Cruising at the Bookmobile

Other kids spent the summer waiting anxiously for the ice cream truck.  I spent the summer waiting anxiously for the bookmobile.

Back in the days before the internet, there were hundreds of bookmobiles, vans carrying an assortment of books for those underprivileged readers who couldn't get to the public library.  Such as kids.

 You could check out up to 3 books at a time, and keep them for two weeks. If you read 10 during the summer, you got a prize.

I don't remember any of the prizes, but I remember the books.  Some of my top childhood favorites came from the bookmobile, like  My Village Books of Sonia and Tim Gidal,  The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet, Tom Sawyer, and the boys' adventure books of Robert Louis Stevenson.

The bookmobile pulled into the parking lot of Denkmann Elementary School every Tuesday morning at about 10:00 am. Other neighborhood bookworms had to wait on the blacktop.  I could hear it coming from inside the house, and then run over.

But soon I discovered a reason to wait with the others: the bookmobile was a good place for cruising.

I met a lot of cute guys while cruising at the bookmobile. Like Greg, the Boy Vampire who gave me my first kiss.  Joel, the curly-haired soccer player who came with me to A Little Bit O'Heaven.

And Robbie, a dark-haired boy wearing a red muscle shirt.

I was only about 10 years old, but I already knew the rules of gay cruising:

1. Select a venue with mostly guys.  Check.  The early birds were usually boys; girls came later.

2. Cruise early. Check. The bookmobile came in the morning.

3. Cruise with a buddy.  No, I went by myself.


4. Do not drink while cruising.  Check. I hadn't had any soda or candy all day, in case a cute boy invited me to Dewey's Candy Store.

5. Gather information. Check.  Robbie was waiting to check out a book on caves, because he was going to Mammoth Caves in Kentucky with his parents later that summer.  He was a Cute Young Thing, a year younger than me.  He liked Star Trek, and his favorite subject was math.

6. Don't discuss sizes or acts.  Nope.  I definitely asked about his size: "You have really big muscles.  How strong are you?"

7. Word the invitation carefully.  If you invite him to do something specific in the future, it's a romance. Something vague in the future, it's a friendship.  Something vague right now, it's a hookup.

After we checked out our books, I asked, "Wanna play?"

Hookup.


8. Invite him to your place.  Check.

9. Take your own cars.  Well, we were walking.

10. Make sure someone knows where you are. Check. My Mom was upstairs.

11. Clean your house in advance.  Mom always had the house clean.

12. Hide your valuables.  I was a kid.  I didn't have any valuables.

13. Bring condoms.  Um...I was a kid.  We sat on my bed to look at our books, then we played space explorers in the back yard. I did get to feel his biceps.

14. Don't kick him out afterwards.  Check. Robbie stayed for lunch.  Mom made us hot dogs and potato chips.

15. Don't pretend you want a relationship.  Check. I didn't give him my phone number.

I saw him at the bookmobile a few times after that.  We talked politely, but I didn't ask him over again.

Not a friendship.  Not a relationship.  Just play.

The Answer to the Naked Man's Question

This story has moved to RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

Mouth to Mouth Resuscitation

Rock Island, July 1970

Looking back to my childhood in Rock Island, it's hard to believe that we crammed so much activity into the 12 weeks of summer:
Camping in Michigan or Minnesota
Nazarene summer camp
Visiting relatives in Indiana
My birthday excursion
Vacation Bible School
The Denkmann School Carnival
The Pow Wow, the Celtic Festival, and the Beiderbecke Jazz Festival
Summer Enrichment Classes in astronomy, Spanish, archaeology, and music.

And when we got a free moment, swimming lessons.

When you live between two rivers, you learn to swim.  I took lessons every summer from 4th grade to 7th grade at the Longview Park Pool.

It was great.  Boys and girls classes met at different times, so my group consisted entirely of cute boys, including my best friend Bill, Greg (the vampire boy who gave me my first kiss), Craig (who joined the swim team in high school, and invited me to "get down" at his graduation party), and eventually my brother and his friends.

And the teacher was always a cute teenage boy, tanned and muscular in red Rocky High swim trunks.

