Dan Needs A Public Education

I want to ask Luka if he feels it too. That sense of there being two of him, two versions, coexisting in the same space. Overlapping, one so familiar but the other twisted until it's barely recognizable. Your own face, but a side of yourself you've never seen before. 

I think my best friend would understand why I was trying to say, even if I wasn't explaining it so well. 

Addiction is a strong word, but then so is obsession, and I'm not sure I can discount either. Not when all I can think about is finding a barely-believable excuse - more for myself, than for anybody else - why I really do need to go to the park again. My brain isn't quite at the point where "I wanna hang out in a restroom" is an acceptable goal, though I suspect it wouldn't take a particularly convincing cover story to smooth over any deeper thinking. 

Desperate for a distraction, I pull up my messages.

"You wanna hang today?" 

Luka's like me, barely apart from his phone, and sure enough the little blinking 'he's typing' bubble pops up quickly. Hanging out with him - without stuff getting strange, and sexual, and making me think of doing shit I know I shouldn't be thinking about doing so much - would be the perfect distraction right now. 

"Can't. Already got plans." 

I grunt in frustration when I see his reply. Not that I expect to automatically be top of my best friend's list of priorities, and that he would cancel whatever he'd planned to do just because I wanted to kick back with him, but my list of potential diversions just lost its ideal candidate. 

There's no way I can't wonder what he might be doing instead, of course. 

Sure, it might be something with his mom or dad, but I have to figure that it's the guy he's met. The one who could legitimately be called Luka's obsession at the moment; the one I've helped him snare, even as I've watched my buddy get more and more into the idea of being with a dude. 

And, fuck, I can't even be mad at him for wanting to spend time with the guy, because I want Luka to be happy, I really fucking do. Want my buddy to feel comfortable exploring all this new shit that I just know must be twisting his brain right now; want to support him, so that he knows it's totally okay with me whether he's banging a chick, or a dude, or whoever. Just as long as, like, that's what he wants to be doing.

The idea that they could be hooking up together, while I'm at home trying to find ways to distract myself from getting off, is pretty much the last straw. Game over to my short-lived attempt to hold temptation at arm's length. 

My dick's already hard even as I'm pulling up my sweatpants. My body fully aware what I have planned - or, at least, what I'm hoping for - despite my brain clinging to some vague thread of denial. That there's no point being stuck indoors, at home, on a beautiful day. That just because I go out, it doesn't mean I'm going to end up on my knees in a restroom stall, fishing for cock under the grimy partition. 

I jam my earbuds in and crank the music, to drown out the little voice crowing that I'm predictable.

It feels risky to go back. Not that I think there are cameras watching, or even if there are, not that there's some park ranger whose job it is to monitor for people who are suspiciously frequent visitors. Men with oddly weak bladders, who can't go a day without hitting up the restroom there. Even so, the fact that the runner guy saw my face outside, before he unloaded on it under the stall, makes me question just how anonymous these encounters actually are. 

An uncertainty that I take all the way with me to the park, and around the path that circles the pond. 

I don't go in, though. Not straight away. It's a sort of mental edging, perhaps: a test, proving to myself that I'm still the one in control, here. That if I really, really wanted to, I could stand up and walk back home. Play some dumb game or watch crap on TV; anything to underline that my brain was in charge, not my dick. 

That doesn't stop my eyes from skittering around, though, watching who might be coming and going from the restroom block. 

It's quiet, but not dead. The odd guy heading in, and then minutes later - if that - coming out again. All very perfunctory, and innocent, and unless they've got a serious hair-trigger it's hard to imagine them busting a load while they're in there. So maybe, just maybe, I'm the only pervert here for something more than just emptying my bladder. 

Thinking about that makes me need to pee. 

Like, actually need to. Not just a thinly-veiled excuse, or an easy justification. 

My body feels like it requires instructions on how to look casual as I stand up. Brush my hands down my thighs, and slowly stroll over to the restroom door. Fighting the urge, now, to glance around and see who - if anybody - might be watching me. 

It's cooler inside, by a handful of degrees. 

Using the trough would be what an innocent guy would do, I tell myself. Resist my legs' urge to keep going, to take me around the corner to where I know the grimy, battered stalls are waiting. Move up close to the wall of metal, and tug down the front of my sweatpants. 

I'm not hard, but I'm not soft, either. Thicker in my hand than normal; chubbed up, at the simmering memories of what has already happened here, and what could happen were I to chase that. Not that, I suspect, it'd involve much chasing. More a case of simple presence than anything else. 

Flicking my gaze up, at the cobwebbed ceiling, I try to let my brain drift. Hoping my suddenly shy bladder will decide to cooperate, if only I can distract myself. 

I'm convinced I can coast through this, prove to myself I'm no addict, no lost cause, right up until I hear someone walk in behind me and my head snaps around. 

