The Seduction of Mr. X By: A. Cheshire Catt. March 22, 2004 Email comments to kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com
Re: A young man seduces older men in a public washroom.
Smoking a cigarette, watching porn on the top floor of a bath house at about five in the morning, in a darkness that's draped over my body like a wool blanket, I suddenly remember someone. I laugh in my solitude, the sound isn't detectable, the porn on the television, the gasps of young men, make my gasp a moot point. But I found it funny.
My name is Gunther Franks. I'm 26 years old and as wiry as a fence post. I grew up in the country and a few years ago I moved to the city to be surrounded by sex and corruption and opportunity. Planting myself in the gay community, I opted for a seedier part of town for my promiscuous promises. I learned that gay men will have sex with just about anybody if the conditions are right. For example, a rich man will not have public sex in a park right next to his house, but will drive for half an hour to a park in the suburbs to suck some young kid's cocks. Tourists visit the baths downtown (except on Saturday night), but who wants a tourist, after all? Only scum visit the public washrooms in malls, scum and travelling salesmen (for those who believe there's a difference), and businessmen use the bathrooms in the cafeterias of large skyscrapers.
It was one such skyscraper that I frequented, a lonely one where it seemed no road even went to, where no shops seemed located, where no women went with children during the day. Riddled it was though with a mess of men in suits, janitors and ghosts like me who simply knew what lay in the bowels of that gloomy corporate tombstone. Like a swamp in the city, a marsh of concrete and cheap glass, it was situated in a trashy neighborhood. It can still be seen as one drives on the bus expressway, off in the distance, surrounded by a strange parking lot that seems to lack entrances. It inspires dreamy thoughts of sci-fi flicks in some kids, but with me, it suggests only one possibility: that's right boys, sex!
So there I was one day, going in to the bathroom around four o'clock in the afternoon, which isn't very peculiar by any security standards, but funny thing was I had absolutely no desire to go to the washroom. I walked down the escalators that lead to the abandoned cafeteria (which had closed when smokers, prevented by law to smoke indoors, took their lunch schedules elsewhere). With an abandoned cafeteria, and nothing else but strange mailrooms and maintenance closets down there, the bathroom entrance sits and seems itself to purr under the flicker of fluorescent bulbs, swinging only for those either brave or stupid enough to go in.
As usual, the path I've taken alone has made me horny. My body knows what's going will be the result of this little expedition. Hardly as courageous as an Ulysees, this destination is definitely mythical and lurking in the strangely un-shadowed environs of this hole are creatures which society will refuse exists. I am undoubtedly the youngest of these men. Back then I would have been twenty, looking younger, but strutting with an incredible sass, an undefeatable faith in myself and my knowledge of what men love to have for this afternoon snack. Men love boys, as a general rule. They love to feel as though they have power over them. They pull their small heads into their cocks and use them like rags. As I go into this bathroom I am so excited to be their submissive toy, throwing cocky, sappy, lusty glances up from their cocks, catching them in a moment of weakness when they wink or smile, or perhaps even go so far as to say something.
When I enter the bathroom there is no one in there. I look at my watch, how peculiar I think. I decide to take advantage of this opportunity to select a stall that will provide the greatest of opportunities. I have the gift of the useless skill, something one might call stall savvy. I have had more sex in here than I have had in any other single place. I know this place better than my bedroom even. I love the washroom, I love sex here, I feel very much in my own element here. It is not my territory, nor is it theirs.
There are three for me to choose from. Small public washrooms are better than larger for less people will fill it, and when it is full less people are likely to join in. I have seen this place very full, full beyond the capacity of the facilities. There is a row of three stalls, and from the toilets within there is a view of the two urinals. From the toilets, to one's right, is a bank of sinks, a mirror, a bright light, and the paper towel. It is incredibly bright in the bathroom. Flaws be damned, souls are shown.