Unfortunately, I never got to see them with their swim trunks off,  so no glimpses of a penis (the adults called it a shame).  We weren't allowed in the bath house (where the showers and lockers were).  After the lessons, we had to sit on towels, sopping wet, while one of our mothers drove us home.

It was fun learning to jump into the pool, float on your back, and kick against those floating surfboards.  Then the dog paddle, the breast stroke, the back stroke, and the side stroke.

But when we had to jump off the diving board into the deep end and swim to the side of the pool, I balked.

"It's over my head!  I'll drown!"

"It's easy," Matt, the hunky teenage teacher, said.  "You already know how to swim.  This is just in deeper water."

"I'll sink to the bottom and drown!"

I watched from several feet away as my friends, one by one, jumped off the diving board, sank into the bright clear water of the deep end, then rose to the surface and kicked their way across the pool to the side, where Matt was waiting to pull them out.

His muscular arms rippling in the sunlight....I wanted muscular arms around me....

But...no!  "It's over my head!"

Matt put a strong hand on my shoulder.  "Tell you what, Boomer.  I'll get into the water with you.  That way if anything goes wrong, I can carry you to the side."

Carry me?  "You promise?"

"Sure.  And even if you do drown, I know mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

I didn't know what that meant, but I liked the mouth-to-mouth part.  I climbed onto the diving board.  It felt hot in the sun, and a little wobbly.  Matt, floating upright in the water, motioned me in.  He was smiling.

With a gulp I jumped off the board.  Cold, bubbly water enveloped me.  I couldn't hear, couldn't breathe.  The surface was miles away. How could I ever get up again? It was over my head!

Springing to the surface, I yelled "Help!"

Instantly Matt had his arm around me, and with two kicks had us on the side of the pool.  He lifted us up.  I felt a surge of joy as I clung to his chest, my hands clutching his thick hard shoulders.

I wrapped my legs around him.  Our swimtrunks pressed together.  I felt the thick mass of his shame beneath.

"See?  That wasn't so bad," Matt said, disentangling me. "It was actually kind of groovy, wasn't it?"

Flushed with a weird, tingly excitement, I nodded.  "Are you going to do mouth-to-mouth resuction?"

He laughed.  "Not this time, buddy.  You're fine."

I wouldn't figure "it" for years, but in retrospect, that was a major coming out moment.

I Prove I'm Not Gay By Kissing a Guy

Many non-runners don't realize that runners get harassed a lot.  People yell out criticisms, slurs, and epithets, Over the years, I've heard:

"Run faster!"
"Run!  Maybe you'll catch up with them!"
"Where's the fire?"
"You lost your pants?"

And the standard array of epithets:
"Fag!"
"Fruit!"
"Dork"
"Wimp!"

They throw things or spit out of cars.

They mimic your actions,

They try to trip you.

Sometimes they even attack.



Rock Island, June 1976

It was the summer after my sophomore year at Rocky High, about a month after my date with King Carl Gustav of Sweden.  I had been running for a few months, in preparation for joining the track team in the fall (which never happened).

I know now that you should always vary your route and time of day, to minimize the harassment, but in 1976 I  always followed the same route: down 20th Avenue to 38th Street, down to 31st Avenue, over to 24th, up to 18th, and back, about three miles.

At the same time of day.

Past a school.

I know, dumb!

As I passed, I always saw a group of three boys, one junior high age, two younger, playing basketball or hanging out in the school yard.  Sometimes they were in a kiddie pool in the front yard of one of the houses across the street.

The junior high boy was sort of cute, with thick brown hair, and a tan chest with pinprick nipples, but too young for me (I was 15, and he was probably 13 or 14).  So I didn't pay him much attention.

Not even the day he grabbed his crotch and yelled "Fag!" while his cronies laughed.

I shrugged, figuring that he was a junior high Mean Boy.  I was in high school, beyond that sort of bullying.  It wasn't worth changing my route over.

Then one day the Mean Boy and his cronies attacked.

