Foreskin Sighting

Closer to Detroit—October, 2013

I’m on my way to pick up my Dad and take him to his pace-maker checkup.  My travel cup of hot tea has worked its way through me very fast.  I am not going to make it to my Dad’s to piss.  There’s a rest area ahead.  It’s a newer one on the Interstate.  It replaced an earlier rest area where my brother had had a huge amount of college sex in the 1970’s.  If this new one has any action, I have never run across any.

 I pull in.  I park next to a compact car.  A very attractive cinnamon skinned man is sitting in it.  He makes immediate eye contact.  I smile, but I can’t linger.  I really need to piss.  I am out of my car and push through the swinging glass doors.  This is the exact opposite of the rural rest area where I often hang out.  There are two men’s rooms, one on the side where the cars park and one on the side where the truckers park.  Between them is a baby changing room which is always locked.   There are two women’s restrooms as well, with the custodian’s office between those.  His door is always open, and he makes a point of being aware of who is coming into the place.

I walk right by the first men’s room and go into the one on the truckers’ side.  It is empty.  There are five urinals—two pairs that are on walls that make the men stand back to back and one on the wall between them.  I choose one that puts my back to the door.  I unbutton and haul my cock out.  The piss cascades into one of those new waterless urinals.  Before the stream even starts to slow, there is movement behind me.  Someone else has entered.  I glance to my right.  I can see the other set of urinals in the mirror over the sinks.  It’s the man from the car.

I wait a moment.  My piss has lessened, but you can still hear some spiraling down the drain.  I look over my shoulder.  His upper body is turned towards me.  He is obviously stroking—the tail of his blue blazer is moving in rhythm with his hand.  He smirks at me.  The moment my piss stops, my cock hardens.  And I go over to the urinal next to him.

He is stroking a beautiful uncut cock.  It is sticking out of his neatly pressed tan pants.  His white shirt is open at the throat; his tie has been left in the car.  He grins at me.  He bends over and looks hard at my dick. He comes up with a slight whistle under his breath. I look at the fine black hair covering his hand—the hand that is continually skinning his foreskin over the head of his cock.

“Do you fuck?” he whispers.

I nod.

He murmurs “Nice.”  His cock is drooling.  My cock is spitting pre-cum all over my fingers.  I bring them up to my mouth.

The man sighs.  I think he’s about to get on his knees…

The attendant noisily clanks through the door, pushing a mop bucket on wheels.  We recover in time, pushing our junk deep into the urinals.  The attendant looks at us.  He says nothing, but goes right to one of the stalls.  We hear him wring out the mop.  It hits the floor with a splat.  The attendant is obliviously there to stay for a while.

I do up my pants.  I look at my hot Middle Eastern partner.  I nod towards the lobby, hoping he’ll follow me out to into there.  I wait, feigning interest in the candy machine.  He comes out and immediately goes into the other men’s room.  I follow him in.  He’s already stroking openly at the nearest urinal.

“We can’t stay here,” I whisper.  “He’s seen us.”

He strokes, showing me the purple head of his cock.  I’m uncomfortably stuffed into my jeans.  I think for a moment about going for it. 

“Got a place?”  he asks. 

I’m 70 miles from home.  I shake my head.

He shrugs.

Then I hear the mop bucket, squeaking.  If the attendant finds us both in here, we are indeed screwed.  I head out to my car, making it out into the lobby before the attendant emerges from the restroom and heads for the other.  I sit for a moment behind the wheel, but the man never comes out.

I sigh and head on to pick-up my Dad.