I select the third stall from the door, why you ask? The first one is ridiculous. You can't see anything, and yet people at the sinks have the advantage of lurking there and waiting for you to make a sound then jump around the corner and take a disgusting look at you as if they have no idea they are there. Plus, the door sticks and opening and closing it is too hard, it lacks ease which is only a hindrance in this situation. The second one is great, oh by far it is one of the best to pick from. New people would pick it, why? One would have two opportunities on either side, and there's a fabulous view of the urinals where some crazy action happens. Generally, if there is graffiti, such as vague directions to hotels, where room "##" is hosting an orgy at such-and-such a time, or a suggestion to be at Something Street at 2pm three days ago and to grab your cock when you get there, and such things, one will find it in the second stall. The third stall is the best for people like me. The door is great, there's a hook for my coat and a lock that works. The view of the urinals is enough for me to use. The option of the second stall, the view of the shoe there will be apt for the situation. The graffiti is nice, it's reached a lovely zenith and additions to the murals and poetry are generally suitable. I pick it, enter it, and lock the door behind me. Now it is merely a matter of waiting for prey, I mean ^Å ah Hell, I mean prey.
I sit and lower my Levi's to my ankles. I tuck the buckle of my leather belt into pocket so it doesn't make noise. I hate that, when there's even the slightest of sound in that chamber besides, perhaps, moans and sighs and other such illicit banter. I fix the elastic band of my black Calvin Klein boxers so that it is straight and legible to anyone looking under the stall walls. Lastly I wipe a smudge off my black boots, and finally thinking myself absolutely flawless down at my feet I take note of other details. It's important to note, when people look under stall walls there's not really much to judge the person next to you by. In fact, it can create quite the delusion of the character. I want to present a clean, stylish, young, and hot look with merely the presentation of the pants, belt, boxers and boots bunched up at my feet.
I can feel my cock growing with anticipation. I have a great cock that has never let me down. Generally I will let men suck me here, I hate it when one man, alone, sucks me off and he's been the only one to get me. I love it when more and more men clamor to get a piece of me, and I generally give it to them. I love the attention, I love letting them have a piece of me. My uncut cock, a fat seven inches long, on my thin twenty-year-old body, pale and smooth, is a thing that men want, and is a thing, that if their proving themselves worthy, they will get
I love sucking cock too. I rub my teeth, pick the chaps off my red lips. I practice my moans and sighs. I raise my eyebrows, and massage the wrinkles away. Souls be damned, your flaws show.
I blow my nose. The finishing touches, involving my blurred silhouette in the toilet paper roll, provide a sort of entertainment while waiting for the parade of men to come along. I fix my hair and think of the times I have spent in this stall.
There have been times when the men have actually climbed under the walls to eat out my still raunchy ass while another kneeled in the door to suck on my cock while I gripped his head and sucked the cock of a very stylish man's cock, who held my head in one hand while the other held another head at his ass, and that man was being fucked. It was the craziest orgy I was to be involved in while in this room. To think, I could have been the only reason it started. The Stylish Man had come in and spied me, and upon opening my door, a lot of other men saw me, and soon it was an orgy, soon they climbed around obstacles to be a part of it. Sometimes it's been very simple situations. You know, a situation that reads like an older man's erotic testimony. An lonesome old man walks in after I've been there thirty minutes or so. He's far from young and attractive, but I am those things he is not. He sees me in the stall and sees that I look nervous of his presence but then when he makes only the most subtle of suggests I step up to the plate and win him over easily. I feel as though I have reminded an old man of how fabulous life can be, and he has given me some come in my young mouth that gives me hope that someday I will be, as old as him, reminded of how fabulous life can be.
Regular characters, or course there are a few. If I come here three, four times a week, then surely others come too. If I come only ever around four in the afternoon, then surely, during the rest of the day, there must be other hours, like lunch time, that bustle and hop in here. I don't wonder about the others though, they are foreign and the bathroom itself may as well not even exist except for those moments when I walk up to it and present my horny-self to it. There's a janitor though, he comes while I come. I hate him though. I see him everywhere, not just here. He goes to the bath on Sunday afternoons too. He's French and he has a massive cock. I can barely even fit his fat cock in my mouth. I don't even try. He smells like cleaners, his skin is greasy, and he shows no respect to the people sucking his huge cock. I hate him. There's an old guy, another old guy than the one mentioned before. (There are a few old men apparently.) This old man is sweet though. Sweet and lucky, a lot of men suck his cock. He dresses well, I like to imagine he's actually some high-ranking employer and people come here for interviews. I've sucked him off before and never gotten a job. Yes, I sucked him in hopes he'd give me a job. It's not that I wasn't good enough. He sat on the toilet and I strutted up to him, brushed my face with the tip of his necktie as if it were a feather and proceeded to suck his short dick with the enthusiasm of a paid hustler getting a fortune for a small favor.
