The lobby of the Toronto Sheraton is ostentatious blend of redwood pillars and polished granite. At midday, suited business travellers either stride purposefully through it, or sit sipping Starbucks lattes and read on their phones while they wait for their comrades to arrive.

Me? I’m just looking for the bathroom. “On the second floor, at the top of the escalator. See you at 12,” my lunchtime appointment had told me.

“Can you send a face pic please?”

There was no response, so I’m waiting, feeling conspicuous, as I lean on the polished chrome railing. I carefully watch the the people below me from my perch on the second floor mezzanine, looking for some sign of him. A few meters away, a constant stream of well dressed men emerge from the conference centre hallways and push open the white door to the men’s room. Although there’s a lot of activity, it could still work in theory. I had inspected the facilities earlier. The stalls were fully enclosed.

It’s 12:10 and nobody’s approached me. I wish he’d sent that face pic.

“Am I in the right building?” I text. I’m convinced everyone is watching me as I take and send him a picture of the restroom door.

“I’m in the washrooms there. But I’m coming out. It’s too busy. We’ll find another.”


“Just follow me discreetly.”

“What do you look like?????!”

“I’m wearing blue. Asian guy with glasses.”

Dropping all pretense, I stand there and watch the door. A group of five asian guys wearing blue with glasses walk out. None of them even glance at me, but soon after, a young guy wearing an off-white dress shirt darts ahead and speed-walks away. I jog after him as I try to get a closer look. Did he have glasses? His shirt’s a little blue, maybe, if you look at it under the right light.

I jog until I’m close enough then break into a fast walk, but he charges on ahead down the hall and rounds a corner. Shit, a meeting room empties, and he’s lost in the crowd. I’m blocked by a throng of suited, silver-haired executives as they shake each-other’s hands and rape the refreshment table. The shortest of the men is six feet tall.

“Oh, excuse me,” one says as I brush past him. “Sorry, sir,” a smiling septuagenarian apologizes after I elbow him in the groin. Did I mention I’m in Canada?

Thankfully the narrow hallway turns right, and I emerge into the great hall. I look around quickly, but I don’t see my quarry anywhere. Fuck! He’s probably the wrong guy. Why the hell didn’t he send that face picture??

I see some bathrooms to my right, but I decide to keep looking for him. The great hall is filled with people and refreshment carts. I make my way across the gold carpet to the other side. That’s when I see him, sitting on a bench, hunched over his phone.

I get as close as I can, but I can’t see what’s on his phone. Instead, I stand on the other side of a column and check mine. There’s a message waiting.

“Follow me into the washrooms.”

I have no idea when it was sent. Is this text leftover from before, or could he be watching me right now? My heart races as I text him again.

“Are you the guy sitting down?”



“Ok let’s try to go straight to those washrooms.”

The young man on the bench stuffs his iPhone in his dress pants, gets up, and bolts across the room. I don’t bother being inconspicuous this time. I speed walk right behind him. I can’t let him get away again, because frankly, it would be embarrassing. This is supposed to be a hookup, not Mission Impossible.

Suddenly a man in a tie darts out in front of him and slaps him on the shoulder. “Hey John! You’re always in a hurry,” he chuckles. He stands there with his arm out, confused, as we keep going.

At last, we both enter the washroom. This one is less populated at the moment. Without even looking at me, he heads to the last stall and closes the polished wooden door. I hear it latch shut. I pretend to use the urinal as I wait for a Gordon Gecko lookalike to leave. True to character, he pisses, straightens his tie in the mirror, and walks right out the door.

Uncertainty overwhelms me again. Maybe I was texting the wrong guy back there. All I had were the texts. The man I’ve been following hadn’t even acknowledged me once since we started.

But then, he had gone from one bathroom to another. Buoyed by this tiny piece of logic, I take a deep breath and knock quietly on the stall.

The door unlatches and he lets me in. At last, we are alone. I sit on the toilet and look up. Finally, I get to see my hookup’s face. He’s twenty-one, and his slightly-blue dress shirt’s too big for him. He raises his finger to his lips and signals for me to not speak. Then he lets down his pants. I pull down his grey boxer briefs and unleash his cock. 

His dick was the only picture he sent me, and it was enough to start me on this hotel chase. His balls are large and perfectly smooth, and his cock is thick and straight. It feels comfortable in my mouth, like it belongs there.

While I suck, he leans forward and keeps looking through the crack in the door. I’m focused on my job, but find it is difficult to do without making it obvious to everyone in the room that there’s a wet, smacking blowjob going from the next stall. The conditions are hard, but the thrill makes up for it.

That is, until I hear a loud voice right outside our door.


We both freeze and try to peek through the crack in the door. I can see a man’s face outside. Time stops, the hairs on the back of my neck levitate and I want to be anywhere but here, but there’s nowhere to go.

Another voice answers.

“Looks that way. I’m going to shoot Michael an email about the PDP.”

I breath a sigh of relief. We’re free to continue, but he’s deflated. I start from scratch.

Eventually, though all the toilet flushes and listening to backroom deals, I manage to coax out his load. After he zips up, we whisper to each-other. He might visit University Town soon. It would be nice to show him what I can do when I don’t have to be utterly silent.

But today, the thrill was in the chase.

Follow me on twitter: @GrindrFantasies. Read more of my adventures at


Pete Gentle

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