Quickly, I turn back to the wall. Focus on the row of concrete blocks above the metal trough, staring as though I'm trying to gouge a line through them with the power of my brain alone. 

I hear the jangle of a belt buckle next to me. Closer than you'd expect, than I'd expected. 

Slowly, jaw clenched, I shift my eyes to the side.

I didn't get a proper look at him, as he walked in. Can't really see him now, not facing straight ahead like I am. Vision blurred as I strain to see him out of the corner of my eye.

Twenties, maybe. Buzzcut blonde; a face that'd be charitably described as sharp. And standing an arm's length from me, if that. 

It's closer than you'd stand, normally. Closer than you'd choose, if you had any spot on the ten, twelve feet of trough to choose from. I can't help but wonder just what he saw, when I glanced around. What he read into that instinctive curiosity. 

I look down, to where I'm basically just holding my cock out. Still half-hard, still not pissing. The front of my sweats pushed down, under my balls, and suddenly being out here in the open seems ten, twenty, a hundred times more dangerous than being locked in a stall around the corner. 

There's absolutely no possible way to not glance across at him. None whatsoever. 

It's like he's mirroring my pose. Jeans gaping open, dick hauled out and in his hand. The other arm, the one closest to me, just hanging by his side. Almost as though he's intentionally making sure that there's nothing which might obscure my view. 

Swallowing, my throat feeling dry and thick, I drop my arm too. 

I'd have to look up, to see if he was staring. And the thought of doing that is terrifying: the idea of meeting his gaze as shocking and excruciating as the possibility that this stranger isn't staring over at me at all. So all I can do is keep my eyes fixed on the long, seemingly not-quite-soft cock he's holding. 

He shifts a half-step closer.

Perhaps he realizes he can't count on me to make the first move. Maybe he's just impatient. Or maybe there's an innocent explanation, a justification that my brain is in no fit shape to conjure. Not when it's so desperate to read lascivious compliance everywhere I look. 

My body turns to him, just slightly. Almost without my brain feeling like it's involved. 

I can't help it, I have to glance up.

He's smirking, the smile spreading a little wider when we make eye-contact. Older than me, mid-twenties maybe, a little later even. Slim and wiry, the kind of guy you can much more easily imagine scowling than grinning. 

I have to imagine that, though, because right now I'm the focus of said-grin.

It's not clear what's in my expression, beyond apprehension tinged with shock, but whatever he sees it's apparently enough to convince him. To nudge him into motion again, another step closer.

I gasp, as the head of his cock brushes against mine. 

A soft touch, a fleeting one; light enough that you could claim it never happened. Only there's no mistaking the way I'm instantly thickening in my own grip, my flesh remembering contact that my brain is already questioning. A quick flick of my eyes and I realize he's watching me, too, gaze locked on where I'm well on my way to a full erection.

"Nice," he murmurs, under his breath, and my dick jerks in my fist at the praise. 

His fingers are soft, softer than I'd expect from looking at him, as he brushes my hand away and wraps them around my length. His own dick swelling in front of me, as he works the skin idly and I fight the urge to push myself through his grip. Forcing my body to hold back, to ignore the promise of friction that's suddenly 90% of what I can think about. 

He's all the way hard when he opens his hand, as though he's presenting his cock to me. Offering it up, should I be so gracious to accept. 

I should leave, I know I should. Or I should push him around the corner, into a stall. Not just grope at some bold stranger right there in the open, even if his hand feels incredible and the urge to reach out and grab him is causing my brain to go into spasming overload. 

Luka would tell me to stop being so ridiculous. To think about what I was doing, to try to make good decisions. 

Luka's not here. Luka wouldn't understand.

The guy's erection feels hot against my palm. Softness, but an iron core. It's already drooling onto my wrist as I give him a few, tentative strokes.

It's as though that breaks our frozen moment; reciprocation shattering the ice, and then he's jerking me in earnest and I'm trying to match each tight stroke. The two of us facing each other now, close enough that occasionally our cocks brush. Trading precum as the slick, squishy, borderline obscene sound of our two fists raises in volume. 

"You suck?" 

His voice is lower than I expected, deeper. An edge of gravel to it, though maybe that's just because those two words are the first thing he's said. A blunt question, but also an invitation: signposting that we have options, him and I, should I be curious enough to explore them. 

I've never sucked a cock when I can look up and see the reaction on the guy's face while I do it. 

He seems reluctant to release my dick, even while he's pushing his hips forward toward me as I drop to a crouch in front of him. My fingers still hooked around his thick inches, tugging them down until he's almost horizontal and aimed at my mouth. Wondering, too, if this is what he expected, what he hoped for when he walked in. If, perhaps, I'm a catch in the grand scheme of restroom hookups: some eighteen-year-old kid who barely takes any convincing to fall to his knees. 

There's something about that thought which makes me want to do a good job, too. 

