The Hole

When I went to college in the 1970s I was incredibly naïve about the world of homosexuality. It helps to remember that in the United States in those days being gay was still something to keep secret. I knew a couple of guys in high school who I was pretty sure were gay, but it just wasn't something we talked about much.

I was anything but naïve about sex, though, having had a long-term girlfriend who liked to fuck almost as much as I did. Both of her parents worked late and so we'd been screwing each other's brains out after school in her family's apartment once or twice a week for almost two years. I left for college planning to be just as sexually active as I had been in high school, only to find out that all the cute girls seemed to want to go out with juniors and seniors, not freshmen like me. If it hadn't been for my right hand, I wouldn't have had any sex at all that first semester.

When I came back to campus in January, one of my classes was in the old music building, a throwback to the old days at my university when departments were considered almost homes to their students. In addition to classrooms, recital rooms and a small concert hall, it had its own grill with a cook who made a pretty mean cheeseburger. Because my class there ended at 11:50, I got hooked on those cheeseburgers pretty fast.

One afternoon in early February I'd just finished my lunch when I realized that I needed to go spend some quality time in the men's room. So, grabbing a newspaper, I headed up the winding metal stairs that led from the dining area to the upper hallway of the building and to a bathroom that was tucked away in a corner of the building. It was small and kind of dim, having only one window high up on the wall. The fixtures looked like they'd been installed in the 1930s. Two stalls were in the corner and a couple of urinals and one sink were on the opposite wall. I'd found out about it only by asking the cashier in the grill where the nearest men's room was. Otherwise I wouldn't have known it was there.

When I got into the stall and sat down on the john I was transfixed by the artwork on the walls of my stall. Sure, I'd seen some pretty good graffiti in bathrooms around campus, but nothing like this!

In addition to dozens of poems, rants and other graffiti, some art student (at least I assumed he was an art student by the quality of his work) had drawn an elaborate work showing a man, bent forward, his ass toward the audience and his face buried in the crotch of another man, half a hard cock protruding from his mouth. One of his hands was on the floor, the other was between his partner's legs fondling the balls that hung below that cock. The drawing was incredibly lifelike, right down to the veins bulging from the hardon that hung down between the man's legs as he sucked on his lover's cock. But what really transfixed me was that where the man's asshole would have been, a real hole had been gouged out of the wall of the stall, giving a clear view into the neighboring stall.

Of course, the first thing I did was peek through the hole to see if anyone was there. Thank goodness I was alone! I didn't want anyone staring at me in the middle of my daily constitutional. That and I didn't want anyone to see that I was very excited by what I was looking at on the walls of my stall.

Wrapping up what I'd come there to do as quickly as possible, I stared at the artwork for a couple of minutes, feeling my cock growing until it rivaled those that floated before my gaze. Then I began to take more careful notice of the graffiti. Although there were the usual limericks and a few rants against "fags" and "queers", mostly the walls of the stall were covered in cryptic communications that went something like this:

Men's room, 7th floor main library, 2-10-77, 9:00 pm

After I'd read several of these, I realized what they meant. I was looking at a system for arranging sexual encounters. It had never occurred to me that this was how gay men might meet one another. Something about reading these public solicitations, especially the ones that said things like8", cut orvery hard for you made me even more aware of how hard my cock own was. Without much conscious thought, I spit on my hand and rapidly stroked myself to orgasm, spewing my load into the john.

Trying to wipe myself clean of the remnants of my orgasm, I realized my hands were shaking I was so excited—and so scared. I'd just masturbated in a public place for the first time, but more significantly, I'd cum because I'd been turned on by the idea of gay sex. Was I gay? What did this mean?

Suddenly I was overcome by a need to get as far away from that bathroom stall as possible. Yanking up my pants, I bolted out the door and back down the stairs to my books, trying not to run as I left the grill and headed back to my dorm. As soon as I got home, I stripped off my clothes, wrapped a towel around myself and took a very long shower. Standing there with the steaming water pouring down over my face, I was very glad that none of my dorm mates came in to join me. The last thing I wanted to see at that moment was a naked male body.

