Dan Needs A Public Education

I shouldn't still be horny. I literally just got off, like, an hour ago. Sprayed my best friend with cum; watched it trickle down between his legs and over his hole. And it felt epic, too, like my body was turning itself inside-out with the pleasure. 

So it makes no sense that I'm sitting in my room, TV forgotten, internet serving up no distractions, thinking about another orgasm. 

I'm worried there must be something in my brain that's broken. Or maybe I really am the horndog pervert that Luka frequently accuses me of being. 

He'd probably say worse if he knew the stuff I was thinking about now. 

I know my buddy has a lot on his mind, and I know just as well that he had to have basically been half-terrified to tell me any of it. And I'm not saying I'm not shocked, about discovering that Luka has been hooking up with a guy, and getting fucked, and is about to pound this dude too. Like, it's definitely not something I saw coming. 

But the shock is from the surprise of it, not because I'm judging him for it. As long as he's happy, and enjoying himself, then why the fuck not, right? I'd be an asshole best friend if I said otherwise. 

It might be a little too much to hope for that Luka would feel the same way, if I told him what's been monopolizing my thoughts recently. 

Maybe if I talked about it, the desperation to act on those thoughts would be a little less intense. Or maybe letting myself do it once has already screwed me. Because the thing my brain keeps circling back to is the fact that, well, it's already happened so why shouldn't it happen again?

I'm pulling on my coat before I even properly realize that I've reached a decision. 

I can't go back to the gas station. Even caught up in what I'm doing, there's enough of my common-sense still working that I know it's not an option. And if I head the other direction, to the park, then I can tell myself that it's really just because I want to walk some. Hopefully burn off some of this nervous energy.

Dusk is drawing in but it's not cold. The fact that I'm shivering has to be down to something else. 

I don't quite know where I'm going. When I was little, my mom warned me about all the dangers of the park - not to get too close to the pond, not to take candy from strangers - but it's not like she pointed out "that's the restroom where the guys hook up." 

There's no map for that shit, or if there is, nobody got around to sharing it with me. I shove my fists in my pockets, clenched in frustration, as I step to the side of the path to avoid a cluster of joggers. 

I'm being stupid, I know I am, but the sensible part of my brain is getting overruled. I can't even claim it's just down to being horny; more that there's a throbbing curiosity that I know isn't going to settle until I explore all this stuff further. 

Somewhere, say, like in the bathroom block on the other side of the pond. 

It doesn't really feel like the sort of place guys would go cruising. Then again, I only really know it from music festivals and other stuff like that, big events sprawled across the grass, full of families and food stalls. Now, with the bandstand empty and the light starting to dim, it looks a little less obvious. 

I can go in, and pee, and that's a perfectly reasonable thing to do, I tell myself. I'm just a regular guy, using a restroom. My heart really doesn't need to be hammering in my chest. 

There are no individual urinals, just one of those long troughs with a metal wall. And then, my memory slowly fills in the blanks, a handful of stalls around the corner on the other side. 

A regular guy, who just needed to pee, would stand at the trough and get that shit over and done with. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the sinks. 

Tight lips, big pupils. I look like a guy who needs to chill the fuck out. 

My legs take me around the corner, into the far stall. 

Snicking across the latch makes me feel a little less nervous. A fact I immediately feel ridiculous about, because it's not like I've never used a public bathroom before. Problem is, it's like some switch has been thrown in my brain, and now everything about the situation feels loaded and borderline-sexual, somehow. 

Luka would laugh at me, if I tried to explain it, I know he would. Or call me a pervert, and he probably wouldn't be wrong. Doesn't stop me wishing I was brave enough to text him or call him right now.

I'm about to stand up again, unlock the door and walk home, when I hear footsteps rounding the corner. The sound of the door in the cubicle next to mine swinging creakily shut; the little chime of the metal latch sliding over. 