As for rules, there are definitely a few. There are also simple manners. For example, it's rude to talk in the washroom. It's rude to say anything at all. If you're choking on someone's pubic hair, gasping for air, and you can't breathe in order to suck, then you pull up your pants and politely leave the washroom to couch your brains out. Go out for a cigarette, come back in, don't worry about ^Ö but don't say anything in the stall. Also, don't kiss. Kissing is a huge faux-pas. Everyone knows where those lips have been buddy. We definitely didn't see you brushing your teeth between that janitor's cock and my mouth. Neither do I want to have your lips touch mine, nor do I desire to be seen having your lips touching them. There's really nothing more erotic than grazing your lips just delicately over the perfumed surface of a working-man's neck, the heat of your breath on his neck will heat him up ten-fold. (Thinking about kissing, and the mouth, and the breath, I pop in a piece of gum.)
And just then it can be noticed to the professional public sex whore, in the distance, the escalator says someone is on it by changing its tone to a lower one. Then a few seconds later the clamor of shoes on the linoleum/marble floor can be heard. Then, without any fanfare, the doors fly open and someone has entered. From my stall I can't see him. He'll be able to tell I'm there though, the only stall door that's closed is obviously occupied. He doesn't know who it is though. This is the fun part for sure. The build-up, the suspense, and the intrigue: all of this creates in me the adrenaline rush that feeds me a drug-like high that drives me wild. I suddenly want to claw at the walls, I want to throw open the door and expose my ass to the strange man and just let him go nuts on my body, I want him to cum and piss and, christ he could even shit all over me for all I cared right now. I fucking love this rush. But I sit as quietly as I can, even though my heart is pounding loud enough to seemingly deafen me, he can't hear it, and he has no idea the state I'm in.
He clears his throat.
But suddenly the door of the washroom is thrown in and someone else walks in. He goes straight to the urinal. I can see him.
This guy was wearing a pair of black dress pants and had a gray blazer on. He had gray hair shaved short. I listened, there was nothing to hear though. This man was not peeing in the urinal. A tell-tale sign that he was actually standing there stroking his cock into an edible tube steak. I leaned on the edge of the toilet seat to get as close a glimpse to his actions as I possibly could. Then the other man went to join him at the other urinal and for the first time I saw him. He was wearing a black suit. He had hair, salt-and-peppered, kept styled. He was taller than the other, but together, from the back, they appeared to be very stylish. I grew hard at the memory of the Stylish Man, conjuring up fantasies that now involved these two men.
To my horror, the toilets ran and the two men jumped in their shoes. Both of them looked back at the stalls behind them and the new one noticed really for the first time the occupied third stall. My heart was racing. The original man, the black suited man, came toward my stall, in his hand he was shaking his cock.
He leaned so close to the door that all I could see was a shadow through the crack at the hinges. I felt embarrassed and small, I felt like an item on a shelf, and then I loved this and enjoyed myself. I pulled my cock out of the bowl of the toilet to present to him, slyly smiling like a temptation. He pushed on the door, a sign for me to open it.
When I opened the door I saw Mr. X. Sargent once painted the Impressionistic portrait "Madame X." The scantily dressed woman became a sensation in the cities where she was seen, in art galleries in the prime of the belle epoch. The woman herself didn't receive the same grandiose acceptance the painted version of herself did. But at least for young men like me, there became a desire in the psyche, to find that ideal character that bestowed all the sexual attributes our minds can't even begin to form in one person. This man was my Mr. X. As the door opened, the first thing that touched me was the scent of his cologne. He wore a three-piece suit, a black one, and under it there was a very stylish blue shirt with a tie that matched it perfectly. He made me think of someone who was incredibly rich. He may not have been, but he made me think it. Until he said anything, or suggested anything, he was in my mind exactly what I was looking for. To be honest, I must have been the same thing for him.
Without any hesitation, in one gesture of the neck, I took his cock into my mouth and sucked him without mercy. He took my head into his hands, as if I were a contraption, a device intended solely to pleasure him, and fucked my face. He didn't say anything, he adhered to the rules. I respected that in him. I did my finest job on him and he shot his load into my mouth in only a matter of a few minutes.