That night I got roaring drunk with a couple of my friends and managed to forget all about what had happened back in the music building. Then there was a basketball game to go to on Saturday, which required some heavy partying before and afterward. But on Sunday, when I sat in the main library trying to study for a chemistry test, I couldn't help but think about the many messages I'd seen in the stall trying to arrange a meeting in one of the bathrooms on the floors above me. My cock twitched in my pants a couple of times as I thought about what might have happened up there over the weekend, but soon my fear of the chemistry test pushed my interest in gay sex out of my head.

Monday morning, it all came rushing back. As I walked to my class in the music building, I found myself obsessing about the pictures and the notes I'd seen on that bathroom stall. I kept telling myself over and over that I was not going to go up there again, so it didn't matter. I wasn't gay. I wasn't interested in that sort of thing. Not really. Not me.

But when my class let out, what did I do? I went to the grill, ate lunch and then, grabbing a newspaper again, I headed up to the men's room. I just had to go.

This time I wasn't there for any reason other than to see what was in the stall on the other side of the hole. At least that's what I told myself.

But as I walked up the iron stairs, every nerve in my body was jangling. My cock was so hard that I thought it would burst through my pants if I wasn't careful, but what had me at such a fever pitch was a combination of arousal mixed with the fear of what might happen once I got there. The fear was stoking the arousal in ways I'd never experienced.

When I slipped into the bathroom, I quickly peeked under the stall doors, ready to run at a moment's notice. No one there. I let out the breath I'd been holding, then pushed open the door of the other stall, unbuckled and dropped my pants, and took my now aching cock into my hand. I was tempted to just cum immediately and get the hell out of there, but some voice in my head said "wait." So I did.

Sitting down, cock still firmly in hand, I checked out the artwork on this side of things. Instead of an asshole ready to be filled, the same unknown artist had drawn a man sitting on the floor, his legs spread wide, with balls hanging down just below the hole. Clearly the drawing was meant to be finished by someone in the other stall shoving his cock through the hole.

The man had his head turned to one side and was licking the underside of a cock so large I hoped it was meant to be an abstraction, but on his other side, he was stroking the cock of another man, this one more the size of mine. I stared at his tongue as it licked that spot where the head and the shaft of that monstrous cock come together. I felt my orgasm building and so I closed my eyes and imagined that it was my cock he was licking. When I came, it was all I could do to keep silent.

Unlike the week before, I didn't bolt from the room in shame and fear. Instead, I sat and read through the "meet me" messages. Then I pulled out my own pencil and wrote one of my own.Monday, 2-21, main library, 6th floor men's room, 10:00 pm. 7".. I had absolutely no intention of meeting someone there. I just wanted to see if anyone would actually show.

That night I found myself a table on the 6th floor that would give me a good view of everyone coming and going from the men's room. Sure enough, at 9:25 a guy walked into the men's room, stayed in there for no more than a minute and left. Was he looking for me? No one could have peed that fast. Five minutes later I was sure he was there to meet me, because he came back, this time staying a bit longer. And again, 10 minutes later he went in one last time before leaving and not coming back. The realization that I could be having gay sex at that moment put me back in the same state of jangling nerves that I'd been in just after lunch.

In my heart of hearts I knew I wasn't gay. I liked fucking women too much for that and had never found a guy remotely attractive. But I also knew that I wanted to experience gay sex.

That night I couldn't sleep as I rolled over in my mind the quandary I was in. If I wasn't gay, how could I want a cock so badly? What did it mean? Maybe I really was gay and was just denying my true nature? The more I thought about it, the more distressed, and excited, I became.

Needing relief, if only from the excitement part, I listened to my roommate's breathing. Because he was clearly out like a light, I slowly stroked myself to orgasm. I tried calling up images of my old girlfriend's tits, her pussy as my cock slid in and out of it, but those happy thoughts kept getting crowded out by cocks large and small that I wanted to stroke the way I was stroking myself. When I came at last, I fell into an exhausted sleep—more because I was emotionally wrung out than because I was sexually satisfied.