They lay in wait in the bushes behind the school, and when I came past, they jumped out and surrounded me and squirted viciously with squirt guns and a squeeze bottle, looks of sheer malice on their faces.

Soaked, roaring with rage, I grabbed one of the squirt guns from a boy's hands and threw it onto the ground.

They scattered in three different directions.

I chased the Mean Boy, the oldest of the pack.  He ran across the street to the house with the kiddie pool, into the back yard, toward a play house, but before he could make it, I tackled him and dragged him to the ground.  I used my wrestling training to pin him.  I was holding his hands above his head, pressing our chests together, pressing our crotches together, panting.

"Get off me, faggot!" the Mean Boy snarled.  And then "Ow!  Help!"

What would you do if you had a cute boy pinned to the ground?

"I'll show you who's a faggot, faggot!" I yelled.

"What you going to do about it?" he asked, struggling.

"I'll tell you, tough guy.  I'm going to kiss you!"

He laughed.  "You wouldn't have the nerve!"

"Try me."

He continued to struggle.  "Ok, wise guy, let's see what you got."

The Mean Boy's eyes widened as my mouth clamped down onto his.  "Mmph!" he protested.

I shoved my tongue into his mouth.

This was my first "French kiss."   I seem to remember the Mean Boy responding, darting his tongue against mine.  but it might be my imagination.

After a few minutes, I backed up.  The Mean Boy didn't say anything.  He just stared.

"Oh, you want another kiss?"

He shook his head.  "I guess you're pretty tough."

I jumped to my feet and turned and ran on, trembling with rage and a strange erotic excitement.

 I glanced back.  The Mean Boy was propped up on one elbow, staring at me.

This story could end in several ways.  The boy could become my first boyfriend.  I could run into him years later, and discover that he was gay.

But actually I never saw the Mean Boy again.  I started running a different route -- several different routes, actually.  If he was two years younger than me, he must have been a sophomore at Rocky High during my senior year, but I don't remember him.

But I definitely remember the kiss.

See also: My Date with Carl Gustaf, the King of Sweden; My First Kiss, from a Boy Vampire.

The Joy of Playing Outside

Rock Island, June 1970

When I was a kid, I hated bright, sunny days.  I much preferred dark, cloudy, and rainy.

I know, it made me weird.  In People of the Lie, M. Scott Peck states that people who prefer cloudy days are evil, probably demon-possessed.

But I had a good reason for it:

Dark, cloudy days meant that I could stay inside and read, watch tv, or play with my toys.  But the moment the sun came out, my parents would demand "It's a nice day!  Go play outside!"

"But there's nothing to do out there!"

"Nonsense!  Go play baseball, or Cowboys and Indians.  Use your imagination!"

They then deposited me on the doorstep with the demand that I not return.

One day in the summer of 1970, Mom deposited me outside after lunch, at 1:00 pm, and demanded that I not return until 3:00, when Dark Shadows came on.  "Two hours in the sun will do you good."

1:00: Usually I sought refuge with a friend whose parents weren't so unreasonable, but my boyfriend Bill was off visiting his grandmother and Greg (who gave me my first kiss) was sick. I knocked on Joel's door, but he wasn't home. I was stuck "playing outside."

2:10: I walked around, admiring the architecture of the houses, trying to distinguish between types of trees, examining ant hills and dandelions.

That took about 5 minutes.

2:15: I walked to Dewey's Candy Store on 22nd Avenue, avoided Dick the Mean Boy, browsed the aisles carefully, and selected a Mars Bar.  About 15 minutes.

2: 30: I walked to Schneider's Drug Store on 38th Avenue, across from the National Supermarket (now an Aldi's).  I   immersed myself in Donald Duck, Casper, and Little Lulu until the clerk yelled "Buy something or get out!."

2:45.  An hour and 15 minutes to go!




I saw a boy I knew from school, and asked "Want to play?"

Ok, but play what?  All of my games are inside.

Um...when my parents were kids, they divided into groups called "Cowboys" and "Indians" and tried to kill each other.

Sounds gross! I'm a pacifist!

We could race down 41st Street.  Whoever gets to 18th Avenue first wins!

