Sunday, November 3, 2013

Behind the Pit Toilets

Near Home—September, 2013

In a comment to my last post, fellow blogger, Upton King of Wonderland Burlesque wrote:  “Wow…Epic night.  But then, where you’re concerned, they’re all epic, huh?”

But his comment made me think a little about the sex I record here.  I have skipped over very little that has happened to me sexually since I started writing this blog.  I have covered the Good, the Bad, the Spectacular and the Dirty.  Some entries are a combination of several of those.  The few sexual things I skipped over in the last year were two different trips to a bookstore where nothing happened but me jerking off to porn. I don’t think my readers care about me wanking to an empty and/or non-interested room—and, gasp, one time it was to condomed porn, since that’s what is often shown there.
I do have a tendency to choose something to pursue that I will likely find exciting.  If I have an offer for a regular fuck and the offer of a small group, I’ll take the group.  If it’s two asses on offer, I know I’ll choose the kinkier guy.  If it’s a blow job or fucking, most of my readers know where I will be going. 

I also know I have a true talent for getting things started in a public place.  I have always enjoyed being the first one out of my clothes at a motel party, or the first cock out at a bookstore.  I don’t walk around a bathhouse with a towel so tightly wound around me you can’t see if I have a dick—no, I wear a jock that accentuates my meat and frames my flat ass for all to see—and the towel is tossed over my shoulder.
I also play with a lot of guys I know—so I know I will have a good time.  I like to think my regulars are guys who like to keep pushing limits, just as I often do.

But there are days—as there are for all of us—where nothing works.  The online sites are silent.  Or I’m too far away from anyone.  Such was the case in early September.  I was sitting in the tiny rest area on a state road here in West Michigan.  I arrived at noon, usually a good time to find guys on their lunch hour.

One car is in the lot.  An elderly couple is hobbling toward the pair of pit toilets.  I park at the far end of the lot.  I have a clear field of vision for the door of the men’s room.  The door’s hinges have pulled out of the frame.  You have to lift the knob to get it to close properly.  

I pull out my book and read.
The couple leaves.

Silence, but for the wind in the hickory trees.
I go back to my book.

A car at the far end.  A lone man.  I watch as he scrambles out of his compact car and all but runs for the men’s room.  But he takes the time to slam the door of the toilet.  You can hear the lock slide shut.  He’s gone in minutes.
A tractor starts up in the neighboring field.  The sound of his engine mixes with the Handel I have on the radio.

A truck arrives, taking up four parking spaces.  The driver gets out, stretches and walks slowly toward the toilets.  He looks right at me.  I return his gaze.  He’s nothing special, but in today’s wilderness, I know I’d play with him.  When he gets to the door, he bangs it shut twice before he can get it to latch.
The sky darkens.  I think we might get some rain.

Another car.  A family of four comes and goes.
Rain spatters on my windshield.  Just a few random drops, all big and fat.  Not a downpour—just enough to make me put up the window for a moment. 

Back to my book.
I eat the sandwich I had packed.

A car parks quite close to me.
A thirty–something blond man looks over at me.  He gets out.  He’s a cub, in cut-offs and a tee.  He looks once more at me and goes in to piss, leaving the door ajar.

I wait a moment.
I get out and start towards the toilet.  He is out before I’m halfway there.  He stops, looks at me, and goes behind the building.  I follow, my cock hardening. 

He’s there.  Standing on the edge of the cement foundation.  His cock is out.  What there is of it.
“Suck me off.”

I hesitate.  I so needed it to go the other way today.  I kneel.
I swirl my tongue around his tiny cockhead twice and he erupts in my mouth.  He grunts and bucks into my face and then whips it out of my mouth and shoves it back into his shorts.

All told, maybe a minute and a half.
No other men.  No other cars.

Not quite…


  1. The rest areas here in NJ (and some bookstores) were closed down by undercover cops some years ago. I don't know about now but back then it put a scare into everyone including me especially when they would fully prosecute and put your name in the newspapers.

    1. We have had some of that---especially during sweep months for television news--in the metro Detroit area. But not around here. There were many days this summer and fall, this particular rest area was busy. Or busy enough.

  2. Wow... this post reminds me of the year I spent in the middle of Iowa. And yes, you're absolutely right... it ebbs and flows. Sometimes you can't turn around without finding a willing trick and sometimes it's like... you're in the middle of Iowa. - Uptonking from Wonderland Burlesque