Stanley was amazed by his erection. It was the first one he’d had in two or three years. Maybe four. At least since Dennis left him. Not only that, but it was happening in the stall of a men’s room with a mouth shoved up against the other side of a glory hole. An intense scent of cinnamon burned his nose, spicy and irritating like a thousand half-chewed Red Hots he couldn’t spit out or swallow.

The mouth on the other side of the hole looked cavernous and inviting, a tunnel of wet wonder that gave Stanley thoughts he hadn’t had for so long, he’d given up on their reappearance. They told him to obey the instructions printed in block letters above the glory hole: “LET ME SUCK YOUR DICK!!” All he had to do was stand up, turn to the left and take a step—not even a step. A half step. A quarter step. But his dick was a step ahead of him.

It drew him up and off the toilet seat, the wallet in his pants thudding against the tiled floor. He almost tripped over his baggy boxers as he turned to face the hole, the tip of his cock hitting the cold, thin metal wall between the stalls. A shock ran through his genitalia, but he didn’t pull away. With one brief thought about the possible consequences of sticking his cock in a strange hole, he plunged deeply into the waiting orifice.

It felt cool at first, balm on Stanley’s fiery dick, but then a warm friction engulfed him. The stranger’s tongue coaxed a moan from him. He sank further into the hole, feeling his pubes scour the stall wall as he ground his hips into the unyielding surface. The mouth was working his dick now, and Stanley only pumped twice before he was ready to cum. A warm hand grazed the hair on his shaft, and he moaned again as he began to shoot.

Every nerve ending in his body seemed to be firing at once, his whole consciousness shooting out the head of his dick as he bucked against the wall. The stranger on the other side never lost contact with Stanley’s cock, moving with him until the flow stopped. Stanley staggered backwards, winded, and sat back down on the toilet, a thin string of spitcum trailing from his already receding cockhead. He bent down to thank the stranger, but a sheet of notebook paper blocked his view.

NO FACES, it read.

Stanley glanced at the stranger’s scuffed Nikes and sat upright again, wondering what to do next. Gloryhole sex had never appealed to him. It was too casual, too meaningless. It seemed rude to just pull up his pants and go. Is there a protocol here? he wondered. Which one of us leaves first? The sheet of paper disappeared and a hand came through the hole. It was smooth, yet manly. Thick veins snaked up and down the tops. No rings adorned the long fingers, but they held a note clipped to a Bic pen.

Stanley unfolded it and read the stranger’s spidery script: YOU CAME PRETTY QUICK. BEEN A WHILE?

He almost laughed. YEAH, he scrawled and handed the note back. It was returned quickly.

WANNA GO AGAIN?

Stanley looked down to find his dick getting hard again. Jesus, he thought. Nothing for four years, then twice in the same fucking day? This is too goddamn weird. GOTTA GO BACK TO WORK, he wrote.

SAME TIME TOMORROW?

He didn’t have to think about the answer. YES.

Stanley heard the sound of paper tearing, then the toilet flushed. With a rustle of clothing, the stranger was zipped up and gone. He doesn’t want to be seen, Stanley thought, so I’ll let him get a little ahead before I follow him. He pulled his pants up, washed his hands and stepped out into the small hallway the bookstore he worked in shared with the other businesses on the second floor, but before he could get a fix on which way the stranger might have gone, Potter was on him.

“Are you feeling okay, Stanley?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You were in the men’s room a long time.” He paused, apparently letting the severity of the situation impress itself on Stanley before continuing. “I thought maybe you were sick or something.”

“No sir, I’m fine.”

“Great, great,” Potter said, smiling at him with condescending insincerity. “I don’t care if you are Margarita’s nephew, I’ll tell you right now I’m on to you. And I’ll be watching your ass.”

“Thanks for the warning.” The cell phone in his pants rang. “Are we done? I need to take this call.”

Potter clucked his tongue and walked away. “Five minutes, Spinoza. You’re on my time.” Plunging his hand into his pocket, Stanley fished around for his phone. It could only be Wes.

“Hello?”

“That you, Stanley?”

“Who else would be answering my cell phone?”

“You gotta stop working, Stan,” Wes replied. “It’s making you mean.” He chewed something in Stanley’s ear, a big Cheetoh from the sound of it. Extra crunchy. Stanley hated listening to him eat on the phone. “Going to group tonight?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Group was the support group run by their mutual therapist, Dr. Wisencrantz.