I'm holding my breath, I realize, only I'm suddenly afraid of letting it out because it might come in one big, loud whoosh. I let the air seep out of my lungs as slowly as I can, ears trying desperately to listen out for whatever might be happening just a foot or two to my side. 

The squeak, of a rubber sole on the tiled floor. My eyes instantly drop to the gap at the bottom of the partition. Wanting to see something there, desperately so, but also terrified of it too. 

A flash of neon green, the toe of a running shoe. 

It's innocent, because of course someone is gonna be wearing shoes when they're in a public bathroom, but at the same time it's not. Because why would you be facing the divider, positioned so that just the very end of your sneaker is visible to whoever is in the stall across? 

It's a bad idea to edge my foot across, but I do it anyway. 

Not close enough to touch, not quite, but close all the same. Enough that it doesn't take much movement at all, hardly anything in fact, for the neon green to brush up against the side of my Nikes.

I feel my face flush red, like it's the most intimate thing I could imagine happening. 

I don't know the etiquette, what comes next. Even after all the stories I've read, the stuff online about peoples' first times and the tales from the old-hands at this shit. Can only watch as the foot withdraws, not with a yank like it was all a mistake, but slowly and pointedly. About as close to a "wait" as a shoe can deliver. 

Then the rustling of fabric, my heart hammering like it wants to escape me, as I watch a pair of lycra-clad thighs appear. Knees spread wide, and I'm blinking and still trying to process what should be obvious as he sticks his cock under the partition.

Hard, and thick, and I don't have much experience with dicks in-person, no, but I've seen plenty online and this one looks pretty average to me. Maybe a little longer, but it's not like I'm gonna whip out a tape measure. Not like I can even move, in fact, my body frozen. 

"Come on..." 

It's low, almost so quiet I could second-guess whether I actually heard him speak at all. But whether I imagined it or not, it isn't like I don't know what's expected of me, here. And I can either run away like a frightened kid, or do what I'd always known - not quite in the very back of my mind, but pushed as far back as I needed, to still be able to look at myself in the mirror without cringing - I was hoping for. 

I crouch down, and reach out for his dick. 

There's a grunt as I wrap my fingers around it, my grip shifting as I try to work with the angles. Because it's different from when you jerk yourself, I realize, a mirror of that. Pulling on him, even as this stranger is beginning to push himself into my fist. 

"Harder," comes the instruction from the other side, and I squeeze a little tighter. Rewarded with another grunt of satisfaction. 

"Saw you come in here, and figured." The voice is deep, a little rough, but it's the implication that makes my hand freeze. The idea of having been watched when I thought nobody was observing me; the thought that my intentions were so obvious, a total stranger could follow me into the restroom and be confident that I'd jack his dick for him. It's enough to shock me. 

A pump of his hips jolts me from my anxiety. "Don't stop."

I should leave, I know. Get up, unlock the door, flee before he has a chance to even pull his pants back up. That would be the sensible thing, the safe thing. 

Instead I start stroking him again. Trying - even amid the simmering terror - to do to him the things I know I like when I apply them to myself. 

There's a part of my brain wondering if my cock feels like this, as heavy and firm. Soft skin taut around a rigid core; his precum brushing against my wrist as I twist my grip on him. 

"You suck?" 

I keep rubbing, even as my brain freezes to a juddering halt. It's not like I didn't know it was a possibility: that I'd assumed a quick jerk was the only thing guys did in situations like these. I'd just never joined the dots between the theory and me, here, in practice. 

And yet I'm crouching in a public restroom with a stranger's cock in my fist, my own almost painfully rigid in my boxers, and maybe there's something as broken in my head as Luka jokes there is, maybe I'm as fucked up and perverted as he teases me, because the thought in my brain isn't whether I could give this guy a blowjob, but just how much of my face might be visible if I do. 

The idea of having another guy's dick in my mouth isn't as upsetting as the idea that he could pick me out of a lineup afterwards. 

