Dan Needs A Public Education

I'd got myself worked up, prepared to feel the crushing weight of guilt and self-recrimination as soon as I opened my eyes the next morning. Instead, I'm finger-banging myself in the shower.

It's like a switch has been thrown in my head, and while I thought I was horny before, turns out that was just a vague outline of how ridiculously obsessed with sex and getting off I can actually be. As though there was something in that mouthful of cum I swallowed: a drug, magical and mind-altering. 

At least that would be an explanation, even if a far-fetched, hard-to-believe one. Because otherwise all I'm left with, really, is the idea that for eighteen years I've been kinda muddling my way around what I'm really into, what I really want. And now I have three soapy fingers pumping into my ass and my cheek pressed against the cool tiles, wondering whether dudes go cruising in the park first thing, or if it's just me who's considering it. 

I'm not proud of it. Not exactly happy with myself, for wanting what my brain has apparently woken up to wanting. But the whole "should" and "shouldn't" of it - the parts I know would give Luka sleepless nights - has taken a back seat. Pushed aside in favor of a newfound addiction that's gone from zero to a thousand miles per hour in the space of a day. 

My fingertips feel rough as they brush against that pleasure-center in my ass. Each stroke sending a thick bubble of precum spooling out of the swollen head of my dick, a languid descent until it's caught in the shower's spray and whirled from me. 

I'm not good with guilt. 

Even when I was a little kid, caught doing something I shouldn't, I struggled with the appropriate reaction. At showing how contrite and apologetic I was, for whatever misdemeanor I was accused of, whereas inside what made me most regretful was being caught at all. Forced to consider a way of thinking that didn't simply acknowledge that you wanted something, and so of course you took it. 

If you didn't want me to grab the cookies, why did you leave them in reach? If I wasn't meant to play with the neighborhood kids, why was the back door unlocked?

It was why Luka and I made for such good friends, I'd decided early on. When we were both barely into our teens, and the rough outlines of our personalities were finally getting filled in. Details that - barring disaster or intervention - would shape the trajectory of our lives from there on. 

He brought the perspective, and I brought the fun. 

That's not to say Luka doesn't know how to have a good time. Or, for that matter, that he can't surprise me; do things which I quite frankly would never have imagined him doing. Like getting his ass nailed by some hot twenty-something dude, for example, and then going back for more. It's more just that, well, he gets caught up with the consequences and the implications of shit, whereas I tend to focus on how good that shit can feel.

Luka would tell me to cut this crap out. That it was too risky, too dangerous; that if I really wanted to mess around with guys, it was fine, but to do it in a way that doesn't involve crouching in a restroom stall while anonymous men push their cocks under the partition so that I can grope and suck them. My best buddy would point out that there were ways to feel that sort of friction, that sort of thrill, without also running the risk of getting arrested for indecent behavior, or whatever crimes I was actually flirting with.

Part of my brain, the part which through time and proximity had maybe been trained to think along those lines, would agree he was right. And he was persuasive enough that, with repetition, I'd probably - grudgingly - concede the point. 

Which was one good reason why I wasn't planning to tell him about all this stuff, at least not anytime soon. Until I'd got it out of my system, or the worst of it perhaps. Luka couldn't spoil the fun with sensible, rational thinking if he didn't know it was happening in the first place. 

I chew down on the groan as my fingers scissor in my ass. 

A jog isn't wrong, or inappropriate, I point out to the sketch of my best friend in my head. Nobody could be criticized for wanting to exercise, that would be ridiculous. If I decide to go for a jog in the park, that's just a thing which people do. 

Rational, sensible, not-at-all-devious-and-perverted people. 

Reluctantly, I make myself let go of my dick. Even the water thrumming down on my swollen tip feels like it could almost be enough to push me over the edge, especially if I was to angle my fingertips just so and, in the process, nudge them against that pleasure button inside me. 

Gritting my teeth, I make myself pull my fingers free. Pant, in mingled frustration and arousal, as the impending orgasm drifts back just beyond reach. 

Compression shorts, and loose nylon running shorts on top. A sleeveless vest and, finally, it's just a matter of shoving my socked-feet into my sneakers and - phone zipped into a pocket, earbuds in place - I'm off. The coolness of the morning hitting my muscles like a slap, as I pump my arms and legs and try to retain some of the warmth of the shower. 

It's a run in the park, that's all, I tell myself again. I don't need to feel guilty about it. Or, for that matter, feel that swell of anticipation in the depths of my chest. The one that feels like it's pushing apart my lungs as I suck down the crisp air. 

The day's early enough that there are hardly any people around. A few distant joggers; some dog-walkers, heavy coats wrapped around them as they pause for their pets to sniff and crouch. I can't hear the slap of my soles against the asphalt path, the music too loud, but my brain can fill in that omission from the reverberations up my legs. 

