempting. While contemplating my options (a late-night trip to a McDonald’s drive-thru sounds appealing), my eyes and ears catch sight of a thin, white dude with a short beard and sexy 1970’s style hair. He has fur down the center of his chest and his legs are nicely covered as well – dark brown – one of my many favorites. He’s laid back in a chair with his legs spread eagle, playing with his dick while watching porn on an overhead screen. An older, ugly ducking waddles up and offers the dude some lip service, but the guy shakes his head and keeps his eyes on the screen.

Having nothing else to do, I stand and watch. He’s very cute and I’m thinking that if the ugly ducking had no chance then I probably don’t stand much of one either. Could be that he’s not into playing with anyone but himself. Maybe he just wants to be left alone. So, I stand there and stare, not sure that he can make out who or what I am as I maintain vigilance in the relative safety of my darkened corner. Weighing my options, I decide, what the fuck - go for it. If he says “no” then it’s just that much sooner that I’m on my way home.

Slowly, I walk up to him and stand next to the side of his chair. He’s at least ten years younger than me and the type that normally doesn’t give me the time of day, but then it’s nighttime, so, who knows? Based on the fact that he’s not yet expressed any opposition to my physical presence and is now, in fact, taking my dick into his pretty mouth, I guess my luck has indeed changed. He sucks me hard within minutes. Not wanting to blow my load too soon, I pull my dick out of his mouth and feed him my balls. He works each one as I slap my cock all over his cute little face. His hands are busy with his own dick, and he doesn’t protest at all as I shove my dick down his throat again. I fuck his face for a bit, holding the back of his head with one hand, until I feel the possibility of my own load. Once again, I pull out of his mouth and smack his face with my dick.

Having noticed that he’s been working his own dick with both hands without much success, I decide to see if I can bring the two of us to a mutual state of arousal. I kneel between his legs, taking his damp, limp member into my mouth. I work some magic, but I almost instantly recognize that whatever I bring to the table, it’s not enough. It could be that my magic is used up or maybe I’m simply played out, because I get no response from that cock and I know in my heart that I lack the commitment to bring that fucker to life. In fact, at this point, I have no desire to work very hard for anything whatsoever.

Deciding to cut my losses, I rise and return to the side of the chair. Almost immediately some other cocksucker moves in and takes my place. I think… “Good luck with that.” I don’t care. I just want to get off and go home. I offer up my dick to the dude in the chair, but he isn’t paying any attention to me. He’s pushed away the other dude that was trying to suck him and is now palming his own limp dick. A minute or two passes by and then I figure – fuck this. I start jerking my own dick, shooting out a nice sized load in no time. It hits the floor with a satisfying splat and I am kind of awed by the amount of ground it covers. The dude sitting in the chair finally notices me, and his eyes go big and wide as he watches me nut. Should I feel guilty about cumming all over the floor like this? Naw. Like some nastier things aren’t covering that floor already? Oh, but someone could slip on it. Eh. Risk assessment. Not my problem.

Gathering up my stuff, I head upstairs to retrieve my clothes and get dressed. Just as I’m heading out the door, I run into my two buds from the Prairie. I hug them both and bid them a good night. Something tells me they will be among the last to leave. More power to them.

On my way out, the bouncer looks at me and says, “Well, he came in with a smile and now he’s leaving with even a bigger one.” I grin, thank him and head into the night.

I’m pretty sure there’s a McDonald’s drive-thru open somewhere…

Friday, May 07, 2010

Bumping My Head Against the Latex Ceiling – Part II: The Allure of Mystery Holes in Zombieland

It’s not every day that I find myself trying to carry on a conversation with a dude who has just fucked me while another dude is slipping his dick up my ass. Given the environment, I guess I should have expected it; I mean, I’ve been to bathhouses in the past. I’ve always found them to be a hit and miss affair with the emphasis on the miss, but what’s happening to me at that moment is a first and I failed to deal with it well, or at all.

It didn’t go on for long. About five minutes into the fuck, the Campbell Soup Kid begins to make moans indicating that he is about to cum. And then he does. He mouths something at me that I can’t hear and walks away. I feel a little bit like one of those people who lose their hearing after a bomb explodes. In a way, one did; up my ass. I feel like the victim of a drive-by fuck, only I’m no victim. I’m there of my own freewill and could have stopped him at any time, but didn’t.

A week later, on-line, I get an email from this guy on one of the hook-up sites I frequent. All it says is, “It was nice to meet you.” This is a guy whom I have been emailing back and forth for over two years. We never get together because our schedules never jive. His profile is all about how he is a power top and blah, blah. His pics show him to be a real macho man who takes his fucking very seriously. Okay, long story, short, it turns out this is the Campbell Soup Kid! Only it’s not. Not by a long shot – or rather not according to his dick shot. There is no way the pea shooter that tapped my ass at that sex party is the same one pictured in this dude’s profile. Also, the Campbell Soup Kid was sort of all shiny and hairless, while this guy looks swarthy, lean and mean. But what do I know. That must be what he was mouthing to me at the time – that he was the guy from the internet. Well, I have to go on record saying – I waited two years for that?

