The park toilets sit at the back of the north loop, past the playground nobody uses because it’s wrecked and the water fountain that tastes like coins. Weekdays, late afternoon, the stalls on the right-hand side are not for pissing. Twitter told me. The wall told me after that. Phone numbers. Mouth till 6.An arrow to a hole worn smooth by years of belts and knuckles.
I live at my parents’ house while they gut the whole house. Sean’s crew has been in and out for three months. Sean owns the company. Sean was four years ahead of me in high school — same hallways, different planet. Playboy of the zip code. Girls in the bleachers. Girls at the lake. He’s 25 now and I’m 21. A remodeling van with his last name on the door and a laugh you hear from the driveway. He still calls me little bro when he walks through our place with a tool belt and drywall dust in his blondish hair.
He does not know I skip college classes to kneel on these tiles.
I had already done five.
First was a suit. Wedding ring. Cologne that cost more than my textbooks. He pushed through without a word, already hard, cut, average, clean. I sucked him like I was on the clock. He came in under two minutes, said thanks like I’d handed him a receipt on Starbucks, and left.
Second was a runner. Compression shorts, GPS watch, thighs shaking. Uncut. Sweaty. He talked to himself. Yeah. Yeah. That’s it. I took him to the root because I like the ones who just got off the path. He painted my tongue and jogged back out like he’d hit a water stop.
Third was a guy from campus I recognized. Hoodie. Nervous. Soft when he put it through, hard when I breathed on it. He lasted longer than the suit and apologized when he finished, which was worse than not apologizing. I don’t care how long they last, if they feed me that’s enough for me.
Fourth was thick and silent. Work boots under the stall. A dad bod. A cock that smelled like a lunch break. I treated it like a job. He treated me like a hole. Fair trade.
Fifth was preppy and had a curved cock. He came on my lips on purpose and laughed when I swallowed anyway.
The tile was cold. My knees had the pattern of the grout. The air was piss and bleach and musky balls. I was about to stand up and call it a day when the outer door banged and a voice I knew from my own hallway said:
“Fuck.”
Low. A little guttural. The same voice that tells my dad the cabinets are a week out.
I looked.
Blue Adidas shorts. Gray tank dark with sweat. Red cap. Over six foot of high-school legend filling the stall like he filled our kitchen doorway. Blondish hair stuck to his temples. Mustache. Hairy forearms mapped with veins from carrying sheetrock. Athletic the way guys get athletic from work, not from a membership they post about.
Sean.
My heart tried to climb out of my mouth.
He did not know. The hole is a hole. That was the whole religion of a gloryhole. He shoved the shorts down and pushed through a cock I had only ever seen as a bulge when he crouched by our dishwasher. Monstrous. Ugly in the way that makes your mouth water. Uncut. Crooked. Veins like he’d drawn them on. The smell hit first — park-run sweat, musky balls, the heat of a guy who had been circling the loop in August.
“Aren’t you going to suck it, cocksucker?”
Same authoritative tone he uses on his crew when a measurement is wrong. He’s young but he’s a dominant boss and that really turns me on.
I should have stood up. I should have walked out the other door and gone home and watched him eat a burrito at our island like a person.
I stuck out my tongue and licked him from the loose skin at the head down the ugly curve. He was delicious. A taste that made my brain go quiet.
“Open your mouth and put all that shit in your mouth.”
I did.
I wanted him to remember this stall even if he never saw my face. I took him to the back of my throat and stayed there with my tongue out far enough to find his balls through the gap under the hole. Heavy. Damp. The tank top on the other side of the wood rose and fell.
“Fuck yeah.”
He filled me. I let him sit on my tongue until he said:
“Leave it there. I want to see how long you can take it stuck in your throat.”
He counted out loud. One. Two. Three. The numbers were bored and pleased at the same time, Sean at a job site watching a saw finish a cut. I made it to thirty-four before I gagged and pulled off, coughing, spit hanging off my chin onto the tile.
He laughed. The stall door rattled.
“Good time, pussy-mouth. You’re almost ready for the deep-throat Olympics.”
Unfunny. Classic Sean. The same energy as when he told my mom the old backsplash was “a crime.”
I put him back in. Hungry. Sloppy. All the way down and off and down again. He moaned into the wood like the wood was a girl from the lake.
“Open that shit as wide as you can and put your lips around the hole. I want to fuck your mouth.”
I made the O. Lips sealed to the worn edge. Submissive on purpose. Suckhole. That was the job description and he had just hired me.
He hammered.
No mercy. The old wall shook. I spat on myself and choked and he did not care.
“I didn’t tell you to take it out. Put your mouth back. I’m going to give you some cum.”
Thicker voice. Deeper. The playboy voice with the polish off. The rough version. The construction manager.
I got back in position. He used my throat like he’d paid for the stall by the hour.
“You want some cum?”
“Yes,” I said around him.
“Didn’t hear you. You want cum in your mouth, cocksucker?”
“Mm-hm.”
Louder. Still not words. His cock was stealing the air.
“Take it. Fuck. Fuck yeah, cocksucker, take my nut.”
He came like a man winning something. Roared into the graffiti. Pulsed and pulsed, acrid, a lot, the curve of him kicking on my tongue. I swallowed because that is the work. He kept telling me to. Swallow it. Swallow it. That’s it.
When he pulled out I was dripping spit and him. He tucked the monster back into the Adidas shorts. The cap brim ducked past the hole. The stall door slammed.
Another voice in the outer room — some guy who’d been waiting:
“Good cocksucker?”
Sean, already on his way back to the path:
“Fuck yeah. Best blowjob of my life. Dude was born for it. Enjoy it, bro. Fuck his mouth good. He can take it.”
Dry laugh. Then the park again. Birds. A distant car.
I did not faint with the excitement. I did not have time.
The next cock was already through the hole. Average. Cut. A little mean. The guy Sean had endorsed. He took the recommendation personally, he used me until he finished on my tongue with a good boy he had not earned the right to say. I swallowed him too.
After that, two more before I stood up.
A married one who said his wife was in the car. A young dude in soccer socks who came so fast he apologized like the campus bro.
I washed my mouth in the sink that only ran cold. Looked at my face in the metal dispenser. Looked like a person who had to walk home to a house full of sawdust and a man who had just told a stranger I was born for it.
Sean’s van was in our driveway when I got there.
He was in the kitchen with my dad, talking lead times, the same sweaty gray tank that still showed the run on his neck. Red cap on the island. He glanced at me.
“Class, little bro?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded. Went back to cabinets.
I went upstairs and sat on my bed and tasted him under the toothpaste.
He did not know.
Or he did, and the playboy thing was bigger than a hole in a park wall?
I was going back tomorrow.
The wall would still be there.
So would he, if the loop was part of his day now.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