On Wednesday that same week, I returned to my men's room to see what had been written under my secret message. I was just about to push on the door to the stall where I'd written the note when I saw a pair of tennis shoes there, pointing towards me. Someone was sitting on the john. Part of me tried to turn and bolt, but the desire to see what would happen next won out and I stepped into the adjacent stall.

Trying not to shake too hard, I latched the door, pulled down my pants and sat. Out of the corner of my eye I could see motion through the hole in the stall, so I turned to get a better view and damned if the guy next to me wasn't beating his cock just as I had done two days earlier. Because my own cock was almost as hard as his appeared to be, I joined in the fun, a whispered sigh escaping me as I took my cock in my hand.

"Yeah, that's it," came a whisper from next to me. "That's it."

I stroked faster, needing desperately to cum, to spurt all over the walls and floor of that stall, to mark it with my desire. And as I stroked, I stared at the anonymous cock that was no more than three feet from me, watching the hand of the man I couldn't see pistoning up and down on it just as mine was.

But before I could cum, his cock disappeared from my view. All I could see was his thigh. He was standing. And then, there it was, sliding through the hole in the stall, the skin on the shaft stretching tight as he pushed himself as far through as he could go.

I'd never seen another man's cock hard before, except in a porn movie, and for a moment I was too fascinated by it to move. His cock was larger than mine, but not by much, but what struck me was how purple the head was. I looked down at my own and saw that it was a deep red in comparison to his. A drop of precum was glistening at the opening of his cock and he began to hump the hole ever so slightly, making the head flare, then retract a bit, then flare again as he stretched himself against the wall.

The idea that I might put it in my mouth repulsed me for some reason that I couldn't explain, but I knew I had to touch it, to feel it's hardness, to make it shoot. So I spit on my right hand, shifting my own cock into my left, and tentatively touched it.

Why I was so surprised at the softness of his cock I'm not sure. After all, I knew my own penis very, very well and it was no different. But something about the way he felt—the combination of hard and soft—was too wonderful to put into words. I stared, fascinated, as my hand spread my spit up and down the shaft, then came to rest on the head of this cock that was stuck so straight out though the wall. That it seemed to be emerging from the asshole of the drawing almost made me laugh.

Instead, though, I began to stroke him in the ways I liked myself. I teased the head by running my finger tips around the edges, then I stroked it firmly, alternating between the soft teasing of the head and full strokes for several minutes. Soon enough, his humping motions became more pronounced and before I realized what was happening, sperm came flying out of the hole in the head of his cock, spattering on my knees, my thighs and my pants. A muffled cry drifted over the wall between us and then his cock disappeared.

I was right on the edge of orgasm myself and was about to shove my own cock through the wall for my turn, when I realized he was pulling up his pants and exiting the stall. I almost cried out "Wait!" but knew it wouldn't avail me. So I closed my eyes and rubbed his sperm into my skin as I brought myself to perhaps the most powerful orgasm of my life. It just went on and on and on, draining my balls completely.

Spent, I sat with my head in my hands for a moment or two completely unaware that I had sperm all over those hands. Then I realized that I was a huge mess—his sperm mixed with my own on my thighs and my forehead. So I cleaned up as best I could and returned to my books down in the grill, hoping no one there could see me trembling.

As I pretended to study, I glanced surreptitiously at every guy in the room, wondering if he was the guy I'd just brought off upstairs. If I could have seen their shoes, I might have had a better chance of knowing, because other than his cock, that was the only part of my lover that I'd gotten a clear look at.

On Friday I couldn't get to lunch quickly enough. When I mounted the stairs toward the men's room of my desire, I stared straight ahead, not wanting to give anyone there a clue that I was on my way to have sex. That and I hoped that none of them had noticed the bulge in my pants.

When I entered the men's room, I was abashed to see that I was alone. My lover of Wednesday had not returned to wait for me! Undaunted, I took my seat in the left hand stall, closed my eyes and began to stroke my cock, remembering his as it protruded through the wall for me to enjoy.

