The Mensroom

He entered the public washroom his eyes momentarily blinded by the harsh fluorescent lights reflecting off the stark white tiles. Looking down at the still wet floor he smelt the sharp, sweet tang of disinfectant and silently thanked whoever had recently cleaned. He hated the smell of piss and shit usually associated with such places.

Looking across the row of cubicle doors he selected the last, his usual one, noticing that all the others were vacant. He entered, closed and locked the door behind him before scanning the walls. In spite of the overall cleanliness the side of the cubicle was covered in messages, some describing past encounters here, others leaving dates and times for future ones. He ignored the drawings of grotesquely large penises, spurting copious amounts of cum and drawn in a shaky hand, concentrating instead on the contacts. Somehow he could spot the flippant ones, the people never intending to keep their dates, and looked for the simple messages, date and time only. He noticed one and read it twice to be sure.

'3:00 p.m. August 10th.'

That was all it said, and all he needed. He glanced at his watch, almost 3:00, and sat down on the bowl still completely dressed, waiting. As he waited his mind drifted back to other occasions in other washrooms. Not all his visits proved productive, but most did. He knew the 'good' places. Places where, at the right time, action could almost always be relied on.

When he was on his many business trips he would seek his 'partners' at the urinal, anonymity was less important a hundred miles or more from home. On the last occasion that he had entered a public washroom he didn't know what to expect, it was a new town to him and he had not yet explored the possibilities of the area. His expectation rose when he saw three men standing 'pretending' to urinate but there was no tell tale sound of piss hitting porcelain, the usual giveaway.

He stood, a yard away, the required distance at this point, his cock out but still soft. He glanced across the line, each man looking down at his own cock, waiting for a gesture or movement that would indicate safety. The police were, in some towns, vigilant; in others they didn't seem to care what occurred within the four stark walls of the local convenience.

The pattern was as usual, a glance at the nearest man's cock, a look that took a little longer than just curiosity. Most men compared their own cock with the others at the urinals; the art was in letting that comparison become just a little more than that; an indication of interest. A stroke of the cock, pretending to squeeze a last drop of non-existent piss out, then watch. If his companions did the same, then two strokes; no erection yet . . . it became a game of who would make the first advance. Then three strokes and pause. The man furthest away took the initiative, he probably had least to loose. Openly wanking, the others watched as his cock grew, first to the horizontal then vertical, hard and big. No pretence now, four cocks being stroked in a line, all hard. A hand would slip out spanning the gap between two of them. If the man continued with his own stroking then the hand would be withdrawn to continue on his own cock, but if the recipients hand was removed then acceptance was assumed and the mutual wanking would start, usually with others joining in with their nearest partner.

Sometimes wanking each other was all that would occur, at other times a more adventurous coupling would arise, as it was then. One dropped to his knees in front of another to take a cock deep into his mouth, oblivious of the audience. The others, himself included watched, stroking quickly, trying to match their come with everyone else's. He knew enough not to be the last to ejaculate, if he was then he would be on his own the others having left, quickly. He felt a hand on his cock and looked towards his 'partner', as they watched the blow job they wanked each other slowly.

The standing man's hands moved to the back of the kneeling one's head as he drove his cock deeper into his mouth. He smiled at the others watching them, then swung his hips faster causing the other to gag slightly, not that either seemed to care. A grimace, a groan, then the obvious sign of ejaculation. The kneeling one turned to spit out the cum into the urinal, not everyone swallowed.

"What a waste," someone said, "what a fuckin' waste". Then the sated one left, leaving three. The kneeling one stood and moved along side them, his cock glistening with precum, an invitation that was not dismissed. Each wanking the other soon brought the expected result, three loads of cum splattering the urinal wall, dripping down to the base to pool there. Each left in turn, satisfied, but still careful. A few minutes between each in case anyone was watching.

3:10 came and went and still he waited, almost desperate now, aroused by his memory.

3:20: He stood ready to leave when he heard a cubicle door open and close. Looking down he saw a shadow pass a hole in the wall, one which someone had made months ago which had never been repaired. Thirty inches up from the floor, two inches across, perfect.