At another time, in another setting, I'd ease myself into it. Lap around his swollen tip, and feel it brush across my lips. It's a languid exploration we don't have the space for.

I push my mouth onto him; hear his hiss of surprised pleasure above me. Don't allow myself to pause, though, or savor the wordless praise. Simply begin to work around him with my tongue, as I jerk the rest of his shaft with my fist. Feeling the unexpected smoothness of his bare crotch as the heel of my hand bumps against it. 

I'm hard still - achingly, almost unbearably hard - and spilling precum onto the tiles beneath me, but I can't bring myself to touch my dick. Not wanting to let up on my hold on him, one hand gripping his thigh to steady myself. The muscles tense against my squeezing fingers, their contours clear beneath the denim. 

Part of me wants him to say something, to narrate this new depth of my self-discovery. To tell me I'm doing well, or how he prefers it. I never imagined wanting to hear that I was a good cocksucker, being desperate for feedback on how adeptly I worked my lips and tongue around a stranger's prick, but some kernel of need in my chest wishes he'd offer something more than the soft, occasional grunts from above me.

Then again, perhaps that's a lackluster nod to discretion. Not wanting to advertise what we're doing too loudly, too obviously. A barely sensible nod to otherwise forgotten propriety, one I'd probably laugh at if my mouth wasn't already full of cock.

In the end, though, it doesn't take noises to prompt our discovery. Just someone walking in.

I can feel the surprise radiating off them; sense, too, the speed at which that morphs into amusement and, intermingled, interest with it. Some part of my brain hitting reset on just now innocent all the other morning visitors to this particular restroom have been. That the briefness of their visits might've been a side-effect of unsuccessful scouting missions, rather than anything more perfunctory.

He's hard to see, my focus taken up with the thickness between my lips, but I can tell he's watching us from a few paces off. Feel some illicit shiver in my core, as though it's only with observation that the true reality of what I'm doing is made clear. Just me and some guy is one thing: add an audience, and suddenly there's a witness to what kind of boy I am. 

My cock throbs between my legs at the idea of it, hiccuping another thick bubble of drool. 

I don't need to see him to hear him unzip. Don't need much more than vague, peripheral vision to understand the movements of his arm; the way he's jerking off watching my handiwork. A hand on the back of my head suggesting the guy I'm blowing isn't immune to the allure of being watched, either. Not so much moving me, or even holding me in place, but proprietorial somehow. A reminder that I've got a job to do, and that there's no moving on until he's finished with me. 

I swallow around his tip, remembering just what that finish will involve. 

Still no words as the new guy moves closer. Hand still jerking. I'm curious, but I don't let myself glance up: try to stay focused on what I'm doing, and the movements which provoke the most obvious responses. Knowing, maybe, that being watched is enough, and that I don't have to close that loop - watch him playing with himself in turn - for it to be thrilling.

It means I'm all the more surprised when he unloads on my face. 

No warning, not even a choked grunt or hiss. Just the hot, sudden splash of wetness down my cheek, and the thick smell of cum as the second bolt hits my nose. The idea of it too overwhelming for me to react to with anything other than wide-eyed shock, all movement frozen for an instant as my brain pinwheels.

A huff, of frustration perhaps or just excitement, from the guy whose erection still stretches my lips. Moving now even if I've stiffened up, fucking my cream-slicked face as his hold on me tightens. When I crane my eyes up, it's to see the taut stretch of his throat; his head thrown back, jaw clenched, as he coaxes out those final dregs of friction required to finish.

I gulp, instinctively, as the first of his load hits the back of my throat. Conscious, in some dim and distant way, of the second guy stepping back, until he fades from my attention and every part of my brain is focused on the way my mouth is filling with cum and the rictus grip of fingers against my scalp. 

"Fuck..." 

That gravel-edged rasp again, and suddenly he's pulling back too. Dragging his dick from between my lips, the urgency of it almost enough to topple me forward. 

I look up, to see his satisfied smirk. His cream already dripping down my lips, mingling with that second stranger's, as he nods pointedly to where my hardness juts desperately between my legs. 

It's an invitation or an instruction; either way, I comply. 

He buttons up as he watches me stroke myself with sharp, desperate motions. Rightening himself, even as I debase myself further in front of him. Some slice of my brain achingly aware that now I'm the solitary pervert here, the only one exposing himself, the only one with random men's cum dripping wetly off my chin and down to further lube my frantic jerking. 

Something between a gasp and a sob, as I blast across the floor. Long, thick sprays of it, as though I was doing my best to reach his sneakers, mark him in some way like I've been marked just now. His chuckle of amusement ringing in my ears as I milk out the final drops, and I know I should stand, should wipe my face, should do my very best to fix my clothes and stop tempting fate and discovery, but for the moment it's all I can do to teeter there on my heels and suck down cum-scented lungfuls of air. 

Another grin, and then just like that I'm on my own again. 

---

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