There's something about running that makes me feel like my body is a machine. A construct, mechanical and predictable. Limbs assembled, joints pivoting and swinging; the soundtrack from my earbuds more of a background wash and a beat than anything else. To pace myself, not listen to. 

I like how I can get lost in it. Even if my feet seem preprogrammed today, on autopilot to take me to one particular spot. 

It's cold inside the restroom. The air sharp on my bare skin, without the heat of movement to distract me. Empty, too, as I tug down the front of my shorts at the urinal.

I'm trying not to think about what I wanted to have happen this morning. What I was not-so-secretly hoping for. Not so much because the idea of it makes me feel bad about myself, but more the embarrassment that I'd allowed myself to expect it could. To assume that, just because I'd woken up horny, there'd be other people who felt the same way, and would go looking for it too. 

I pull my clothes back into place; cringe at the icy water from the faucet on my hands. Shake them, both to dry them and to try to encourage the blood flow again. 

If I'm out, I might as well finish the run. 

The paths through the park flow in long, intersecting loops. Sometimes between the open expanse of the football and baseball fields; other times snaking through copses of trees or winding around picnic tables. Controlled, but liberating in a way: no need to think about where you're going, because you're never going to get lost. 

Sometimes, those loops leave you crossing paths with someone else, two, three times over. 

A nod, the first time. No space for more, as he quickly jogs past me. The next brings a grin; that instinctive connection through impromptu recognition. I smile back, and though our paces haven't changed, it's like I see more of him this time. Taller and older, close-cropped hair and a skein of Lycra.

I look back, after our third crossing. A glance over my shoulder, my pace momentarily faltering, and then again when I realize I've caught him looking too. The gap between us still expanding, but slower now, as my skin prickles with the weight of his attention. 

I flash what I hope is a smile, the muscles in my face suddenly untrustworthy, as I cut left and down the shorter loop toward the dark block of the restrooms. 

I'm sitting in the endmost stall, wondering if what I did even counted as an invitation, when I hear the door swing open. A pause, and then footsteps coming closer. 

It's not the shoes I recognize, but the running tights. Their dark blue hem clinging just above his ankles as I look down, to the gap beneath the partition. His sneakers are all-black; mine seems positively gaudy in comparison, when I ease it closer. 

Hard to miss, though, even if this stranger hadn't come looking. 

There's probably some smart comment I should say, some blunt invitation to make it clear that I'm here for exactly the same thing as I think he is. Then again, the faint chuckle when I crouch down and hold my outstretched hand under the stall suggests that does the trick just as effectively. 

I watch his feet reposition; the shift in shadows as he moves, clothes rustling. I'm holding my breath, I realize, only letting that lungful of air out when the half-hard cock is dangling just beyond my fingertips. 

The tights are pushed down to the top of his thighs, sleek muscles outlined in the faintly-shimmering blue. They tense as I lean forward slightly, fingers wrapping around his length and giving him a few, careful strokes. 

We skipped words, but there's no mistaking that he wants this. His body betraying his interest as he quickly thickens in my grip, and though I know it so well from my own jerking off, there's still something magical and bizarre about feeling it from another guy. That sudden change, softness becoming hardness as my fist adjusts. 

I'm hard too; have been since I heard his footsteps outside the stall. Satisfy myself, for the moment, with squeezing myself through my shorts, my brain too caught up in the rush of what my other hand is doing. 

I want to suck him, I realize, but I'm not sure what the etiquette to ask for that is. 

Words would break the moment, instinctively I know they would, and so actions have to suffice. Pulling him as I stroke him, coaxing him closer to the partition, his cock on my side now, and his knees - strong thighs spreading wider in his crouch - as I picture his chest pressed against the scuffed metal wall. No complaint, though, nothing to derail me as I lean down to meet his flesh. 

Clean, but musky; my head dizzying with the scent of him, of the sweat of his exertions this morning. Pheromones and heat that pulls me in, my tongue lapping tentatively around the broad, flared ridge of his tip even as the heel of my palm grazes it with my strokes. 

I don't want him to pull away, and I don't want him to find me lacking, and so the only thing I can think to do is accelerate. Demonstrate my value here, my worth; the payoff to his awkward pose and the danger of the situation. The first inch or so of him thick between my lips, feeling huge in my mouth and yet not so overwhelming as the taste of him. The salt-sweet slick of precum, and I dare tell myself that's a sign that I'm doing good, doing him right. 

Our bodies know things that sometimes our minds need time to catch up to. 

Maybe mine knows I can handle more, or at the very least that I need more. No way else to explain why I push my head further into his crotch, my fingers retreating as my lips take their place: one tide of friction replacing another. Gripping his balls, now, my kneading as much about holding him in place as it is about his pleasure. 