I was lost in my own fantasies when I heard the door creak open. Fearing that it might be a legitimate visitor to the men's room, I pushed my hardness down into the bowl to hide it from view, lifted the newspaper off my lap and pretended to read. The new visitor entered the stall next to me but right away it became plain that he was there for the same reason that I was, because very soon I could hear the unmistakable sounds of a hand spanking a hard cock.

Peering through the hole again, I saw that it was a different person altogether. I knew this to be true because the cock I was looking at was much smaller than the one I'd stroked just two days before, but it was no less hard.

I repositioned myself so that he could see me stroking myself too and for several minutes the two of us beat off together without speaking. I wondered who was going to make the first move, when I heard his voice rasp out, "Give it to me."

Standing, my pants down around my ankles, I shoved my cock through that hole, pressing myself against the wall until my pelvis was against the cool surface. My cock was stretched so tight it ached and something about it being there, on the other side of a wall, in the face of someone I didn't know and would never see, sent me into spasms of shaking. I wasn't about to cum…I was overcome by the moment, by what was about to happen.

For half a second I contemplated withdrawing, when all of a sudden his mouth closed on my cock. My high school girlfriend had given me a couple of blow jobs, but had never loved it, preferring to have me inside her. I'd enjoyed what she'd done to me, but within minutes, I realized that she had no idea how to suck a cock. This guy was doing things with his mouth that I 'd never felt, never imagined. His tongue was like a snake slithering around, over, under my cock, teasing it, tantalizing it. And then he would clamp down on me and suck so hard I thought the head would explode from the pressure. This went on for several minutes, but I couldn't take it and came, spurting semen into his mouth that he greedily sucked and swallowed.

It was all I could do to keep from falling down I felt so weak.

So I did the next best thing and sat on the john, breathing hard, waiting to see what would happen next.

Not surprisingly, the next thing that happened was his cock appearing through the hole for me to service. I tried to convince myself that I should suck him just as he'd sucked me. Fair is fair, I told myself. But somehow I just couldn't. I don't know if it was a line I couldn't cross because if I did I would be gay, or if I just wasn't ready to go that far. Whatever the reason, I did for him as I'd done for the other unknown guy two days earlier and stroked him lovingly, my face close to his cock, until he came.

He must have had big balls, because the quantity of sperm he deposited in my stall was much greater than what had happened two days earlier. This time I was ready, though, and when he began to hump the stall, I pointed him away from me and watched, fascinated, as his sperm splatted on the door of the stall and dripped onto the floor.

Again I waited for him to leave, whoever he was. I didn't want to see his face, to know who he was. I wanted us to stay unknown forever.

The following Monday, I returned to my secret sex room, ready to resume my new secret life as a bathroom stall sex fiend, but instead of finding another lover, I found a disaster!

Over the weekend the University had painted the entire bathroom bright white and worst of all had replaced the stall wall with the hole in it. Dejectedly, not really able to believe what had happened to me, I took a leak in one of the urinals, washed my hands and left. I felt like something had been wrenched from my body as I trudged back to the grill to resume my studying, a feeling of almost indescribably sadness sitting on my shoulders like a dead weight.

On Wednesday, I returned for one last visit, just in case someone had renewed the place, but it was just as white and pristine as it had been on Monday. Not one word of graffiti adorned either stall. It was if the gay community of the University had moved on to some other secret rendezvous that I had no access to.

For a couple of days I considered visiting every men's room on campus until I found out where they had all gone, but somehow I knew it would not be the same.

Then in the middle of March I met a girl at a fraternity party who, after we'd both had six or seven beers, invited me up to her room "for some fun." It turned out that she liked to fuck almost as much as my high school girlfriend and before long, I'd consigned my secret gay sex life to a corner of my mind, to be trotted out from time to time late at night when I needed a fantasy to help me cum alone in my bed.

But sometimes I wonder what would have happened if the University hadn't ended my quest. I know I would have sucked a cock. The desire was on me even as I entered the bathroom that penultimate time. But would I have felt a man's ass slide onto my cock coming to rest against the cool walls of the stall? Or would I have pressed my own asshole up against the artist's rendering, eagerly waiting to be violated by an unknown man's hardness? Maybe. Maybe.