I'm inwardly chuckling about how messed up that is, even as I lean down and wrap my lips around his swollen head. It should feel submissive, maybe even unmanly if I gave too much of a shit about that crap, but somehow it doesn't. Because right now I have the most sensitive part of his body in my mouth - right next to my teeth - and whoever this stranger is, he's trusting that I'm not gonna chomp down on his cock.

I don't, of course. Tongue already swiping around him, exploring the hard, flared ridge of his tip as his hips try to grind himself further into my mouth. My hand only just holding him back, fingers wrapped tight around his shaft as I feel him stretch my lips. 

There's part of me that wants it too; that loves the idea - despite the fact that this is all so new, so unexpected - of having him slide deep into my throat. Fill me up, even as my other hand is fumbling at my jeans, trying desperately to tug my own cock free so that I can jerk myself in sync. 

I know, though, that it'd only make me gag and choke. And maybe he'd like that; maybe, like some of the videos I've watched, he'd find that a turn-on too, but I suspect he wouldn't be so impressed if I threw up all over his crotch. That part's less sexy, most likely. 

So I focus, instead, on as much as I can fit inside my mouth without overwhelming myself. Lap around him, suck him as best I can, and judging by the amount of precum I'm swallowing it's not like my novice efforts are falling too far short. 

And holy fuck, it feels like I could cum just with a couple of firm strokes. 

I'm basically just holding my dick, squeezing it a little, and even that already feels like tempting fate. I've cum multiple times today, but my body seems determined to go again at least once more. Which reminds me that the stranger I'm sucking is probably going to want to get off, too, and that leaves me with a decision I never thought I'd have to make. 

Like, right now, the way I'm feeling, I think I'd let him unload in my mouth. Even if I know that it's mainly because I'm horny as hell and so worked up; if I let myself cum, I'd probably be a whole lot less keen on the idea of him creaming my throat. 

Whatever I settle on, I'm gonna have to come to a decision very soon. If the way he's thickening on my tongue is anything to go by, anyway, and the little grunts and gasps he's making. 

For a split second I think yes, I want it, I'm ready for it. And then I'm feeling the first splash of him hit the back of my throat when I realize I might've been too hasty. Too ambitious for my first time, pulling back as shock floods through me again, hand still jerking as his second volley laces across my lips. A long, wet stripe all the way up over my nose, the smell of cum suddenly strong as he pumps through the tight grip of my fingers and I swallow instinctively. 

Realize, a split-second later, that I'm swallowing his load. The knowledge of that making me throb in my own hand, my cock spraying the floor between my thighs at the wildness of what I've just done. 

He's been squirming with the last few strokes; ends up pretty much yanking himself from my hold. I can hear his panting over the sound of clothes being pulled back into place; can't help but remember the way I'd frantically dressed myself again after my first experience at the gas station. This guy seemed to know the score, acting like he was experienced, but maybe it's not so strange to get freaked out in that moment of post-cum clarity. Brain hitting fast-forward to the point where you realize a total stranger has just been manhandling you. 

The "thanks" is perfunctory, muttered, and then I hear the creak of the door and his hurried steps away. Leaving me crouching still, my dick still hanging out of my pants and dripping the dregs of my load onto the tiles, as cum trickles down my chin. 

It's like I'm waiting for the freak-out. As though there's a timer, ticking down to the point where everything will catch up to me, and my head is going to go into some sort of meltdown. Exactly how many seconds are left isn't clear, but you know it's coming. That it's as much of an inevitability as my ducking down and letting that guy feed himself through my lips was always going to have been my choice. 

I'm just about to wipe my face, when I hear the footsteps into the next-door stall. Wonder, not quite daring to move, just what the person in there now can see of me. How much is visible in the gape of the dinted metal partition. 

"You playin'?" 

The voice is deep, lower than the last guy. I blink, as though the question is a bigger one, a more nuanced one than what I know he's really asking. 

Reach down, then, to present my open hand under the wall. 