I looked at him when I was done and he smiled. He smiled! I was beside myself, he was happy with the blow job I'd given him. He stroked the hair behind my ear. I felt like I was sixteen again and my dad was proud of me on my first try. Then he quickly did up his pants and went to the sinks, washed me from his hands, and left.
I was beside myself. Swimming in the bliss of my Mr. X's inauguration into my life, I failed to notice the arrival of someone I'll call Mr. Y. A less attractive character, but still without name and still bearing some of those handsome qualities. He could see that I was raging in the throb of my cock and went down on it without hesitation. I could still taste the cum of Mr. X, I could still smell him, I wished for another five minutes with him.
Such a fleeting moment passed. Mr. Y couldn't continue sucking like this, he stood and presented his cock to me. He was wearing one of those white shirts that go so well with tuxes, he was very fashionable, but his ego was all wrong and he didn't seem as flattering in his silence. He was just horny, he wasn't looking for someone specific.
I put his cock in my mouth and shut my eyes. I grabbed onto his hips and worked my mouth with his cock. I imagined it was the other's I was forcing deeper, more violently into my mouth. But after only a few seconds he came. Again, without a drop spilt, I swallowed his and resorted to jerking off.
I finished up alone. As I was about to leave the door opened. I thought. Was he coming back now? I regretted spilling my seed too soon. I sat back down and feigned interest in getting hard again for him. I would have tried, I would have, but then I saw that it was the janitor. That damned janitor, he didn't matter at all anymore. I just left.
He keenly eyed me every gesture for a sign of any interest I might display. He didn't see anything. Not even the most subtle misgiving of my deepest id presented him with anything. Right at that moment, I was all for Mr. X.
And really, isn't that was young love is? Someone craving, blindly, for something that is entirely based on hopeless, fantastic ideals.
The days went by achingly, all I wanted was to be with him again. I wanted his perfumed cock in my mouth, I wanted him to wink at me again. I wanted to pleasure him, so I would do anything for him, all I'd have to do is see his beg for it.
Weeks passed, and you know what, I started to replace him with only Mr. Y. Mr. Second-Best was winning. Then one day as I sucked Mr. Y off at the sinks, the stalls being filled with a hectic little orgy of its own, Mr. X returned. The door opened and there he was. He was so handsome, and the first thing he was me, down sucking vigorously at the silk-clad cock of the second best. I stood, blushing like a little fan upon being surprised by a star, and turned to the sink as if to hide but really there is no hiding in these bathrooms, especially while standing at the sink. I couldn't believe it, and my face (I've been told) never lies. Mr. Y, feeling defeated, did up his pants and walked over to the stalls to get his juice out into the mouth of the sweet old man. I turned around and Mr. X was standing really close, pressed right up against me and I couldn't even get my hands up to do anything. I hid my face, suddenly being coy. I didn't know who I was. I thought I was the coldest tart that ever strutted down that marble hall to this door, but now I knew I was something slightly warmer, just a bit more vulnerable. Dare I say I was as shocked as anyone who really thought himself a vampire to be shown that in fact his own heart was beating. At the time I didn't even question it, but now I wonder if vampires exist at all: surely everyone must, according to biological fact, fall in love, just as everyone's heart must beat. He smiled and broke all the rules, I let him, as he held my chin easily in his fingers and kissed me. The ruckus of the stall doors banging, the toilets running, the men groaning and grunting as they fucked each other all but three feet to my left: all of it died at once and I was free from my life in that bathroom, his lips, fresh as spring mint, sweet as passion in Greek myths, tragic as some sort of Shakespearean foreshadowing, powerful as a Romantic symphony's final moments: there was darkness and there was our breath and I felt all the swiftness slow right down to a crawl. His kiss was the best moment of my life. Then his kiss turned more ravishing, he grabbed my head and we leaned against the counter of the bathroom, I braced myself with my free hands, and let him throw his lips all over me. I finally slid my hand in under his jacket and felt as though I would find back there the wings of an angel, certain I'd pluck out a black feather though, nothing white at all.
