FAWC 1: A Gloryhole AdventurebyBuckyDuckman©
(Moderator's Note: This story is a submission to the first Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge (FAWC). The true author of this story is kept anonymous, but will be revealed on June 22nd, 2013, in the comments section following this story. Each of the stories in this challenge are centered around the common theme of the main character being an author who then experiences the erotic and/or unusual events he or she writes about. There are no prizes given in this challenge; this is simply a friendly competition.)
(Author's Note: This story includes the themes of explicit, heterosexual sex between consenting adults.)
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Rain dotted the diner's windows. I pressed the side of my face against the cool glass and felt tapping raindrops trying to kiss my cheek. Houston Jones sat across from me with a steady smirk on his handsome face. I liked Houston. I amused him and didn't care. "You will hate morning," he said.
"I'm not planning on seeing morning," I said. My words were still slurring. I was so drunk, too drunk. The world felt mushy and blurry. Soft was too soft, hard wasn't firm enough. The glass against my cheek felt as if it was moving. "Did you carry me in here?"
"I think you floated." He pushed my coffee cup closer. It was stout coffee, bitter from sitting too long on a burner. I added another cream and two more sugars. Stirring was a problem. Making a circle with my floppy, drunk hand felt awkward. Maybe I could close my eyes for a moment and the world would firm up. The plastic covered seat of our booth spun wildly. No. Closing my eyes was not a good idea. I gulped at the coffee.
"If I die of alcohol poisoning, will you delete everything from my computer's hard drive?"
"You're not going to die," he promised, still smiling. Houston had a big nose, but not when he looked directly at me. From the side, his nose reminded me of a beak, but straight on, his nose looked normal. I liked his nose. It gave his face character. "Why do you want me to wipe your hard drive?"
"Ooo, that sounds dirty," I giggled. He shook his head and chuckled. He always dismissed my sexual references. I felt safe with him; Houston Jones liked me without wanting to do me. He didn't push, he waited. It was the right call and I made the sort of confession people save for being drunk, "Because I don't want anyone to find my porn."
Houston has such a great laugh; too loud, too big and just right to my ears. It's the way a laugh should be. Houston didn't care how loud he laughed. The stares he received didn't inhibit him. Houston loved to laugh and did. He had lots of different laughs, from chuckles and chortles to full on belly laughs. The belly laughs were the best. Those were loudest. Those were the laughs that drew stares from strangers. Houston roared with laughter at my reason. "What kind of porn could you possibly have?"
"Stories," I said. "Sexy stories." I said the words slowly so I didn't slur them and say "shexy shories." Houston kept smiling. He didn't believe me and I made the rest of my confession: "Sexy stories I wrote."
"Uh-huh," he said, nodding his head. That was distracting; seeing him nodding his head made my head spin.
"I'm serious," I insisted, suddenly angry that he didn't believe me. That's embarrassing to admit, but if you've nursed a drunken friend, you've experienced their mood swings. I was telling the truth and it became desperately important he knew it. Maybe because I really wanted him to wipe my hard drive if I should die or because I knew my reputation as an innocent. I can't remember the source of my urgency, only the importance of convincing him. I leaned on the table, waving him close until I could whisper in his ear, "He shoved his hard cock deep inside her tiny, tight pussy."
"Oh wow," Houston said, pulling away and staring at me as if I had suddenly sprouted tentacles from my forehead. He blinked hard before his smile returned and he began laughing. "You did not just say that!"
"Say it? Hell, I've written it!"
His big, happy smile remained as he considered the new me; the tentacle sporting version of me. I waited for his challenge. A wholesome, young woman at barely twenty-four doesn't write porn and doesn't write seriously. I knew how I looked: fresh faced, straight off the farm with my blonde hair still in braids. I preferred jeans to dresses, cotton over silk and could sex baby chicks. I was the heartbreaker for every country song ever written; a good church-going woman who liked to write monitor melting sex scenes too raw for any Harlequin brand romance novel. I sell my novels electronically through different venders. I do okay. I'm not ready to quit my day job, but maybe, one day.
