I don’t know why I started watching him.

I mean, sure, he was a good-looking guy for somebody his age, which I guess was early to mid-30s. It was much too obvious that he was married, unless that mousy little thing attached to his arm was a girlfriend, or, dare I hoped, an insecure sister. She reminded me of Shelly Duvall in “The Shining,” all legs and arms and pale, smooth skin. She was pushing one of those armored baby carriages, the kind that look like you could rent them on airbnb.

And judging by the way he ogled that busty blonde in the skin-tight T who was walking ahead of them, he was straight, too. In fact, he seemed to be steering the Shelly girl down whatever aisle the blonde took, pausing when she paused, moving on when she moved, all the while feigning interest in the plasticky crap on the shelves at the mega-discount store, chatting up Shelly, while his eyes secretly roamed.

He couldn’t fool me. I was an expert on this stuff. I knew when somebody was being stalked. He was hiding behind his camouflage of domestic bliss, but he was stalking the blonde, probably stripping her with his eyes and wondering what it would be like to peel that T-shirt off the mounds of her breasts and plant his lips over the nipples and ... and...

Little did he know but the stalker was being stalked.

The four of us must have looked comical as we followed each other around the store, a couple of perverts and their unwitting victims. I had taken up residence behind the couple because the man was acceptably hot. His light brown hair was shaggier than somebody his age usually kept it, but it was his body that drew my eye. He exhibited a fullness of form that men reach in their early 30s after their metabolisms start to slow down and they shed the bony scrawn of twinkness and start filling out. His was a nice, meaty ass that looked good despite the baggy shorts, and would look better on my face. I could see a tuft of hair peeking above the neck of his shirt and that meant a luxuriant growth on his chest, something I could run my fingers through as I sucked on his nipples and ground my crotch against his muscular hip. Guys like him were totally ignorant of the effect they had on guys like me. They’d pose and posture in front of the mirror sometimes, appraising themselves with a critical eye and hoping they still looked as good to the opposite sex as they did when they were in their 20s. But they were never entirely happy with their appearance and needed somebody like me assure them that hey, they were OK! Actually better than OK!

We roamed the aisles until the blonde wandered into the hobbies section. Here, the guy seemed to pause, and I could guess what he was thinking. How does one plausibly explain to his bony, clingy girlfriend a sudden interest in scrapbook making or bedazzling a pair of pumps? The simple answer is that one doesn’t, and the guy seemed to have surmised that for himself because after a moment he turned to the mouse and said, “Honey, I need to drop by the shitter for a minute.”

The mouse rolled her eyes and whispered, “For God’s sake, Tony, can’t you just call it the men’s room like every other civilized man on the planet?”

“Who said I was civilized?” he smirked, and she play-punched him in the arm.

“I’m going to housewares. You better hurry up in there because I’ve got the credit card.”

She spun on her heel and marched away, waving over her shoulder without looking back. I watched him watch her go. Then he turned a longing eye to the hobby section and seemed to weigh the possibility of going in there vs. getting caught, or worse, looking stupid. He decided discretion was the better part of valor, it seemed, and reluctantly headed toward the bathrooms at the back of the store. With no reluctance at all I followed him.

He wasn’t kidding about the bathroom being a “shitter.” Most men’s rooms stink to high heaven. You wonder what in the hell guys had for dinner the night before, and the thought of going near that orifice without a thorough scrubbing out turns your stomach.

But this bathroom was different. For starters, it had an exhaust fan that not only sucked out all the noxious fumes but provided a handy level of noise that would mask a number of sounds ... the sound of sucking, for instance, or the unintended moan of lust. Also, it had an air freshener dispenser mounted high on the wall at the opposite end of the fan that didn’t smell like awful disinfectant or something you would smell in an ER lobby.

The target of my surveillance had taken up residence in the handicapped stall, which was much larger and roomier than the crypt like single-person stalls attached to it. The handicapped stall had its own sink and paper towel dispenser, along with those tissue things that fit over the toilet seat, in case the guy who last sat there had a particularly germy butt. I slipped into the adjoining stall and took a seat, pants bunched around my ankles.

I figured he was probably horny from all his imaginary sex with the busty blonde and was planning to rub one out, so I began looking for a way to peer into his stall without being noticed. There were no handy holes in the wall. Sometimes in a public bathroom they’ll relocate the toilet paper dispenser and leave the old screw holes that, with a bit of contortions, can be used to observe your stallmate. But this wall was clean and smooth – not even any dirty graffiti to set the mood. And there was certainly no gloryhole.

Finally I noticed a gap between the stall and the wall. There was no way I could press my face flat enough to see through the gap, but by holding the phone eyepiece up there I could record what was going on easily enough, though the angle wasn’t perfect. So that’s what I did.

I held it up about a minute, then pulled it back and, with the volume turned down, replayed the last minute of video. There was our boy on the toilet, his tanned legs giving way to pale white flesh just above the knee, meaty ass spread out on the toilet seat, his dick in his hand and his phone in the other. Had he been secretly videoing the blonde? Probably not – not with the Shelly girl attached to his arm. But he was indeed working on a jism-letting and a burn of lust settled into my stomach. His cock was average length but nice and fat, and the knob was glistening, which meant he wasn’t long for squirting his stuff.

It was then I made a momentous decision.

Hooking up with strange men – and obviously straight men – can be a hazardous undertaking, though guys seem to have relaxed a little here lately. In the past they would have instantly beaten the shit out of you. But these days they weren’t so quick to strike, and I think it’s because all that online porn has not only exposed them to the reality of men sometimes having sex with each other but has normalized the idea so that instead of being disgusting and perverted, it’s actually a kind of turn-on. I say this based on the number of married men I have hooked up as an older teen and an adult.

With that hope in mind I stuck my hand down under the partition and made a “come here” motion with my fingers.

Nothing happened for about 30 seconds. Then I heard a sound, faint against the constant whir of the fan. I saw a shadow fall over the floor on his side of the stall, and a moment later I saw him drop to his knees, that fat cock jutting just under the wall. I felt my pulse quicken and my body temperature seemed to shoot up. A nice, fat cock.