Of course I don’t know this at the time. At the time I’m still a little stunned that some dude has unloaded his wiener up my butt. I excuse myself and head back to home base and my duffle bag stuffed beside the couch in the middle room. I gargle with Listerine, drink some water, wipe my face and ass with a couple of wet wipes, and regroup my energies. The first dude that fucked me walks over to me and we make small talk, kiss a bit, and then he takes off, doing the circuit with the other zombies. But things have changed in Zombieland. Little pockets of activity are heating up all over the place. In that little loft space there is now a muscle-bound jock pimping out some guy’s ass. Dudes are lined up in that dark little covey watching someone take an ass pounding on that couch. This goes on for well over an hour, during which I climb up those steps a couple of times to see what all the noise is about (the bottom is quite vocal), but I never stay long enough to get a good sense of the guys’ face or what the scene is all about.

I drift into the sling room and bump into two buds I know from the Prairie. I like them both quite a bit. One is tall, hairy and bearded. The other is lanky and smooth. They are both quite tan and well hung. We’re on friendly terms and seem to get along fine. Both are nude and drinking beer. We run out of conversation after about ten minutes and I decide to drift back into rotation with the other zombies, even though I secretly wish I could just hang out with them.

Walking along the back wall of the room with the glory hole booths I bump into this thin, dark-haired dude. It’s very dark back there, but from what I can make out of his features, he’s younger than me by at least ten years (possibly more). He has a handsomely contoured, almond shaped face. His body, seemingly tanned, has not an ounce of body fat on it, though it’s his dick that gets most of my attention. It’s only about 7.5 inches, cut, with an average width, but seems to fit my mouth perfectly. Without much pre-game talk, I slip it into my mouth and happily slurp on his knob for the longest time. This appears to be all that he wants and I’m only to happy to oblige. Several times he leans over and compliments me on my cocksucking skills. This, of course, spurs me on and I redouble my efforts. He stops me several times, claiming to be close to cumming. He wants to hang onto his load. Finally, after taking him to the edge one too many times, he tells me he needs a break. No problem. I get up and head back to home base for a nice gargle before rejoining the zombie line.

This time, as I move into the sling room, I notice that one of the slings is now occupied by one of the guys I know from the Prairie – the smooth, lanky one. Some guys have all the luck. Of course, no doubt, it also helps that he is so handsome and personable. I’m sure he will be making a lot of friends here tonight. He looks right at home in that sling. I don’t recognize the dude fucking him, but then I don’t get much of an opportunity to check him out, as they are soon surrounded and swallowed up by a crowd of onlookers.

I continue on my way, doing the rounds until I decide it’s time for a bathroom break. I head up stairs in search of the john. There is a line, of course, but that gives me time to check out the refreshment room which is right beside the bathrooms. There is a nice spread of sorts: lots of bottled water, pretzels and chips of various kinds and a neat pile of mini-lubes and condoms. There is music playing – an old Pet Shop Boys song. In line waiting to get into the bathroom are a couple of femmy Asian boys. Giggling a lot, they take their time checking me out before it is their turn to use the restroom. They go in together, leaving just me and one other dude waiting in line. I make small talk and take my turn when the time comes.

Okay, so some dude just shot a load up my ass. Do you think I might want sit on the john and get it the hell out of me? I think I must have still been in denial or something, because all I do is use the urinal and then give myself a whore’s bath at the sink. I look in the mirror above the sink. I look okay, for an old dude. Sort of. Something tells me, that in the darkness of the lower level, I come off as passable.

I grab some lube from the refreshment room, even though I have an ample supply in my duffle bag downstairs. Checking out the snacks, I decide not to partake. If I did, I’d have to brush my teeth. Heading toward the steps that lead to the lower level, I glance into the room where dudes sit on couches waiting for blow jobs. Sitting spread eagle is a bearded dude that I’d noticed briefly during my earlier rounds in the basement. He looks like a mountain man come to town to do some cat-housing. His longish beard is not shaped or sculpted. His eyes and demeanor are intensely masculine and confident. I pause in the doorway, eying his dick in the hopes that he will nod his head and allow me to be of service. He doesn’t, but his eyes meet mine and our gaze locks. This isn’t a case of Vulcan Mind-meld, but more like a scene from any number of 1970’s gay porno flicks and as close to cliché cruising as I get this night. It feels a bit choreographed, but soon I’m on more familiar ground as I kneel between his legs and take is soft cock into my mouth. He has dark brown hair and a light coating of fur over his entire body. His body is in very good shape and I’m thinking that he might be quite handsome under that beard. But something is off - his body, and in particular, his pubes, smell of fresh urine. It stings the pores of my skin on my recently shaven face. I suspect this dude pissed on himself a few moments before I wandered onto the scene. On this couch? Really? Around his neck, on a leather strap, hangs a bottle of poppers; a brand I am not familiar with. He shoves the bottle under my nose and I inhale deeply. That’s all the inspiration I need. Before I know it I’m working every trick I know to bring his slumbering member to life.