"Deal," he promised without questioning me any further and I fell a little deeper in like with Houston Jones. If he had been twenty years younger or I had been more open-minded, he would have gotten lucky that night. He fed me more coffee until the rain stopped and the world felt real. He led the sleepy-tired me to the car, drove back to the hotel and walked me as far as the door to my room. He did not invite himself inside. He did not accept my invitation to come inside. He did not try to kiss me. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said. He hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign on his side of the door before pulling it closed.
As a ray of sunlight knifed its way through the tiniest slit in my curtains, morning proved vampires had it right: sunlight does kill. "Fucking sun," I swore, stumbling from the bed to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet and assessed my world. I was alive. I wasn't sick to my stomach. My mouth felt dry. No work today or tomorrow. Was I hungry? My stomach rolled at the thought of food and I chased it away. Coffee would be good. Good coffee. Unburnt coffee. I wiped, flushed, washed my hands and went back to bed until morning ended.
A hotel designed for the business traveler feels extra lonely on the weekends. The few stay-overs weren't happy people. Without work to accomplish, they roam the halls and give each other solemn nods when passing between the pool, the laundry room or the parking lot. I found coffee and went back to my room. I sent Houston a two word text message, "She lives!" When he wrote back a simple "LOL," I heard his laughter in my mind. It was probably a chuckle that time but still counted as a Laugh Out Loud. All his laughs did. A moment later, he asked "Lunch, dinner or none of the above?" It was two o'clock in the afternoon. I was drinking my first cup of coffee. Twelve hours had passed since my confession. I needed more time. "Dinner at Denny's?" I suggested. I knew I would have pancakes.
Houston and I were corporate trainers for a small retailer. We flew into town a week before an opening and after accepting the finished store from the contractors, we would begin setting up shop with the new crew. It was our job to train as we unboxed product. Except this time, the store didn't pass its final occupancy inspection. Locked out of the space by a pesky inspector and a frustrated contractor, we had spent the week receiving shipments into a storage unit and paying crew members to stock boxes instead of unpacking them. A two week job had turned into a three week assignment. The Evil One had not taken the news well.
I had pieced together the evening from scraps of scattered memories. It had started with the news from our contractor he could not have the store ready for occupancy until Monday. I sent a text home to The Evil One and received a "Dear John" break-up text from him. I mean, really, who breaks up with someone via text? The Evil One (his new name for the rest of eternity) said I travelled too much for him to remain faithful, as if he was the only person who got horny when we were apart. I told Houston he was going to drive and cock-block for me while I got shitfaced drunk. Yes, I had said "cock-block" to Houston, much to his amusement. It's another reason I liked the man; I could be me around him.
Denny's was a two star step up from last night's diner. "Where did you find that place?" I asked.
"I think it found us. It was like something out of a slasher film," he said, laughing as always. I'm sure he was frustrated with the change in plans, but he accepted the alteration with grace and a sense of humor. He sat across from me in another plastic coated booth. How many of booths like this had he and I shared in the last two years? That's an answer I don't want to know.
"At least I got some writing done," I said. I hadn't, but it felt like a good way to bring up the topic.
"Good for you," he said without judging.
"I meant what I said last night."
"The part about wiping my hard drive," I said.
He tilted his head to one side as if my forehead tentacles were showing again before shrugging and giving a one word reply, "Okay."
"You don't believe I write that kind of stuff, do you?" I challenged, entertained by his lack of judgment against my hobby. Either he was remarkably forgiving or he didn't believe me. I didn't care which was true, but I was curious.
"I never said that," he replied, still smiling. He never asked to read my work nor why I wrote it or a half-dozen other questions I think I might have asked. Questions like: What do you write? Do you write naked? Do you get off while you're writing? Are you writing truth or fiction? Who buys your stuff?
His lack of judgment fascinated me. As an erotic writer, I think having a confidant is as important as having a muse. I never expected mine would become a man twice my age. It didn't happen until I stopped working for the company. My writing was doing well and I realized Houston was the primary reason why I still worked at a job that required me to travel. After I quit, we stayed in touch via emails, phone calls, text messages and the occasionally face-to-face meeting. Houston Jones became my alpha reader, occasional editor, and more importantly, my confidant. Whenever I got stuck in life or my writing, I sought out his advice and his constant merriment. His laughter was the crack in my pipe, the dope to my smoke and the vibe to my vibrator. What I never expected was how his knowledge and the breadth of his life experience would fuel my craft.
