Joy and Jeers at the Urinal

Author's Note:

This story was written ten years ago, in another language, kind of as a joke. I was just starting to take writing seriously, and since I knew I really struggled with erotic content, I decided to push myself a bit and write a short, purely sexual scene. Humor has always been my way of coping with topics I find hard to write about, but I hope it adds something to the piece rather than taking away from it. Constructive feedback is very welcome!

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I shouldn't be here. What the hell am I doing in this crappy club, with crap music and crap company? I should be at home binge-watching TV shows, or at most staring at the ceiling thinking about some handsome guy I came across recently--on the bus, or at the office, who knows.

My hair's a mess. It's so hot in here that even though it's barely 70°F outside, it feels like mid-summer in here. My bangs have fallen across my forehead--I look like a monk or something--and trying to fix them with water is pointless. Crap, again. My white long-sleeved shirt, of course, is soaked in sweat, and in this damn bathroom with these damned blue lights, you can't see a thing. Who do the owners think is coming here to shoot up? They're so full of themselves, running this third-rate dump.

At least until a moment ago I was alone in here, swearing under my breath. Now this guy walks in--yeah, seriously hot. Taller than me, dark hair, black eyes, full lips, muscular--and I bet totally straight. Guys like that always are. It's a law of nature or something: if you're into him, he's impossible; if you fall for him, he's probably homophobic. I should get out of here.

Oh wait--my bladder disagrees. After spending fifteen minutes in front of the mirror, I guess tonight's alcohol has finally decided it wants out. Fine, let's drag this carcass over to the urinals before heading home. The hot guy's stopping to pee too, and--damn--what a beast.

Maybe I shouldn't be staring like this but... wow, when was the last time I saw one like that? Actually, have I ever seen one like that?

Wide--not too long, but seriously wide. One of those chunks of meat that leave a mark, literally. And that bronze skin tone matches the rest of his body, so it's not just a tan--he actually looks like that.

Yeah. Nice. I'm still staring at his junk, and maybe it's not the best idea to do that in a small-town nightclub bathroom. Actually, it's probably a really bad idea.

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

Oops. Yep--really bad idea.

"What? Oh, sorry, I was thinking about something else."

Right. Couldn't have come up with a lamer excuse. At least now I'm staring straight at the tiles, though I think I'm starting to sweat cold. Not that he could probably tell--these sickly blue lights are still on, and honestly, it's so hot in here that everyone's sweating. Even he is. Which reminds me: he's also sweating.

I can't help but glance back at him. His short black hair is beaded with sweat at the temples, little droplets sliding down his neatly trimmed sideburns and onto that sharp jawline where a just-shaved beard is starting to peek through...

I swallow hard--my throat's dry. Damn, now I'm staring with my mouth open too! I don't think he'll take it as a compliment, so I snap my lips shut. Especially since he's turning toward me, looking pissed.

"I said: what the fuck are you looking at?!"

And there it is. Every time--stare at a guy's junk and suddenly it's like a personal attack. I quickly zip up, partly because I can't stop getting hard, and of course I say nothing. What could I even say? "You've got the same jawline as an old childhood friend"? Better to leave. Fast.

Or not. Looks like he disagrees--judging by how hard he just shoved my shoulder.

"What, staring at my cock got you hard? You little fairy?"

Oh, fantastic. What a joyful setup for a punch in the face in this crap bathroom in this crap club in this crap town! What was I even thinking? Time to come up with some excuse.

"No, no, I just... you know how it is... it's been a while and... I'm military..."

Sounds about as believable as a cartoon cat. Why the hell am I even thinking about cartoon cats?

"You fucking faggot, I'll smash your face in!"

And there's the usual script. Blah blah, you're a faggot, blah blah, I'll beat you up, blah-de-blah, son of a bitch, run into the night, hope nobody finds you, then go home and jerk off to Grindr. What joy.

"Come on, man, I was just messing with you. Just wanted to see your reaction," I try with a half-smile, hoping he's drunk enough to let it slide. Maybe I'll just get shoved toward the exit and that'll be the end of it.

"Shut that hole!" He shouts, grabbing his crotch. "You like it so much? Wanna stare it, uh?" Then get on your knees and fucking suck it, bitch."