After about five minutes, I get a rise out of him and am thinking, oh, this should be easy; get him off and move on. But he has something else in mind. He starts talking. Well, more like, he starts telling me how to work his dick with my mouth. His voice is masculine and pleasing enough, but after about ten minutes his constant narration and string of instructions start to get on my nerves. That’s when I realize – hey, this is a sex party, not a commitment ceremony; I am free to get up and move on any time I like. So I do. I’m sure someone else will be more than willing to take my place. His dick, while not much over six inches, is pleasant enough and I am sure there will be someone much hungrier than I crossing his path soon.

Descending into the darkness of the lower level, I resume my rounds with the other zombies. I stop at my duffel bag, gargle, clean my face with an antiseptic wipe, and grab a few swigs of water. There is a man sitting with another man on the couch and while I am taking care of business, bent over my duffle bag, his hands are roaming all over my body. He pays me some very sweet (and somewhat undeserved) compliments about my body. I keep it polite and cordial. He’s not my kind of fun and after playing nice for about five minutes I excuse myself and head toward the sling room.

In the middle of the room there stands the taller of the two guys I know from the Prairie – not the one that was in the sling earlier, the other one. He’s messing around with this short, super hairy dude – seriously, dude has like orangutan hair, very long and very straight all over his bod. As I approach, they appear to just be macking on each other. The tall dude’s dick is semi-hard and waving out there in the open. I sucked him off once at the Prairie, so I figure why not go for it. I crouch down before him and take his dick in my mouth. He doesn’t push me away, but then he also doesn’t make any gesture that might indicate that he is cool with it. After about five minutes I end up feeling like an interloper, an intruder, and abandon the scene. Rising up, I give him a kiss and walk away, leaving him to play with his furry little friend. On my way out of the room I catch sight of the other guy from the Prairie, who is now squatting over some dude seated in one of the chairs. He’s taking the dude’s dick up his ass like a pro. Hell, I don’t know what protocol is in these types of situations. Is okay to stare? It looks hot, but I decide not to stare.

Circling back to the room with the glory hole boxes for the umpteenth time, I walk over to the darkest corner and move along the back wall checking out the action; lots of oddly shaped bodies groping and slobbering all over each other. I reach the last of the boxes and notice there is somebody standing inside. Since he’s not kneeling, peering through the holes, I assume he is looking to get sucked, so I move around to the side of the box and crouch down. I’ve never played with a glory hole before and the idea of it intrigues me.

I remember the first time I ever laid eyes on one. It was in Austin, MN at some pseudo-shopping complex where my Mother would go each Saturday to shop for groceries at the Red Owl while we kids checked out the toys and candy at the nearby Ben Franklin. We’d been going to this shopping mall for years, but I had never gone to the public restroom during that time. I must have been about fourteen or so, because I had recently discovered the joys of masturbation and sported a constant hard on. Telling my Mom that I was going to the Ben Franklin, I instead headed down the corridor toward the public restroom. Entering, you immediately got a sense that nobody at the mall paid much attention to this poor excuse for a bathroom. I made a bee line for the third of four stalls, locking the door behind me as soon as I got inside. Undoing my jeans, I sat down on the can. My dick was already hard and I began to play with it right away. As I did I noticed there was graffiti scrawled all over the insides of that stall; mostly crude drawings of genitalia, demands for various types of service and hastily etched phone numbers. I read the words without much understanding, but I knew that what it referred to was dirty and that just made my adolescent dick throb all the more. That’s when my eyes lit upon this odd, craggy hole that gaped in the stall’s wall to my right. It was too big to be an accident and too irregular to be a design feature. I remember leaning forward to examine it closer when my eyes caught sight of someone sitting in the other stall. I pulled back and sat upright pretty fast, unsure what the hell was going on. My heart racing, I tried hard not to breathe. All I wanted to do was shrink up and disappear. I was just beginning to think I’d been successful, when two, very adult, very male fingers came through the hole.

Well, of course I freaked. After all I was a naïve, guilt-ridden, choir-singing, church-going altar boy. Masturbation was a sin for which I was surely going to hell, so whatever was going on with that hole in that restroom was surely not something that was going slow my descent. I bolted right out of the stall, pulling up and trying to right my pants as I banged noisily out of the stall and through the restroom door into the mall corridor where I ran right smack into my own Mother. Her eyes went big as she asked me what I was doing. I mumbled something about going to the bathroom, as I finished zipping up and pushed past her to head toward the Ben Franklins. Once in the safety and relative anonymity of the Ben Franklins’ candy aisle I noticed that I had broken out in a full sweat. Completely flushed, my heart was pounding just as hard as my dick was throbbing. I was one confused mess. It would be many, many years before I’d have even the slightest inkling of what was going on in the restroom at that mall and even though we continued to visit that mall for several more years, I would never venture into that restroom again.

Now, here I was, all these years later, crouching down to peer through a similar hole. Only this time I definitely knew what it was for…

End Part II