He loosened his belt and lowered his pants before again sitting on the bowl, his cock fully erect in anticipation. This was the awkward part. Had the person next door come in for the same as him or just to relieve himself? A mistake could be extremely painful as he once found out, the beating leaving a small scar over his left eye. As he waited he stroked his erect cock slowly.

He stared intently at the hole; the far side of the adjoining cubicle was still visible. Briefly the hole went dark as if someone had moved across it, he adjusted his position just enough to see more through the opening. The far side of the adjoining cubicle was replaced with the white and blue of an eye.

He sat back and began to stroke in earnest. Looking down the opening was blocked completely by the eye looking intently through it, then it disappeared . . . his turn.

He bent down and peered through. All he could see was a pair of legs clad in jeans that had been partially lowered to the ground and an erect cock being slowly stroked, as his was. He licked his lips in anticipation, and watched. The man stood and moved towards the hole, all that was visible now was the erect cock. James leant back slightly as the cock was slowly inserted through and to his side of the partition wall, the smooth end leaking precum from its single eye.

He reached out his hand and encircled it before bringing his mouth down to cover the bulbous head. He sighed contentedly as the cock filled his mouth, then he bobbed his head up and down it in time to his own stroking.

The man on the other side was pushing harder, trying desperately to get more of his cock through the thin wall. James felt the cock swelling as he sucked before it was withdrawn. His turn.

Bending his legs slightly he pushed his erection slowly through the hole. He felt first a hand on him then the warm breath of a mouth close to his glans. He waited, not everyone sucked some just wanked, but he was lucky this time. His cockhead was encircled by a warm mouth, drawing it deep inside. James' head dropped back, pleasure coursing through his body as the unknown man sucked powerfully on his cock.

These encounters were never prolonged, climaxing was the only goal. As he felt his balls ready to release their load the mouth was removed. Turn and turn about. James bent down to see the cock once again poking through the hole in the partition wall. He knew that this would be the final occasion that this would happen, the guy on the other side was ready to cum. James sucked even more powerfully than before, his mouth moving frantically over the cock. He felt the tell tail pause, then cum jetted from the man's cock, James swallowed greedily; he knew he shouldn't but nothing could stop him tasting the sometimes bitter, but always salty, elixir that had become his compulsion.

The man's cock began to wilt and James reluctantly released it seeing it disappear though the hole. He stood, inserting his own cock back into the hole and through into the adjoining cubicle. From previous encounters he knew that either he would get his cock sucked to completion or he would hear the door opening as his 'partner' left, leaving him hard and frustrated.

He felt the man's hand then his mouth on him. 'Thank you', he whispered through the wall, but he never knew if the man heard him or not. Between the man's mouth and his hand James' climax was quicker than he had wished. His balls tightened and his head swam as his cum jetted up his urethra and filled the mouth of his anonymous partner.

James removed his cock from the hole and wiped it clean, still slightly shaky from his climax. Dressing quickly he left his cubicle glancing at the still locked door alongside his. Moving to the washbasin he began to wash the smell of cock from his hand and cleanse himself of his illicit encounter, pointless really as his mouth still tasted of another's cum. He heard the cubicle door open and saw a shadow pass over the white tiles. He didn't turn as the man left; anonymity must be preserved for them both, although it didn't always work.

He remembered sucking one guy off only to see him later sitting in a pavement café, the wear on his jeans and his distinctive trainers a giveaway. He was accompanied by a young, and attractive, girl, a lover or a wife, their interaction showed her to be one or the other. James sat, not wanting a coffee but relishing the knowledge only he had. The man didn't recognise him even though only a few minutes earlier his cock had been deep into James' mouth, eventually spitting his seed down his throat. James wondered if the girl was as good at cock sucking as he was, he doubted it, but he would never know really.

Finishing washing he dried his hands with the electric drier before sliding one into his trouser pocket. Removing a ring he replaced it onto the third finger of his left hand, forcing the guilt that had momentarily filled his mind to be dismissed quickly as he rationalised his actions. This had become a secret part of his life that had become a necessity for him, an irresistible need that made him, for better or worse, who he was.

James walked slowly towards the door that would take him, once more, back to respectability, but he was already planning the next encounter. The place didn't matter; all that mattered was that it was discrete with two adjacent stalls and a strategically placed hole about thirty inches from the floor, two inches across.

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