“What do you mean, you guess? You’re not cocooning or anything, are you? You don’t have the urge to hibernate, do you?”

Cocooning. Hibernation. Wisenspeak for shutting off contact with people. “No, I’m not cocooning,” he said. “How can I cocoon? I have a fucking job. I don’t sit in front of a computer at home all day like you do and call it communicating with the outside world.”

“Not in the mood for small talk, huh? Okay. I can respect that. I just wanted to make sure you were still going. We’re meeting outside your building at seven and walking down there, right?”

Stanley knew he’d go. In a group of four, including the therapist, his absence would definitely be noticed. “Right,” he replied. “See you, Wes.” He heard part of Wes’s goodbye as he clicked the phone off. He hated Wes and he hated Wisencrantz and he hated the fucking court-ordered therapy.

If only he’d told Dennis he was poz before he’d barebacked him. If only Dennis hadn’t sued and won, taking his savings and his house and leaving him with this shitty job at his aunt’s third-rate used bookstore and a dick perpetually limp from the stress of his losses. If only. “There’ll be a special place in hell for you, asshole,” he remembered Dennis saying just before he left, brushing back that shock of brown hair he always had trouble keeping in place. And it had been hell. But after four long years, his hard-on was back.

You can bet your ass I’ll be seeing this guy tomorrow. Stanley thought. And any other time he wants.

Dr. Theodore Wisencrantz resembled a goateed German submarine with tiny rimless glasses – short and squat, boiler plates of flesh riveted together with acne scars. “Well,” he said, looking around the office at his three patients, “unless someone has something else, that’ll be it for tonight.”

No one said anything.

“Next week, then,” Dr. Wisencrantz said as he stood up. “In addition to your individual appointments, of course. Miss Orthonne, I’d like to see you for a moment, please. The rest of you may leave.”

Stanley got up, barely glancing at the small, delicate woman seated next to the doctor. Her face was hidden by a Mondrian print scarf she’d felt guilty about buying at a museum gift shop. They’d heard about it three sessions ago. He was glad she hadn’t returned it, but now she couldn’t take it off without feeling guilty.

He turned for the door, and Wes hit him in the shin with his chair. “Sorry, Stan,” he said. Tall, lanky and as awkward as a blind puppy, Wes needed extra room for everything. He followed Stanley out the door. “Ready for some Starbucks?”

“Not tonight, Wes. Sorry.” Over Wes’s shoulder, he saw Wisencrantz and Miss Orthonne speaking with their heads together in hushed urgency.

“Not even a double vanilla latte?”

Wes’s pleading brown eyes didn’t sway him. “Sorry. I’ve got something to do.”

“That means I’ll have to walk home alone.”

“You could wait for Miss Orthonne.”

“Fucking rich bitch heiress,” Wes said, stopping him in front of the men’s room. “I’d rather snort Drano. C’mon, you don’t have anything to do.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Like what?”

Stanley looked around. “Like going in here, for instance.”

“The bathroom? Go ahead, I’ll wait.”

“I don’t crap on demand, Wes. Tell you what, why don’t you start walking home by yourself? I’ll catch up to you later.”

“Sure,” he said as he turned to walk away. “I get it. It sounds like hibernation to me, but okay. I’ll go. See ya.” He slunk down the hall and hit the button for the elevator. “I just hope Dr. Wisencrantz doesn’t have to hear about this.”

Dr. Wisencrantz is too busy boinking Miss Orthonne to give a rat’s ass, Stanley thought, pushing the bathroom door open. It was a two-stall, urinal-and-sink affair with a silver bullet-headed trash can in one corner under a cracked mirror. The room smelled like stuffy farts and fake pine disinfectant. He stepped up to the urinal and unzipped his fly.

He wagged his cock at the cool porcelain ahead. As he pissed, Stanley moved his hips and felt the weight of his cock as it bobbed in the air. God damn, he thought. How come I haven’t really looked at my dick lately? Appreciated it? He shivered as he shook the last few drops of urine off and traced a big vein from the root to the tip with his index finger. It started stiffening immediately.

He began to form a fist around the base of his cock, but a noise from one of the stalls startled him. Bending over slightly, he saw the far stall was occupied. Then he smelled the cinnamon again, luring him with its horny aroma. His dick bobbling before him, he stepped into the empty stall, dropped his pants and sat down. He flashed back to that morning. It couldn’t be him again, he thought. Or could it?

