WARNING: This story is a product of imagination; it is not a depiction of real life. It involves sexual acts between two or more males of the human species. If you are offended by that idea or its explicit description, regardless of whether it's the act that offends you, or the age or relationship of the participants, don't read this story. If writing about any type of sex between males is illegal in your nation, or in your particular municipality, county, state, province, or other political subdivision, don't read this story. If your age makes it illegal to read this story, don't read this story.
Copyright© 1998. All rights reserved. You have the right to download this story to keep on your computer, and to print a hard copy if you preserve the title, warning and copyright notice. You do not have the right to otherwise reproduce or repost this story. You do not have the right to rewrite this story. You do not have the right to use this story to make any amount of money for yourself or anyone else. If you do not understand these rights as I have listed them for you, my address is above: ask before acting.
Testing ... testing ... testing.
Now why the fuck am I saying that? I already know the tape recorder works, and besides, you're going to edit this shit when you transcribe it, right?
Okay. So ... let's see. How about my first and only Asian adventure?
There's a mall I like to go to. No, asshole, you can stop with the shit-eating grin. Not just for that reason. Well, yeah, that reason, too. But it's got a great theatre, four thousand screens or something, and some places I like to shop, one of my favorite restaurants, not expensive but with good food, and a couple of waiters who give excellent ... service ... yeah, service. It also has a moderately cruisy john.
This particular Saturday I actually had some shopping to do. Well, to be truthful, I'm too damn cheap to drive all the way to this mall just to cruise the john. Not that I'm going to turn down any opportunities, you understand, but if I am going to spend the time and gas to get there, I prefer to get some return on that particular investment by actually buying something, just in case the john is quiet. I also prefer having a legitimate reason for being at the mall, just in case I have to do my indignant, how-dare-you-treat-a-regular-mall-customer-like-that routine with some security guard or other mall personnel.
Now before you get too excited ... in case this happens to be exciting to anyone but me ... you ought to know who you're listening to. Michael. Not Mike, well, maybe once in a while. And I really don't give a fuck how pissy that makes me sound. That's my name and that's the way I like it. Stats. 45. 5'11". 150 pounds. Feels like about ten of those pounds are around my waist. Brown eyes. Reddish-brown hair that's goin' grey awfully goddamn fast. Goin' bald even faster, so I keep my hair cut short. None of this drape a few strands of hair over my head and pretend crap. Real average build. No lifting weights 'n stuff. Hair around my tits and a line of hair down to my navel and then into my crotch. Real average looks. Even when I was younger I never could understand why anyone would trick with me ... especially some of the occasional really hot ones, like the 6'3" blond in L.A. and his Latino buddy. Well, I guess that's another tape. Oh. The other thing. Seven inches ... just barely. Cut. Sticks out straight when I'm hard. Average width. Decent-sized balls that hang fairly low, but nothing spectacular.
That Saturday I was in a western mood and mode ... boots, jeans, jeans shirt, western hat. Never wear underwear and if I do say so myself, I still show a nice box.
I kinda think this john was designed by a faggot. It isn't absolutely perfect for cruising, but sure helps a lot. The floors and walls are all tile. You go in the door, which makes a noticeable noise as you open it ... well, surprise, surprise ... and you walk into a sort of short "hallway." The wall on your right is maybe six, eight feet long, the wall on your left is another four feet. The rubber dispenser is near the end of the left wall, right at your back as you make the turn through the four-foot opening into the john itself. Stand there, and you're facing the long counter with the four sinks and the mirror that runs from the counter top to the ceiling. Nice for checking yourself out and anyone who happens to be there. If you look to your right the wall at the end of the sinks is actually the same wall as the outside of the john, and it has a couple of towel dispensers and a trash can. By stepping to the right you're behind the divider wall, and you can't be seen by anyone coming in ... well, at least not until they get to the doorway and get a look at you in the mirror.