Discussion, walking to the starting line, race, congratulations: 15 minutes total.

3:00.  A whole hour to go.  Would this torture never end?

I started wandering aimlessly from 18th to 20th Avenue, down 42nd, 43rd, 44th, then back, 43rd, 42nd, 41st, 40th, 39th.  And  I started noticing things.

A teenage boy mowing his lawn. A short-sleeved shirt open to reveal a patch of his tanned hairless chest, his biceps brown and hard.

Two guys repairing a roof, one older guy, one younger, maybe his son.  Their shirts tucked into their pants pockets.  Rippling muscles in their backs and shoulders.

My neighbor from down the block washing his car, naked except for plaid shorts and tennis shoes, husky, hairy, pale.

Three teenagers playing basketball in the schoolyard, their shirts off, their muscles gleaming in the sun.

Two guys hanging out in their backyard, wearing only swimsuits, probably getting ready to go to Longview Park Pool. One massive and solid, the other slim, with a tight chest and abs.

So: "playing outside" meant "looking for cute guys."

After that, I loved playing outside, especially during the hot days of midsummer.  It gave me lots of opportunities to use my imagination.

My Third Grade Boyfriend

Rock Island, July 1968

When I was 7 1/2 years old, we moved from a nice house in Wisconsin, a block from the beach, to a gross house in Ill-An-Noise, in back of the grade school. Yuck!

This new world was stupid and boring, but I was determined to make the best of it.  The first thing I needed was a boyfriend.  Somebody to show me around, introduce me to other kids, point out the places to get necessities (like cookies and comic books), and the places to avoid (with mean dogs, mean boys, crazy ladies, and escaped killers).

He should be a boy, of course, around my age, and preferably both nice and cute.

In August, when school started, there would be a whole roomful of boys choose from, but that was over a month away, an eternity for a 7 1/2 year old!  I needed somebody now!

Fortunately, 1968 was the heart of the Baby Boom, the biggest generation in history.  There were 77 million kids growing up in the U.S., some in nearly every house on every street in the country.  It didn't take long to compile a list of prospects who lived within a couple of blocks.

Bill, who became my boyfriend in February, wasn't on the list -- I think he was away on vacation at the time.  Joel and Greg, who would become close friends later on, lived three blocks away, too far.

But there were a lot of boys left. You have to figure out who I chose:

1. The Little Kid, aka Mike (top photo), who lived next door.  He was a year younger than me, but he had muscles and a brown smiling face.  We ran under the sprinkler in his front yard, clothes and all, which soaked my shirt and pants and got me in trouble.

2. The Cereal Boy, a cute redhead with freckles, a year older than me (left).  He invited me to watch Saturday morning cartoons and eat cereal -- but it was Froot Loops!  I hate Froot Loops!

3. The Football Player, aka Mean Dave, who punched me in the stomach and called me a "girl," then helped me to my feet and said "I was just kidding.  You want to go to the high school and watch the football players practicing?"  They didn't have football at Denkmann, but he was playing on a summer enrichment team, and he wanted to be a football player when he grew up.

4.  The Parakeet Boy, aka Nice Dave (left), a curly-haired blond boy who had two dogs, a rabbit, a parakeet, and a hamster.  He talked to the parakeet, and made it eat a cracker out of his mouth, which I found gross.  But I liked petting the dogs and the rabbit.

5. The Old Guy, much taller than me, with all kinds of muscles.  But he was eleven -- almost a teenager!  Way too old for me, sort of like a West Hollywood twink dating someone in his 70s.  And he said crazy things, like he already knew how to drive a car and he could stay up until midnight if he wanted.  He had tons of toys in his room, plus a sticker labeled "panic button"; he said if he pushed that, sirens would go off and the whole house would shake.

I tried.  Nothing happened.  He said "It only works for me."

6. The Sick Kid (left), pale, kind of ugly, always looked like he was pain, but he had a round plastic pool in his back yard, and his Mom brought us lemonade in plastic glasses with little palm tree straws.