One of the scuffed up Nikes from the next stall toed into view, tapping slowly. It rose and fell as if it were breathing on its own. A hand holding a piece of paper and a Bic pen popped under the wall. All three were very familiar.

REMEMBER ME? Stanley read.

YEAH. Like I could forget, he thought.

LET ME SUCK YOU OFF

NO HOLE, he replied.

KNEEL DOWN

Stanley assessed the space between the edge of the stall wall and the floor. NOT MUCH ROOM.

REALLY? LOOK AGAIN

It did seem high enough after all. Weird, Stanley thought. I could have sworn…ah, whatever…. He knelt down, his hips under the stall divider. Feeling sand and the edges of cold tile on his bare kneecaps, he leaned back on his hands and let the guy go to work. Flat palms over his hairy thighs led to caresses of his fat low-hangers, brushing ever closer to Stanley’s asshole all while the stranger sucked his thick cock.

Stanley groaned out loud and ground his hips further under the stall, the cold metal wall edge digging into his midriff. The stranger sucked greedily, running up and down the shaft, then poking his tongue out to lick Stanley’s big nuts.

He felt an incredible load building. Before it got to the point of no return, however, a different urge overtook him. He disengaged from the stranger and backed away, still on his knees, panting. The climax seeped back down to his nuts, precum trailing from his piss slit. Stanley crooked his finger under the wall. He wanted to suck the stranger. The idea thrilled him, made his skin prickle as the stranger slid his hips beneath the wall.

His cock was thinner and longer than Stanley’s, surrounded by reddish gold hair. No low-hangers, either. Just a tiny, hard nutsack, shriveled around two acorns. But it was hard, and Stanley’s mouth watered as he homed in on it. The stranger’s dick slid inside, Stanley feeling the underside of its smooth shaft on his tongue. It felt so natural to him. So right. He brought up one hand up to tickle the stranger’s scrotum.

His other hand automatically dropped down to his own tool, but he stopped himself after a couple of pumps. I don’t wanna cum yet, he thought. Concentrating fully on the dick in his mouth, he grabbed the base with his hand and squeezed a little as he traced the stranger’s circumcision scar with his tongue. Stanley bobbed his head and sucked, feeling his own nuts bounce against the tile floor, but he knew he couldn’t hold it back much longer.

The stranger was almost there too, thrusting in and out as he fucked Stanley’s mouth and began panting in short breaths. Stanley felt the stranger’s hard nuts retreat even further under his fingers until suddenly he pulled out of Stanley’s mouth and slid backwards.

The stranger’s hand went to his own dick. The soles of his shoes creaked as he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet and pumped. But they weren’t Nikes anymore. They were a pair of brown Oxfords…and then black loafers…then tan suede workboots…and then…hooves? What the fuck? Stanley blinked, and they were Nikes again.

The stranger came first, shooting so hard that he spattered Stanley’s balls. The sight and feel of surprisingly cool cum splashing on him was too much for Stanley to take. He let his own load go, watching it rocket across the floor in a straight, spurting line. His head buzzed as he sat back in exhausted pleasure, jizz dripping off his fingers onto the slickened floor. Suddenly aware of how much the wrist he leaned on hurt, he rose up and sat back down on the toilet.

Before he could unroll enough paper to clean his hand off, Stanley heard the stranger buckling his belt. He wanted to thank him, wanted to ask him how he knew he’d be here, wanted to tell him how grateful he was, maybe even tell him he was poz. But speaking would break something between them. Anything I say would probably sound stupid anyway, he thought. And it’s too late to tell him I’m poz. He might sue my ass like Dennis did.

The stranger’s stall door opened, and he walked out quickly. Stanley wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He wasn’t sure how he felt about anything any more. All he knew was that he was tired and he had a long walk home, with the possibility of being joined near Starbucks by a waiting Wes. I’ll have to punch him, he thought.

He bent over to pick up his pants and saw a note on the floor.

BUS TERMINAL, it read. TOMORROW 2:00 PM.

Oh yeah, he thought. I’ll be there.

Stanley hated Potter’s smile. It was more malevolent than his frown, plus he showed his teeth. They were cracked and chipped and yellowed, home to sesame seeds from his morning bagel and the source of the coffee breath Stanley smelled from across the desk.

“I don’t have to tell you how good this feels, do I?” he asked.