There's something submissive and powerful, all in one confusing blend, as I kneel on the cracked tile floor. Head twisted to keep from smacking my forehead on the metal wall; ass hiked, as my other hand reaches down between my legs and squeezes my hardness through my shorts. I want to pull them down, free my erection as I nurse this stranger's - as I try to imagine the barely-remembered glimpse of his face twisting in satisfaction - but the angles are all wrong. It'd need to be my focus, and right now my brain is fully occupied. 

I don't have much experience, much to compare, but he's thick, and long, and I choke as he pushes into my throat. Embarrassed by it, like I just betrayed my novice status; fearful, even, in that eye-watering moment that he'll deem me unreliable and pull back. 

His fingers, slipping around the back of my neck as best they can and tugging me into his crotch, upend that concern. 

He's fucking my throat, now. His grip on me setting the pace, outlining his expectations; a blueprint to his satisfaction, more than a restraint. No complaint from me, there, either, as I focus on my role and trying not to gag again. 

It's over too soon, frustration mingling with some sick pride at how good I must be making him feel, as his cock swells in me. His fingers digging, holding me in place as his hips pump with sudden, aggressive urgency. As though it's only now, an orgasm in sight, that he fears I might pull back and leave him wanting. 

There's no way to tell him that his hand isn't needed for that, but it's a challenge rendered unnecessary as the spray of his load hits the back of my throat. I gulp, instinctively, as the sharp taste of him overwhelms; feeling him shudder as he slides through the shift in friction. His load turning my mouth into a sloppy, wet sleeve, as the last of his climax smears my tongue. 

A jerk, as he pulls himself back, sharply. No way to stop the mewl of frustration that escapes me, my cheeks flushing at the chuckle that provokes, even as his cum bubbles on my lips. I want to see his face, I realize, or maybe just the bottom half of it. Enough to observe the smile I know must be there now; enough to take satisfaction from knowing I was its cause. 

All I get, though, is the snap of elastic as he tugs his tights back into place. The squeak of the door's hinges - sudden realization that I didn't hear the lock; that he hadn't even bothered to slide it across - and then the slap of his rubber soles across the room. 

No 'thank you,' but then again my reward is dripping down my chin. 

I want to lick my lips, as I sit up on my heels, but I'm also afraid to. Knowing it would be another marker of time, of a change in state; a ticking hand, moving me beyond this moment that still confuses and fascinates me. Whereas if I can just kneel here, wearing the evidence of my brief importance to another person, I might be able to map out the reasons my brain has decided that's suddenly so important to me, too. 

I lick my lips anyway, because some maps are just too complex to even begin considering.

It feels like a single stroke would be enough to make me cum in my shorts. Even just the rub of the fabric is dangerous; the urge to pull myself out, jerk off into the chipped toilet bowl is fierce. And yet I want to savor that feeling, cling to it as best I can, and so I force myself to stand and tug the lock across. Scrub my chin with paper towels, watching the still-red cheeks and swollen pupils of the guy staring back in the mirror. 

My legs welcome the ache of running as eagerly as my throat invited a stranger. Each slap of my shoes on the asphalt path sending reverberations through me, reigniting my focus on where my cock bobs inside my compression shorts. 

There's part of me which wonders what I would've done, had he wanted more. How things could've gone, had I followed his lead, left the door to my stall unlocked. My erection throbbing now, at the idea of it; imagination spiraling, unable to think of anything but the friction and that brief, knowing look he'd given me as I passed him on the path. 

I probably wouldn't recognize him, out in public, and yet I had the taste of him strong on my tongue. A very different kind of intimacy. 

Perhaps it's the sort I could talk to Luka about, except I know he'd have questions. Would need to hear - surprised, even as he'd surprised me - how it had happened, who the guy was. And then probably worry, in my best friend's way, about what I was doing. 

Whereas all I can think about is that guy's sober sneaker next to my own neon green, and how seeing them together was confirmation that yeah, we were doing this. 

Glancing around as I jog, I reach down and squeeze myself through my shorts. The heft of my cock thick, and the urge to keep groping at myself strong. Imagining the way it would feel, to cum in that clinging fabric. How it would soak through, how the friction would change as it rubbed against my hyper-sensitive flesh. Only the thought of that wet patch spreading, until it was unmistakable, forcing me to pull my hand away. 

I could've stayed, I know. Weird and desperate as that would've felt, hunkered in some restroom stall, waiting for someone new to walk in. Hoping that the flavor of their relief would match what I had in mind, too, the only certainty being that my desires there were escalating, expanding. Each encounter accelerating my need, not sating it. 

I could've stayed, but I know I'll be back. 

---

This a spin-off from "Xander Shows Me My Prostate" from the POV of Luka's best friend Dan. He's experimenting with a newfound fascination with getting off in public - this story explores the trouble a "straight" boy can get into chasing his first gay experiences.

Thank you for reading - Comments, feedback, and ratings always appreciated! I just updated my site with "Gaped On My Eighteenth Birthday II: You Promised Me Your Throat" after the first part got such a positive reception - hope you enjoy it! 

-A