"How much do you know about 'gloryholes?'" I asked Houston on the phone. Phone calls were better than emails or the texts, because I could hear his laugh.
"Well, that's a different direction for your stories," he laughed.
"It's a commission. He says I'm welcome to sell the story, but he gets to read it first."
"What do you know about this guy?" Houston asked, still protecting me from the dicks of the world without being asked to cock-block.
"Absolutely nothing except his emails," I said and smiled at Houston's signature belly laugh.
"Then how do you know he's real?"
"He gave me an advance. Five hundred dollars."
"For one story?" he asked, his laughter finding a hitch and stopping. I laughed. I knew how he felt. I had felt the same way when the money showed up in my account. When he started laughing again, I knew he had wrapped his mind around the idea. "Okay, what do you want to know?"
"Have you ever been to one?" I asked. The other end of the phone fell so quiet I checked my screen, making sure we were still connected. "Is your silence your answer or have I finally gone too far?" Houston chuckled and turned the question back on me.
"What do you know about gloryholes?"
"My internet searches and what's been described in email exchanges." I ran down the list: found in adult bookstores, video booths, holes in the walls, and often frequented by men servicing men.
"So you're writing gay fiction now?"
"No!" I said, realizing how he would get that impression. "He was very clear about that. He wants the story to be a woman visiting a gloryhole and that's where I get stuck. Is that even possible? I mean, I've seen internet videos that show it, but does it ever happen?"
"It could," he said.
"But never seen it."
"No, I... Look, it's not as if I..."
"Oh," I said, realizing I had overstepped. "Damn."
"I'm sorry," Houston said. "You stumbled into a blank spot. Maybe I could do some searching for you, see if there's one close or something?" There was. I knew where. I said as much to him. "How do you know that?"
"Internet," I said. "There are lists. Sites that rate places, that sort of thing."
"Of course there are," he said.
I swallowed hard before I asked the big question. It felt like too big of a question, but I didn't know where else to turn. I wasn't going to do it alone and it wasn't the sort of thing you can ask of any old friend. "Will you go with me?"
His silence had me checking my phone again. It showed we were still connected. I waited. Like before, his silence ended in a bellow of belly splitting laughter. "I'm sorry," he huffed between guffaws. "I was remembering the night you asked me to cock-block for you. I've guess we've come full circle."
"So you'll do it?" I asked and got the answer I hoped for.
Houston insisted on driving. I was nervous, starting with what to wear. What does one wear to a gloryhole? I dressed as I usually did: a t-shirt, bra and jeans. Houston looked nervous, too. His signature laughter sounded reedy and thinner than usual. There was a bar nearby and we stopped for liquid courage before walking into the building without windows. The shop portion was brightly lit, brighter than expected. The clerk behind the desk looked bored, unwashed and unkempt. Houston approached the counter, passed the heavily tattooed and pierced bad boy a twenty and received a stack of tokens. Making sure I was behind him, he led the way towards the darken door with the neon sign reading, "Videos Booths."
I grabbed his hand as we walked, stopping him. I turned to my right and picked up a box as if I was examining its contents. "You've been here before," I whispered.
"I might have cased the place," he admitted. Of course he did. "Are you going to buy that?" I looked at what I was holding. It was a life-sized, latex casting of a porn star's massive, erect penis.
"Not for seventy dollars," I said, setting it back in place. Houston's laughter was reassuring. He knew I wasn't paying attention to what I had picked up. I flashed him a smile and nodded at the doorway. He led the way.
The hallway behind the opening was poorly lit. A glass showcase held DVD cases with numbers beneath each erotic film. I didn't understand the numbers, but quickly learned they matched the channels of the TV inside the booths. It got darker past the wall with the showcase. The video booth area was an L-shape lined with booths other either side. The booths had full doors on them and lights above them. Most of the lights glowed red. Dotted along the way were green lights above some doors. The green lights came in pairs and I could guess why. What I didn't expect were the men standing in the darkness. At least half a dozen men stood along the sides of the hallway. Where they waiting for someone? I didn't know and I didn't ask. Investigative journalists immerse themselves into an environment without asking questions. I followed Houston as he led me around the corner where more booths stood waiting with men near them. Midway down the row, he stopped, nodded at the door in front of him and I stepped inside.
