His Boots

His boots. His cowboy boots. They are the first thing I see as I look in that direction. I am already pissing into the stainless-steel urinal when I notice them. They are shiny. As if they are polished. Do you even polish cowboy boots? I wonder. You can see the intricate stitched design on them when you get that first glance.

I can feel my cock begin to stiffen as I stare at them. I like boots. But the piss still streams like a raging fireman’s water hose from my pee-hole.

From his boots I can see his tan khakis and the neatly ironed crease to absolute perfection in the pants legs which aligns with the center of his boots. My father used to do the same things with his jeans. With his boots. I never understood why he ironed his jeans. Or wore a belt. I do neither.

My eyes finally gets to his cock. I see his blonde shaggy bush engulfing it. First. And his finger resting atop its length. Manicured nails. And the pulsating vein where his finger lays. He is rubbing it as his piss streams a dull yellow. He seems to be stroking himself in a way I have never seen another man before. He has a nice cock. And seems to be hardening as I stare at it. Longingly. Lustfully.

I feel a shock ram throughout my body. A sensation I recognize. And welcome. It starts at my back and travels in a flash to every single one of my extremities and to every pore. My body is engulfed by this shock.

I go further. And finally arrive at his face.

Like his boots, I recognize it too. It is someone I know. But it has been years since I have laid my emerald eyes upon him.

Our eyes meet. He nods his head. In approval. And I return the gesture in the same fashion. He is still sleek bald with his goatee matching his pubes.

Does he not recognize me? I guess not. But I do him.

I do have a beard, now. And I have put on a little extra weight. Not much. Mind you. But I still look basically the same. At least to me. I am just a little sturdier since last he saw me.

By now I am finished pissing and shaking the remaining dew from my cock. I exaggerate these movements. I want him to see me as I have seen him. He smiles at me. It is an acknowledgement of my actions.

He turns and I am flashed. His cock is hard. Ramrod steel hard. His fist is gripped tightly around his length. And seems to be growing stiffer as he presents himself wholly to me.

We say nothing. He turns and presents his ass to me and mouths, rather exorbitantly, “fuck me!”

I shove him forcefully against a partition that separates some of the urinals from the open toilets and yank down his trousers.

Emblazed across his cheeks. FUCK on his left rosy and red ass cheek. And ME on the other. Did he get this idea from ‘that’ gay porn star?

“Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” The man growls at me in a voice I recognize from my past. But this time it is one sounding like a sex-crazed animal.

Not one to deny a man when he ask for my cock. I ram him with mine until my blonde fur mingles with his own inside his hole and around it. His ass is not tight. Used. It is a disappointment but not enough for me to deny the man my throbbing cock he said he wants.

I am glad my girth does fill him. He does begin to squeal as I belt his hole with my raging 10-incher. I do it harder and harder. And with a such force as to rip the partition from the wall he has grasped with his ten fingers. But it only wobbles as he hangs onto it for dear life.

His squeals bounce off the white tile floor and walls of the public restroom. I am pelted with his moaning sighs from every direction.

But my concentration is centered on battering his hole. I keep looking to the door of the restroom expecting another man to enter or by sheer terror a police officer to walk through. But no one ever does. Not a soul. It is only us two in this public restroom.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” The cowboy booted man squeals as he explodes. His cum spews forth out of his cock and coats the stainless-steel urinal in front of him. Wave after wave of milky white baby-batter drips down from the ledge of the stainless-steel bowl. The man is a heavy-cummer, that surprises me. By looking at him you would have thought he would have been a dribbler.

I explode next. I mumble in a language unfamiliar to me, almost otherworldly in its syntax. His ass muscles lock tight onto my cock, squeezing the pearly essence from my two low-hangers. Each flex of his ass-muscle’s milks me of every drop. I shudder in place as I am racked with my body’s reaction to being cum-drained.

I pull back. And out. Yanking my cock from his overflowing hole with my creamy protein juice.

I look to him. And he to me. As he begins to tuck his cock back into his khakis. A few wet spots land on his pants. They glare like tiny beady eyes at me. I am already zipped, and my pants are snapped. Now we look like two men standing in front of urinals. After finishing our business. And nothing else.

“You do not recognize me, do you?” I say.

“Should I?” He says with irritation in his voice. The ‘what-the-fuck’ look of surprise on his face very apparent.

“Yeah. You should.” I say. “I sat in your office for like months, every other week, for forty-five minutes. And spewed out my soul to you. While you glared at my crotch every chance you could get.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You told me I wasn’t gay. Me. A gay man. You said this, how many times? And I only said what I said to people to cause trouble. You said, too. To stir up trouble.” I say with a substantial tone of seething anger in my voice. “But apparently you are the liar. The real liar. And you have secrets all your own. I never had an issue with your height. Which seemed to bother you more than anything. You asked me every session was it a problem. Just so you know. I could have cared less about it. But I do have an issue with hypocrites and self-hating gay men like you living double lives.”

He smirks. And seems to moan like a crying baby readying himself to let out a loud wail.

“It seems you need to worry more about your tiny-little cock than your height. Instead. Good day, Dr. Wolff. Get yourself some help. And as a former patient that is my diagnosis for you.”

I turn around and walk away. Clicking off the record button on my phone in my shirt pocket. I had caught it all on tape. All of it. This was not planned but when I saw his familiar boots walk up to the urinal beside me and his repeated come-hither glances like he wanted a piece of me. I went for it. It seems my therapist was not all he seemed. Go figure. Why do I keep crossing paths with men like this?

Before I open the door. I turn and have one final word for him.

“You aren’t such a good fuck either. You ass is looser than anyone I have ever fucked. Apparently, you have been well-used.”

After that I open the door. I am gone. What he did after I left, I do not know. But I felt like I had a lot of my questions answered. And I got my rocks off too.

Tomorrow is a new day.