Stanley didn’t say anything.

“Late every morning, every coffee break and every lunch for the past three weeks,” Potter said, tossing a rubberbanded stack of time cards on the desk. “And Margarita’s in Europe. She can’t save your ass now. Management school teaches us to ask if there’s anything I can do before I fire you, not that I really give a shit. You’ll just tell me to mind my own fucking business, right?”

“Mind your own fucking business.”

Potter smiled again. “You just can’t help some people. Pack up your stuff and get out, Spinoza. I don’t even want you back here as a customer.”

Stanley stood up, glad to be out of Potter’s breath range. “Shows how observant you are,” he replied. “I took all my stuff home last week.” He tried hard to think of a parting shot but none came to mind. He’s not worth it, he thought as he slammed Potter’s office door, hearing him chuckle behind it.

He breezed through the side entrance as he’d done numerous times in the last three weeks. He paused on the sidewalk and put on his sunglasses, squinting out the bright clear day. 11:30, he thought, checking his watch. I’ll be a little early, but he’ll be there first.

He’s always there first, no matter where it is—the bus station, the third floor men’s room at Foley’s downtown, the rest stop on I-70, the bathroom at Bible Park, or even this place. He took the note out of his pocket. 1285 ZUNI ST, it read. I don’t even get a name this time, he thought. Just an address. Stanley looked up, turned and headed west.

His cock was almost fully hard, but that was nothing new. In the past three weeks, Stanley couldn’t remember seeing it flaccid. Going to the bathroom without jacking off was unthinkable, never mind two or three daily sessions with the stranger. He even got a chubby eating breakfast every morning.

But I just got fired because I can’t keep my dick in my pants long enough to stay at work for a whole day, he thought. How the fuck am I gonna pay the rent? Or my therapy bills? Or get my meds? That should be a problem. Dr. Wisencrantz would think so. Why don’t I? How come I can’t think any further ahead than the next blowjob?

As Stanley walked, the neighborhood began looking seedier. The glass and chrome gloss of the re-urbanized downtown gave way to older buildings with boarded up windows beneath layers of sleaze. Stanley’s cell phone rang, but he didn’t even check the number. It’s probably Wisencrantz again, he thought. Or Wes. He didn’t want to talk to either of them. He didn’t want to talk to anyone.

He reached the cross street and went down a half a block until he came to an old brick building with black paint over the windows and a wire mesh screen stretched across the door. Hanging from bands of duct tape above it was a neon sign that read “1285” in pink and blue script.

As soon as he touched the wire mesh, dogs started barking behind the door, their yelps reverberating up and down the whole block. The noise continued until a panel in the door slid open and Stanley found himself staring into a pair of brown eyes. The cinnamon smell wafted out to greet him, but the eyes just looked him up and down. I guess I have to talk first, he thought. “Um, I’m supposed to meet someone here.”

“You’re expected.”

A buzzer sounded somewhere, and the door opened. It led into a small anteroom with a counter, a window and another door beside them. Perched behind the window was a small dark man.

“You’ve also been paid for,” he said, pushing a towel and a key on a leather thong through a slot at the bottom of the window. “Locker 49.”

The buzzer went off again, and the other door opened. Stanley grabbed the towel and the key and went through, stopped immediately by the darkness in front of him. He couldn’t see a thing, and he saw even less when the door closed behind him. He began to panic, the fear growing so real he started to lose his boner, which hadn’t happened in almost a month. In a moment, however, warm red light started to penetrate the dark, and he could see a room at the end of the hall.

His boner re-solidified, urging him forward. The cell phone in his pocket began to vibrate again, startling him. He ignored it and marched ahead, coming to a dimly lit room with a bank of small lockers, a couple of benches and a folding chair with a worn leather seat. Locker 49 was on the end, next to another hallway. When he opened it, he saw a note.

STRIP. KEEP YOUR TOWEL BUT DON’T COVER UP YOUR DICK. PUT THE KEY AROUND YOUR WRIST OR ANKLE. FOLLOW THE HALLWAY DOWN TO THE END, TURN RIGHT, WALK ABOUT FIVE FEET AND YOU’LL BE IN A LARGE ROOM. I’LL FIND YOU.

He unbuckled his pants, but the cell phone went off again before he could get them off his hips. Fucking Wisencrantz, he thought, snapping the phone off and throwing it in the back of the locker. The boxers next, then his socks and then he was totally naked, his fat dick bobbing as he locked the locker, put the key around his wrist and headed down the dark hallway with his towel around his shoulders.

