Show Hard, Will Suck
I had heard about public restrooms and the dirty sex that went on there. Probably since teen years, or soon after. But I was slow to venture inside, and when I did, I failed to notice anything unusual. It probably wasn't until I went to college that I began to notice some of the scribblings and drawings on the stalls. It seemed that the best ones, the most exciting and carefully crafted pictures and the most enticing messages were to be found in the most remote bathrooms in some of the smaller, less-trafficked areas of campus. The building that housed the speech and theater department, for example, had some of the best graffiti I've ever seen. Some of the drawings were heterosexual, but most of the bathroom art and notes were gay.
Upon discovering this form of entertainment, I became a devoted fan, and over the years I have spent hours scouring walls for these messages. I never encountered anyone writing on a bathroom wall, nor have I ever responded to any invitation I found there. But I sure have entertained the possibility of doing so, and certainly enjoyed reading these notes as a passive, if somewhat pointless, hobby. In later years, as I dipped my toes into the warm and inviting waters of gay pornography I learned more and more about invitations scrawled on toilet walls, and also about some of the other things that went on within these incongruously named rooms which were devoted to anything but rest.
Occasionally there would be longish stories, painstakingly written about real or imagined encounters. But usually there were brief notes aimed at making future contact. Sometimes there would be a phone number, and often a stylized drawing of a hard phallus, some quite expertly drawn, would accompany an invitation. One of the most frequent shithouse wall offers was "show hard will suck," meaning if you stood long enough at a urinal with a hard-on, and displayed it to the right person you might get a blowjob.
During certain periods, I took to visiting a number of men's rooms hoping to find the cheap thrills of anonymous sex, and sometimes I did. I learned that they were called "t rooms" by gay men, and were a quite popular site for cruising. When working in Manhattan it was tempting to visit a subway restroom on the way to or from work. They were everywhere, and quite often, bustling with activity. For several years I became a frequent, although usually cautious, visitor.
I recall one day as I climbed the subway stairs, I noticed a man ascending to my left looking over at me. I recognized him from the train; he must have been sharing my car and got off at the same stop. He was showing more than casual interest in me. He looked me in the eye, and then headed over to the mens room at the top of the stairs. I hesitated a moment, considered the offer, and followed. My heart was beating hard as I entered the large, no-frills room. Old tiles lined the walls; there were three gray metal stalls, and three or four large to-the-floor urinals, as well as a couple of sinks.
Five men were standing around. Omigod. What is going on here? I had previously observed discrete cruising behavior in toilets, but never was it as blatant as here. Two men leaned against the long wall leading to the toilet stalls. Two were standing next to each other at the urinals and one stood near the entry door alone. I figured out later that the one at the door was watching for transit police who made periodic checks. There was little concern about straight men who wanted to use the place to pee. The guys leaning against the wall didn't even pretend to be going to wash their hands or anything as we entered. Perhaps some activity had been going on which we interrupted.
I walked to an empty urinal and pretended to piss, leaning far into the porcelain fixture. After the time for a usual piss had elapsed, and I remained, things began to lighten up. The guy who had entered with me had walked into a vacant stall. I zipped up and stepped away from the urinal, looked around, and walked slowly over to the sink. My obvious interest allowed the others to relax, and know that I was aware of and interested in what was going on here. The guy I followed in was still in the stall but the door was open and he was peeking out and ripping toilet paper from the dispenser as though he was going to use it to clean his glasses or maybe an imaginary spot from his slacks. Our delayed departure signaled that we were "ok" and activity began, or resumed, among the guys we had joined.
The guys at the urinals remained in place, and the man on the left - a tall, balding fair man of about forty- appearing to be nervous and spooked by the scene- leaned further into the urinal staring straight ahead. The dark younger guy next to him put his arm around the older man's back, in a friendly intimate gesture, a gesture that I wouldn't expect to see in a public restroom. This seemed to relax the older man, and he leaned back a bit, and then reached over and grabbed the cock of his much younger, shorter, huskier partner. The younger guy allowed himself to be manipulated but showed no interest in returning the favor. The guys who were standing against the wall moved into a stall. Both in their late twenties or early thirties and casually dressed, they quickly took out their cocks. The door remained open as one leaned against the stall wall, and the second knelt in front of him. He engulfed his buddy's dick in a gulp, and loudly slurped. I could see everything from my spot near the sink. I was probably the most nervous of the lot, and foolishly ran water from the sink, as though that would explain something if the NYC police force decided to visit. No one spoke. Slowly the man who had been on the train with me left the stall and approached me at the sink. I smiled tentatively. He walked over and unzipped my fly. I leaned against the wall and watched him remove my cock, and begin to work it up. After a minute or two, I did the same to him. He helped me to remove his hard cock since it was pointed up at an odd angle and my nervous fingers were having some trouble extricating it from his briefs. As I closed my fist around his fully erect cock, I began to relax; the lust of the scene overcame my fear.
After a few minutes the younger man at the urinal left, and his partner briefly but unsuccessfully tried to hook up with the guy standing by the door. When I glanced over at the cocksucker in the stall, I was surprised to find him watching me and my new friend as he sucked. He rolled his eyes like a silent film star and licked the shaft with exaggerated movements, apparently for my viewing pleasure. It would seem that he would be adequately occupied, but no, he was waving me over with a silent offer to be next on line for a blowjob.
Well no, Tony, let's get a grip here. Reason prevailed as I hesitantly pulled away from my buddy from the train. I tucked my hard dick back into my pants, gave a goodby tug to the dick I had been masturbating, and headed for the door. As I walked up the second flight of subway stairs to the street, I tried to discreetly adjust my dick which was still half hard with an uncomfortably retracted foreskin. Ah, there, that's better.