I could listen to him unfastening his belt, unzipping his jeans and pushing them down, but all I can really hear is the thrum of blood in my ears. The sound of it like waves, a rush of white noise, and if it's squeezing out the potential freak-out then maybe it's also holding my common sense at bay, too. 

Not that I ever had much of that, at least not according to my parents, though they'd still be shocked at the sight of me crouching in a restroom stall as some random guy slaps his erection into my palm. 

My hand is stroking on instinct. Brain noting, almost absently, at the similarities and differences to before. The things which made the last guy grunt and twitch but which don't seem to have the same affect on this second dude. The angles which make him push even harder into my grip. 

I release him for a second - the huff of frustration barely registering - as I wipe my sweaty hand across my face. Pick up where I left off, only now with the slick lube the last guy left me with. A parting gift I'm paying forward. 

There's something liberating about not being able to see his face, not having to make eye contact. My other hand reaching under him, cupping his balls first, squeezing and pulling on them gently and feeling the way he swells a little further at my manhandling. Then sliding further back, to the softly-furred stretch that leads to his ass. 

Less than 24 hours ago I was watching Luka play with himself like this. Right there, in front of me; his fingers delving into that hyper-sensitive place as he tugged his hole open. Only the idea of reaching out and joining in that play never even occurred to me, not at the time. The camera acting like an insulator between us, as effective as the sheet of battered plexiglass at the gas station.

Now, though, I'm no simple observer. 

Would he let me finger him, this random guy? There's enough cum and sweat that I could probably ease at least one digit inside him, were he amenable. Could hook that finger in, pressing the spot in his ass that I know is most potent. Milk the load from him, inside and out. 

I don't have a chance to wonder any more, though, my fingertip only just grazing around his hole as he erupts in my hand. Cum splashing along my forearm, his body twitching as I keep stroking. 

"Dude," he grunts, finally, and I reluctantly release him. He doesn't seem to be in as much of a hurry as the last one. "You need a hand?" 

More courteous, too. I have to chew down on my giggle. 

"Nah, I'm good," I murmur. It's weird, hearing my own voice. Like the Dan I know myself to be has taken a step away, and there's another person - wearing his likeness, yes, but different nonetheless - who is calling the shots, here. Deciding what is, and isn't, a step too far. 

I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about that concept when I hear him button up and leave the stall. 

My legs are stiff; pins and needles spiking through them as I stand up. Wonder, a burr of slight hysteria scratching somewhere in the back of my mind, if Luka felt like this, the first time he'd gone down on his knees and sucked his dude's dick. 

We could share notes, I think. Two novice straight-boy cocksuckers, each trying their best to fight their gag-reflex and poor circulation. The giggle I'd just about managed to squash earlier returns, and this time I let it happen. There's only so much you can keep inside and not go crazy, after all. 

The Dan staring back at me in the scratched mirror above the sink doesn't look any different from the Dan I know. Well, the almost-dry cum on his nose and cheeks aside, anyway. I rub at them with a wad of damp paper towel, the roughness of it scratching me with a sort of clarity. 

What did Luka see, when he looked at his reflection after the first time? Part of me wonders, again, whether I could talk to my best friend about this shit. Bring it up, explain the series of decisions which seemed like they made sense at the time, but which I know will leave him boggling at me like I'm some sort of alien.

Even if I can convince him that I was down for all this shit, wanted it, I know he'll worry about me. And it's not like he hasn't got worries of his own to work through. 

I check myself in the mirror again, one last time. Face as clean as I can get it; pants fastened. Glance at me and I don't think you'd see anything other than an eighteen-year-old dude just going for a walk through the park, and the knowledge of that is enough to make me grin. Because fuck, secrets can be so much fun. 

And addictive, of course. So much fun, and so very, very addictive. 

---

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! If you're looking for more stories, my site has several, including a new holiday-themed one called "The Reluctant Santa" 😁

-A