There were rooms on either side of him, some with their doors closed and others open. The open ones all had beds with men either alone and jacking off or fucking in pairs. A few of them motioned him inside or made a grab for his cock from the door, but Stanley stayed on course.

The room was almost pitch black except for the dark red lights hanging above, but Stanley could tell it was large. Concentrating hard, he could see the faint outlines of benches against the walls and the men on them. He couldn’t tell how many guys there were, but they clustered together in small naked groups of parts—asses, knees, feet, dicks, arms and chests, forming cells that moaned softly as they pulsated. Stragglers orbited the benches like horny electrons, joining or departing the groups or just watching. A few of them grabbed at Stanley, but he turned away from them.

Then, a very persistent hand cupped his balls and tickled the sides of his scrotum. He knew that touch well. His stranger. “Mmmmm,” Stanley breathed. He reached for the stranger’s crotch, but he had already pulled away and was settling down on his knees. Stanley felt his cock slide into the stranger’s mouth as he ran his hands up and down Stanley’s hairy thighs.

A strange hand ran itself though his chest hair, another caressed the curve of his ass, then two massaged his shoulders while yet another brushed his buttcrack. Fingers fondled his balls while the stranger worked his dick. Rough bearded cheeks from nowhere and everywhere nuzzled his neck and brushed their lips against his ear. Stanley’s own hands touched at will, grazing nipples and cocks and holes and patches of hairy skin. The stranger stopped sucking and grabbed Stanley’s dick, leading him like a pull-toy over to one of the benches. The cluster followed in a tangle of disembodied hands.

The stranger got on all fours beneath one of the dark red light bulbs, and Stanley knew what he was supposed to do. Oh my God, he thought. He wants me to fuck him. “But I’m…” he started to say, but the thought died on his lips. Strong arms raised him up on the bench, and he stood facing the stranger’s spread pucker. From out of nowhere, a hand gooey with gel greased up Stanley’s dick while another greased the waiting hole.

The hand lubing Stanley guided his cock to the stranger’s ass, using it like a paintbrush to daub precum and lube down his asscrack until the head finally reached the hole. Stanley breathed and sank himself in, feeling the tight warmth wrapping his dick as he went deep, drawing a sigh from the stranger.

“Yeah,” someone growled deeply. “Fuck that ass.”

Stanley began thrusting shallow at first, but soon the hands were helping, pushing him into the stranger and pulling him out again faster and faster. Stanley tried to stop himself, but there were too many hands and it had been too long and it felt too good, too fucking great to say no.

He was just finding a rhythm when he heard voices. He assumed they were coming from the men around him, but he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t really see their faces, except for one that looked terribly familiar—especially that shock of brown hair falling across his forehead. Dennis? What the hell? He tried to focus on the face, but the harder he tried, the more it eluded him.

The voices built in intensity, chanting indecipherably in a rhythm that married itself to his thrusts in and out of the stranger. Stanley wished he could understand where they were coming from or what they were saying. Was it Latin? No, it was English. He could almost figure it out, but not quite.

He surrendered to the touch and the smell and the chant, arching his back and raising his head high in the air. The red light bulb above seemed to grow brighter as the hands took control and the voices grew plainer.

SEND, they said.

They pumped Stanley’s cock in and out of the stranger again and again until his load started building.

SEND HIM

His nuts churned as they slammed into the stranger’s ass and he felt the sharp edge of a climax start to ripple up.

SEND HIM THERE

His breath short, he started to gasp and felt himself about ready to shoot.

SEND HIM THERE

He thrust deeply on his own and exploded inside the stranger’s ass, feeling his cum spurt.

SEND HIM THERE NOW

Warmth flooded him suddenly, as if he was on fire. The scent of cinnamon became heady and overpowering. He looked down at his arm but couldn’t see it. He blinked as the second shot of cum spent itself, and Stanley realized he couldn’t see his chest either. A shadow? A trick of the light? Or was it a trick of the dark? When he tried to pinch his own nipples, he felt nothing grabbing nothing. He screamed but couldn’t hear his voice. His legs were gone too—his hands, his neck, his dick all disincorporated into a thin wisp of cumsmoke that rose through the air towards the hooded red light bulb overhead.

 

© 2006 Jerry L. Wheeler - Contributor's Bio