Ow. That hair-pull hurts--and hitting the floor isn't great either. But truth be told, now I've got that whole gift of nature two inches from my face. He's already unzipped his jeans and pulled out those soft, fleshy inches of joy that I now move to moisten with my tongue and my whole mouth, wrapping it up like a treasure chest... Just because he ordered me to, of course. Nobody wants him angry.

After a few practiced moves from the ancient art of the blowjob, his better-equipped organ (definitely more so than his brain, as he's made clear) finally wakes up and expands into seven inches of pure joy. Who knew the homophobe didn't mind being treated like a Tootsie Pop?

Satisfied with my work, I keep going, eager not to miss out on the opportunity. I slide up and down that bitter-tasting shaft, playing with my tongue like I haven't since the days when Fisher-Price was the most important brand in my life. I try out techniques I picked up from Deep Throat, and judging by his barely-stifled moans, I'm giving his Ibiza girlfriend a run for her money. One hand finds the back of my neck, guiding my rhythm; then the other joins in, holding my head firmly. Damn--he's fucking my mouth.

Like I said before, his impressive piece isn't so much a cutlet as a full-on steak, so pretty soon I'm running out of breath. My jaw's already sore. I pull back to give myself a break and start playing with the twins instead--licking, sucking, whatever--until he grabs my hair again. Ow.

"Suck it and shut up, whore," he growls. Charming. I go back to being a good little feeder, in the truest sense of the word, and take the shaft down again, straining my aching jaw. This time I decide to go for the classic up-and-down to help speed things along--this kind of fun's only good until your mouth gives out. And when you're dealing with a man-sized cannon, you need Pavarotti, not a poor guy basically being forced to suck it in a nightclub bathroom no one else is even using.

But apparently my new friend doesn't like the idea of me hurrying things up, because just when I'm hitting my stride, he yanks it away. I watch it slip from my spit-slick lips with a strange mix of sadness and relief. I'm about to say goodbye when he grabs my hair again--so much for all the time I spent trying to make it look halfway decent. Poor deluded me.

"Stand up!" he barks (definitely the kind of guy who likes spanking his busty blonde girlfriend), then turns me around and slams me hard against the sink. First thought: "Gross--there must be so many germs." Second: "Holy crap, I won't be able to sit down for a week!" When I say something's big, I really mean it.

"Please, just take it easy, I'm really--"

"Shut up!" Another smack to the head makes my chin slam into the sink. The pain stuns me into silence--just long enough for this charming stranger to yank down my jeans and underwear. I pray he's got lube--not that I'm holding out hope. I feel the tip of that glorious creation pressing between my cheeks, and my mind is not ready. He parts me roughly, exposing a part of me that, under these sickly blue-veined lights, probably doesn't look all that exciting.

Usually in porn, if there's no lube, someone's smart enough to spit--or splash some water at least. But trust me: the dry one? You never see that guy coming. Lucky I gave him a thorough pregame, because without that bit of spit, I'd probably be stuck in a hemorrhoid squat for weeks.

And so, I find myself unexpectedly impaled in the bathroom of this club, bent over like a lamb at the altar.

To be fair, the guy knows what he's doing. He thrusts in, pulls out, in, out, all the way every time, really working that space in the back, until pain starts turning into pleasure. In and out, in and out, until he stays in--deep and steady--like a breeding bull, never pausing or slowing down.

Wow.

A rod of at least seven thick inches pounding away until I'm moaning and whimpering shamelessly, my erection brushing the cold sink counter--which only amplifies the sensation. At one point he really gets into it: one hand yanking my hair, the other slapping my butt as I feel his family jewels slap again and again against my entrance--a sure sign he's all the way in and not planning to stop. This goes on for at least fifteen minutes until finally he's had enough. He grabs my neck, pulling me backward, like he's trying to bury himself even deeper--and unloads everything inside me. Stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Moral of the story: the guy pulled out that masterpiece of his and zipped up his jeans in one go, walking out of the bathroom without even glancing at me. I stayed bent over a little longer, not sure if from the pleasure or the pain, coming all over a floor that was already gross to begin with. Of course, I pulled myself together when I remembered where I was--and thought it best to empty out before heading home. I mean, who could possibly keep all that goodness bottled up?

Don't think I'll go back to that club. But honestly? He could've at least left me his number.