Turn left and the opening is six or so feet wide. On your right are four urinals, hanging on the same wall as the mirrors and sinks, with a short divider wall sticking out to the edge of the sinks, so if you're standing there pissing your back is right about at the front of the sinks. Anybody standing at the sinks, or drying their hands, or fussing with their hair, can, of course, just "happen" to glance over at whoever's at the urinals ... sometimes get a good look, sometimes not ... sometimes the good looks are intentional, sometimes accidental. Directly behind the wall at the end of the short "hall" ... and right across from the urinals, are three toilet stalls. Two regular sized, the third, at the far end, the handicapped stall. Steel dividers, no glory holes, but more than enough space between the doors to get a good look at whoever is on the stool ... or if you're inside, catch some views of who's out there.
The john was empty, which doesn't mean you automatically turn and leave if you have more on your mind than a quick piss or shit. I set the bag of stuff I'd bought down beside at the second urinal. The first one, right by the sink divider wall, is one of those kids-or-handicapped ones, real low, and if I use one I always feel like I'm gonna miss and wind up pissing on my shoes. I unbuttoned my 501's, hauled out my cock and balls and just stood there. Y'see, you gotta hold the piss back as much as possible just in case you need to prove you have a legitimate reason for being there. The second urinal is a good spot. Look over your right shoulder, and you can get an idea of who's in the first two stalls, and what they have in mind. Look over your left shoulder, and ditto the handicapped stall.
Cruising is as much a science as an art form, 'n don't let anybody tell you different.
I also don't have a lot of patience. I figure, okay, if I'm gonna get some I'm gonna get some, if not, there are other things I can do with my day. And I've got a real talented right hand ... well trained, years of experience, able to be rough or gentle as the situation calls for, and very much an expert in knowing what my cock likes. I was just about to shake my prick like the end of my pretend piss, when I heard the john door.
Now, when you're in a public john like this one, even the straights who are at the urinals tend to look over their shoulders, some of them really, really quick so they can pretend it didn't happen at all, to see who's comin' in. So, it wasn't any big deal for me to do the same.
It was an Asian man. Okay, I know that saying Asia could mean Japan or China or India or Pakistan or Vietnam, or any one of the other countries. But to me an Asian man is someone Oriental.
Hey. Is Oriental p.c. these days? Well, sorry all to fucking hell if it isn't, but there isn't exactly a large Asian population here in the middle of the goddamned country, so I haven't exactly had an opportunity to be able to figure out who is Japanese or Chinese or Vietnamese or whatever. I also haven't exactly had a "thing" for Asian men, either. Maybe I'd unconsciously bought into the great-mind-small-dick stereotype, although I have to admit the only other Asian man I'd ever tricked with ... and that was a hell of a lot of years ago ... was exactly the stereotype. For whatever reason, my "thing" has always been for six foot three blonds. Well, six-four is okay. Well, the seven-foot blond who loved to get fucked was okay, too. Jesus, was he okay! Oops. Sorry. Got a bit sidetracked there.
He walks in and stands in the entrance for just a second. He's a little shorter than me. Black hair trimmed short and combed forward on top, like a crew cut that's sort of laying down. Flecks of silver scattered throughout that kind of shone in the overhead fluorescents. Black eyes. Unshaven. Not a really round face, more squared, with sharp cheekbones. Thin nose. Thin lips. My guess was mid-thirties, but what the hell would I know. He was wearing a moderately tight tee-shirt, plain white, short-sleeved. He had wide shoulders, thick, muscular arms. It was tucked inside a pair of grey sweat-pants. No socks and what I loosely call sneakers. I have no idea what they fuck they're really called today. He didn't look directly at me before he turned left and went into the first stall.
I waited a moment and then looked over my right shoulder, slightly turning my body. My cock was already half hard, waiting for the slightest encouragement to finish the job. I got it.
He was kind of leaning back on the stool, tilting a bit to his left so he could see out the space between the door and the steel divider, but able to pretend he wasn't really doing that if he guessed wrong. Of course he hadn't guessed wrong. His sweats were down at his ankles, his hairy legs were spread, and I could see by the movement of his left hand he was playing with himself. Hot damn!