The booths were smaller than I expected. Next to the door was a folding chair. Embedded into the wall across from the door was a TV behind glass. Next to the TV was a machine that accepted tokens. As soon as Houston began feeding the machine tokens, the TV sprang to life in the middle of an explicit porn scene. I reeled backwards from the sudden noise and the close-up picture of a large penis pumping in and out of a pink, swollen vagina. It was action I had described dozens of times, something I had experienced plenty of times and something I had witness via video more times than I could remember. I giggled and jumped when Houston reached for me. He nodded at the door. He wanted to work the lock on the door and I had been in the way. Struck with more giggles, I pressed my back against the wall and gave him room.
"I think we can change the channels here," he said, pressing a button I didn't bother to notice. My eyes were on the round hole in the wall. The hole was bigger than I expected. It was an elongated circle, which I supposed would accommodate men of different heights. The hole was dark when we first went into the booth, but a moment later, it emanated a blue glow.
"Someone is in there," I whispered, still giggling.
"I know. What did you expect?"
"Who is it?"
Houston smiled at me. I rolled my eyes. It was a stupid question. It could be any one of the half dozen men we passed or one of the three or four men patrolling the hallways.
"What happens next?" I asked, though I had a good idea.
"He'll probably stick his dick through the hole."
"I know that, but then what?"
"Good question. I'm not sucking it," he said and he laughed.
I froze and looked up at the tall, older man whom I once considered my mentor. Houston Jones was too old to be a brother to me and thinking of him as a father figure felt creepy. He was my friend; a funny, gracious, understanding and patient friend. Because of our age difference, I had never considered him as a sexual partner. The ironic part was, because of my hobby, he and I had talked about sex more often and explicitly than I had ever done with another person. I can't say he knew my secrets, because that wasn't the nature of our conversations. We talked about the sex the characters were having and nothing more. He had never revealed his secrets or asked about mine.
Some of my stories included snippets from my life, though he had never asked which pieces were written from the perspective of experience. I never tried guessing if he knew the reason my female characters loved sucking cock was because I loved sucking cock. I never told him about the threesomes I had had in college or how I had to quit my job as a stripper because rubbing against all those hard cocks was getting to me. He never knew I had spent a week as a stripper and I doubted he could guess it. To him, I was the sweet farm girl with pigtails who enjoyed an unusual, moneymaking hobby. Houston had been my erstwhile protector and never my facilitator.
"We can go if you want," he offered.
"No, I want to see what happens," I said. He nodded and gave me a reassuring smile. He leaned against the door and watched the porno on the TV screen. I glanced at it. He had stopped on a video of a young woman servicing a roomful of men. Had he done that on purpose? Was that something he liked? Did he think it was something I might like? I didn't know and wouldn't ask. I watched the hole in the wall. It felt as if a long time had passed. "He's not doing anything."
"I bet he's watching and wondering the same thing."
It was another foolish "ah ha!" moment for me. Holes worked in two directions. "What should I do?"
"Whatever you want. I don't know. Peek and see what he's doing."
"Am I allowed?"
"He wouldn't be in there if he didn't want you to look."
I hadn't felt like this much of a neophyte since my first road trip with him. As he had been then, Houston was patient and non-judgmental. "Maybe we should go," I said.
"Okay." He turned to unlock the door. I don't know why, but that gesture reminded me I was safe. I was with Houston Jones, the safest man I had ever met. I put my hand on his and stopped him. He raised his eyebrows.
"Not yet," I whispered. "I have to look." He nodded. He understood. I stayed along the side of the booth, away from the hole. I squatted and tried to see. I was too far away. I could see someone was on the other side. I saw him looking through the hole, but I didn't see more until he stuck his prick into our side. He was long and hard. His penis was fully erect. He poked it through the hole. When nothing happened, he moved it back and forth a few times.