There is a tendency among those of us who grew up in the small towns of America to resent our upbringings, to decry them years later on talk shows, around tearful Thanksgiving dinner tables, and in the offices of countless therapists. This is particularly common among gay men, who have staked their place in history on an "innate" sense of style, fashion sense, urbanity--just like Jews and post-Civil War Southerners have constructed intellectualism and gentility as their respective domains, as Camille Paglia says. Rural settings, in short, deprive gay men of their collective birthright. Or so it seems. I can't really say I've ever felt that way. Sure, as a teenager I always knew there was more to the world than that small corner of Mississippi in which I grew up. And when I began making regular trips to New York, I felt an unmistakable sense of cultural superiority upon my return to the South. But even in my youth, I was already so connected to the cosmopolis through TV, magazines, and--yes, even in the early 1980s--the Internet that I never really felt that far from the nightlife of New York, the music scene in London, or the runways of Milan. That's not to say I had a thoroughly peaceful childhood. My ninth grade year, in particular, was uncommonly trying. I was outed that year, thanks largely to an eighth grade girl who had a serious, unrequited crush on me. I half- heartedly tried to have a relationship with her--she was the first girl with whom I ever slept-- That year, though--my fourteenth on the planet--I found my momentary place in life: the public restroom. And after my first furtive encounter in the none- too-glamorous restroom of a Bonanza in Oxford (see entry #1), I decided to try some forays on my own turf. I assumed (correctly) that the most active restroom would be at the local mall, which was convenient given my adolescent fascination with food courts and arcades. Oddly enough, once I made my decision to take the proverbial plunge, everything fell into place; it was as easy and quotidian as riding a bike. On my very first adventure, the many secrets of the t-room were revealed to me: an epiphany of the machinations of promiscuity. I entered the mall through an unmarked entrance that led directly into the service hall where the restrooms were located. By doing so and not approaching from the mall proper, I conveniently bypassed the Karmelcorn store which was run by one of my father's friends who might have gotten suspicious if he had seen me frequently wandering into the john for hours at a time. I can hear the conversation now: "Well, now, Bob, your son sure does go the toilet an awful lot. You should get him to eat a little more oatmeal or maybe some of our Karmelcorn. It'll stiffen up that stool like nobody's business." The men's room was comprised of two stalls lined up next to several urinals, all of which were obscured from direct view from the hallway by a floor-to- ceiling divider. I took my place in the empty first stall and, unlike previous visits to the toilet, had nothing to do but read the writings on the wall. My eyes widened. Had these scrawlings been here all the time? Why hadn't I noticed them before? As I was browsing through the library of tawdry classifieds, obscured here and there by curious dried streams of what could only be semen, I got my first customer. I head the door open and heavy-soled footsteps crossing the tastefully off-white tiles. They crossed around the partition, then made their way over to the urinals. The fly unzipped and I could make out the soft trickle of urine streaming against the porcelain bowl. I leaned back to peer around the stall wall, hoping to catch a glimpse of the monster-size cock that I was certain loomed only inches from my young grasp. Then what to my wondering eyes should appear but my very first gloryhole--an opening no larger than a screwhole, but big enough to give me a glimpse of the cocks that lined up to spew their goods so close to my eyes. I focused my gaze and made out the nub of a white man in jeans and a striped shirt, clearly the uniform of a Karmelcorn employee. From the paunch and the faux-Rolex dangling from his wrist, I knew it was dad's buddy, Dennis. I'd always thought his cock would be bigger, like my father's. Oh well, maybe it's a grower.... Dennis finished, and I went back to waiting. My teenage cock was stiff as a monkey wrench just from the knowledge that I could now peer unnoticed at full- grown manmeat. I stroked myself absently, inhaling the aroma of masculine piss and nakedness. After a few minutes, I heard another set of steps came down the hall. (This audial effect, as I was later to learn, was almost as good as a second door--the essence of a top-notch t-room, sounding the sentinel's warning call of approaching intruders.) The man walked briskly into the restroom and over to the handicapped stall next to mine. From his speed, I guessed he needed to take a shit pretty badly. I just hoped he'd do it and move on. I was anxious. The pants dropped and the man sat down and I waited for the inevitable fart- and-plunk that I would soon associate with clueless straight men. But that sound never came. We sat in silence, listening to the security guards with their crackling walkie-talkies traipse up and down the hall on their way to the mall office and back. We heard a deliveryman wheel past with a dolly full of packages. We heard the high-pitched heels of sensible shoes saunter their way into the adjacent women's room. But no one interrupted us. Five minutes passed, then ten. It was clear we both wanted something other than to complete excretory functions. I could make out the edge of his black work shoe. It was closer than it was a minute before, I knew it. He began tapping--the sign! He wanted me! He was going to let me see and suck his beautiful cock! He was going to let me lick his nuts and drink the buckets of cum he had been saving up for me! If only I knew what to do next.... I sat paralyzed with hope, not knowing how to proceed. After a couple of minutes' worth of tapping, he suddenly stopped. I worried that he thought I might not be interested. I peered under the stall, trying to make eye contact, to let him know how much I needed him, but as I leaned down, he stood up, zipped his fly, and left the stall, a blur of flannel, denim, and maybe a cap. He'd left me. My heart shriveled. I waited to hear the inevitable, flat bump of the door whisking shut behind him, but it never came. Instead, the footsteps went toward the urinals, and heard him unzip again. Peering through the tiny gloryhole, I could barely make out an open fly and a stiff cock being jacked by a meaty white hand. I couldn't see his face or much of his body, but at that point, I didn't care. Dick was all that mattered. I forced my raging hard-on into my snug-fitting jeans His name, I later learned, was Bill, and over the following four years, we shared numerous orgasms. He helped me refine my sexual techniques--something neither of my two schoolmates/sexfriends we bold enough or knowledgeable enough to do. He was friendly, too, especially in comparison to the skittish sorts one tends to meet in public restrooms. I sometimes wonder where he is now. The only thing that ever irked me about Bill was his preference for beds. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind having sex in a comfy bed--not at all. But when I'm out for t-room sex, I want it then and there: on the tiles, on my knees, my mouth on his cock, my hands cupping his balls, his hips fucking my face, my hand stroking my cock 'til we simultaneously spill our seed on the ceramic tiles, wipe down with toilet tissue, and return to our daily routine. Invariably, t-room buddies are the kind who make my dick--not my heart--go zing. The last thing I want is to spend an afternoon getting what I could get in fifteen minutes. If I want romance, I'll go on a date. If I want to cum, I'll go to a t-room. Tricking is superfluous. |
entry #3
It's terrbily nasty over at the Inner Circle
