I was browsing through socks at a famous department store when my nose began to run. Since I don’t carry tissues with me I sprinted for the men’s room -- four flights up, left at Women’s Undergarments, through the tunnel near Shipping and across the catwalk past the “High Voltage” locker. The place was empty and I wasn't going to be there long so I didn’t lock my stall door, but the toilet paper holder only dispensed like a sheet at a time before slamming on the brakes. I’d wrestled out maybe five mangled sheets before somebody else walked in.
Footsteps approached the bank of urinals across from me, a zipper unzipped, and somebody let loose. While he was going at it the door opened again, and pretty soon there was so much splashing I expected neighborhood kids to scamper around the pair wearing swimsuits and water wings.
I decided to give up on the toilet paper and make due with what I had. I wiped my nose with some, stuffed the rest in my pocket, and when I was ready to go I noticed the place had gone quiet. I’d have heard if anyone had gone anywhere -- to the faucets, to the mirror, or straight out, like typical males -- but there was nothing. I poked my head over the stall door to see what was up.
Two guys were standing at the urinals, but they were definitely not peeing. The guy on the right, wearing tight Levis that framed his butt nicely, was more interested in the guy next to him than any bodily function. His eyes caressed the man’s stubbled jaw and then slowly worked their way down, and to my surprise the other guy followed suit. I popped my head down as they turned to case the joint, and when I popped back up I guess they figured they were alone, because both their facial expressions and their arm movements had become more animated.
“Can I help you with anything?” the guy on the right asked, his eyes fixing on his neighbor’s bits.
“Yeah, man,” the other guy said gruffly. He turned from the urinal, bolstering his equipment with both hands. “Suck on this,” he commanded. “SUCK IT!”
Now, this seemed a little coarse to me, but the guy on the right didn’t agree. He sank to his knees and started to zero in on the target. Maybe I needed to be a little rougher, I thought. Whenever I broached the subject on dates I approached it circuitously, touching on everything from recent gains in sodomy laws to a Woman’s Right to Choose. And the response I always got was somewhere between “No, thanks” and “Huh?” This was an exchange I needed to see.
I stood there transfixed, like Dian Fossey coming across a particularly interesting pair of apes. Unlike Dian I didn’t really want to just hang back and take notes, but I’d intruded on people having sex before and while they’d screamed a lot of things “Why don’t you join us?” wasn’t one. Before the demanded sex act had even begun, though, the bathroom door swung open again, and both men leapt back to their peeing positions. The intruder, a pale old man whose purple track suit made him look like a dachshund in a Chivas bag, shuffled to the urinal between them and after exchanging a resigned look the two guys zipped up, flushed and fled.
In the days to come I thought a little about public sex. I’d always felt it was something like dogs licking their balls: I mean, you can’t really blame them for doing it, but I’d rather not see it near my feet at the mall. But then I thought, what the heck’s wrong with it? New Yorkers can ignore the guy blowing snot rockets at our shoes, and the drunk with his pants around his ankles harassing us for change, so why can’t we ignore two hot guys going at it? Is there something about public sex that’s particularly obnoxious, or are we all just timid dogs afraid of our own balls?
A week or so later, this experience still fresh in my mind, I met my friend Gail at a fancy restaurant. I got a little tipsy and halfway through dinner noticed a handsome man at the next table excuse himself and lumber toward the bathroom. I followed, thinking I’d “accidentally” run into him there, but he veered off at the telephones and I entered the bathroom alone.
There was a nice-looking guy standing all by himself at the mirror, and I hoped this could still be my lucky day. I headed to the urinals and while most guys flee after their privacy’s been interrupted this one didn’t. He fixed his hair, then brushed invisible lint off his jacket, and though he was dressed like he had some important job he was obviously in no hurry to leave.
I could feel myself being watched while I pretended to go, and when I casually glanced over my shoulder he was looking at me and smiling. He was being pretty brazen about the whole thing: washing his hands, again fiddling with his hair, pacing back and forth. He was ready for action. I mean, damn, he was even holding a towel.
It’s now or never, I thought, swallowing hard. Time for this dog to start licking.
I looked at him again, this time trying to wink lasciviously while simultaneously coaxing my bits away from aloof. He inched slowly toward me and his eyebrows slid up. “Can I help you with anything?” he said, his tone implying a laundry list of possibilities.
Yeah, buddy, I thought. I’ve heard those words before. “You sure can,” I said, in a low but still possibly believable voice. I swung around, pushed my pants down and grabbed my dick. “Suck on this,” I said, shaking it up and down to make my point crystal clear. “SUCK IT!”
I grabbed his crotch for emphasis, feeling around for his genitals and then clamping my hand tight around them. He looked down for a second, seemingly unhappy at this turn of events. “Uh, guy,” he said, his ruddy face reddening. “You know I’m the men’s room attendant, right?”
I thought he was going to slug me so I flew out of there. He stopped chasing me after I flung him a twenty. But he deserved it: I mean, I gave the coat check girl two bucks and didn’t even touch her hangers.
On The Road With Janis Joplin - John Byrne Cooke, the son of public television star Alistair Cooke, had gotten a liberal arts degree from Harvard. He stumbled into a job filming the Monte...
9 hours ago