I suddenly turned and pulled my jeans right off, and stood there my cock point right into his package. I moved quickly, I loved the intensity of this now and slowly regained a sense of the role I was to play. I lowered myself onto his cock and worked it into a slimy log, while at the same time I spit into my hand and soaked up the lips of my puckered ass. It'd been a long time since I'd actually been fucked. Oral sex had become simply a hobby, sex, as in love-making, that was still something sacred. This was a moment for the sort thing one considers sacred. When the instant was precision-crafted I turned and threw one leg up on the counter and presented my ass for his plowing pleasure. He gently eased himself into me. Kissing my back as it broke out in a sweat, I gasped and moaned, and with all my animalistic qualities at their peak I refrained from smashing the mirror in a fit of lust and ended up putting only the palms up on the cool glass. We were actually steaming up our own reflections. (Oh, but I've got a better story of steamy mirrors for another time.) He put one hand on my shoulder and fucked me like a porn star. He looked so, how would I say it, professional? Ecstatic? Comfortable in my ass? At home in the washroom, committing a sin, a crime, on this planet, at this moment? He was the quintessential wicked sinner, and I was his guilty pleasure.
I didn't even need to touch myself, I was cumming all over the counter, it was just dripping out of my throbbing head as he fucked me harder and harder. Suddenly he twitched in a suggestive manner and I felt him push in me really deep, and all his juices poured into my in surge after surge of dreamy, uncanny delight.
As he remained inside me for one more moment of pleasure I noticed Mr. Y had been watching the whole thing. Through the distance of my reflection I cocked my eyebrow as if to say, "You weren't good enough to get this far, you didn't even have chance." He looked at me with a spiteful sneer. He seemed volatile and threw open the door and left.
At that moment I also noticed a lot of the other men, though still jerking off, had removed themselves from their oral pleasures to concentrate on the visual delight that was being fed to them as Mr. X had once fed me his cock. He looked at me in the mirror with the sweetest of smiles and pet the back of my head. Never once saying the word I felt I suddenly wanted to know everything about him. I couldn't though. I wasn't allowed. I wished he'd give me a card or a sign to join him outside, but to be honest I didn't even wait for him, I just grabbed some paper towel and wiped my ass clean. Giggling with him while the other men remained in a state of shock. I hesitated as much as was socially acceptable but eventually I had to leave.
Leaving the bathroom that day, I had no idea it would be my last day there. All I could think about was coming back to that washroom in twenty-four hours. Taking him up the ass again, taking him a bit further on the Odyssey that is Knowing Gunther Frank.
Mr. Y had other plans though. He thought he would have the last laugh.
As I left the washroom I heard a bunch of people coming down the main corridor and could hear the distinctive topic of "sex in the men's room." I decided to take the longer, less popular hall that lay to the right of the bathrooms instead of the way I could hear them coming, to the left. To be honest, I hurried and made it around the corner, quietly, before they turned the corner. Within seconds I could hear the loudest clamor in my life. Men were pouring in all directions. It was unlike anything I had ever heard in my life. I ran for my life, my social life that is. I didn't care for anything. I took all the most calculated routes from that lonely little skyscraper that I could think of.
Finally far enough away from the place I soon saw that another man had made it away, no one in particular, but it was one man from the orgy. I lit a cigarette, a post-sex/post-run-from-the-law cigarette. I thought only of Mr. X and his fruitless attempts to explain himself.
That night I was sure to tell everyone I knew about it at the party I was at, as soon as we were all sufficiently stoned enough to not really notice.
Next morning though I was singing a different song. I brought in the newspaper, rubbing my head as I had a bit of a headache. I threw it on the table and made a pot of coffee. As I waited for it to brew I walked back and looked at the front page. Nothing of any importance to me, just a war here and there, that's all. I poured a cup soon enough and went back to flip it open. A Schumann quartet was playing. The sun was shining. And there he was. In cuffs, being led by police into the popular station downtown: his story was a three column spread.
Why, why would some pervert get so much? Mr. X was the city council's finance minister. His name shall remain anonymous (even more so than Mr. X). He was aged and his suit had a price and he was spending my tax money to look that good. But damn, he looked good. He was going to jail. It seemed he was looking awfully defeated, but also, it seemed, he was staring right at me as he'd looked at the camera.
Wow, I thought. Absolutely fucking wow!