7. The Angel, aka David Angel (there were a lot of Davids in the neighborhood): puppy-dog cute, but  painfully shy.  When I try to talk to him, he ran to the back of the house.  When I went to the back of the house, he ran to the front.

8. The Rock Star, aka Craig (left), who wanted to be a rock musician.  He had weird hippie hair that turned me off, but he never wore a shirt, which was nice. We went into his basement and played rock stars with his drums and guitar.

9. The Indian, aka Bobby,  a year younger than me, short and slim with black hair and a bright smile.  He wasn't really from India, but he looked like Raji, the boy on Maya.   But it was hard to get close to him, since he lived on the other side of the house where the Killer lived, a crazy-evil blond boy who attacked anyone who came nearby.

Ok, which of these 9 hot guys did I choose to become my summertime boyfriend?

Answer after the break.

A Crush on the Girl Next Door's Boyfriend

Rock Island, August 1975

When I was a kid, I was pretty aggressive.  In fifth grade, I was dating Bill and inviting cute guys to sleepovers; plus I gave a massage to a high school boy, strategized to see Randy the Golden Boy in his underwear and the Sanderson boys naked, fell asleep in a sailor's arms, and felt three wieners.

But during puberty, it was no longer a vague, amorphous wish to be close to him or see him naked.  I wanted more than that, to touch, taste, and fondle.  The desire was intense, immediate, and overtly erotic.

So I became shy and circumspect, especially around adults.

During the summer after ninth grade, we moved to a new house, only a few blocks away from our old house on 41st Street, but bigger, with a double yard where my parents could do their beloved outdoor entertaining.  They immediately became friendly with the neighbors.

The family next door had a teenage daughter, Julie, who was majoring in business at Augustana College.  We didn't socialize much -- I tried to avoid talking to girls as much as possible, since my parents interpreted the most trivial "hello" as evidence that I was smitten.

 And Julie, though all smiles around my parents, had no use for kids.  Every morning we left our houses at the same time; she swept past me without a word, scowling like the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz.

You could almost hear "Da-da-da-da-da-daaa," the music that plays when the Witch comes on stage (it's called "Miss Gulch," composed by Herbert Stothart).

Ok, she wasn't that bad.  But I wouldn't have socialized with her at all except for her boyfriend Conrad.

He was an education major at Augustana, tall and slim, with a handsome square face and a bright smile.  Brown hair, a severe military haircut -- unusual in the shaggy-haired 1970s.   A little shy and quiet, always deferring to Julie.  But he always had a smile for me and my younger brother, and he always tried to engage us in conversation.

They went swimming several times a week, and Conrad picked her up wearing his swimsuit.  A smooth, tight chest, lightly tanned, an "innie" belly button, and an enormous bulge!  I was desperate to ask if I could come along, but of course they were too old for me to hang out with.

One Saturday in August 1975, about a week after I learned about oral sex in the church parking lot, Mom and Dad held a barbecue for their friends and neighbors.  There were about 30 people on five picnic tables in the side yard, eating hamburgers and hot dogs from paper plates, drinking sodas and lemonade from plastic cups.

The family next door was there, but not Julie.  Or Conrad.

Then, when we were about ready for dessert, they came rushing into the back yard, wearing swimsuits, carrying beach bags.  "Sorry -- we were at the pool and we lost track of time," Julie told Mom.

"No problem, there's lots of hot dogs left, and some potato salad and chips.  Go and change clothes, and come back."

  "Great, thanks.  We'll just pop next door and be right back."

Mom frowned, realizing that they would probably be changing in the same room, and see each other naked!  "It will save time if Conrad changes in our house," she said.  "Boomer, show him where the bathroom is, ok?"

"Um...sure, sure."  My heart started to beat faster, and I felt uncomfortably warm.  I was going to get a sausage sighting!  Maybe Conrad would even let me...

Trembling with anticipation, I led Conrad through the back door and into the kitchen, where one of our neighbors was cutting cake into squares, then through the hallway to the bathroom.  What excuse could I use to go in with him?

The bathroom door was shut.  I knocked.  "Occupied!" someone yelled.

"Um...that's ok, you can change in my room," I said, thinking fast.  "This way."

Back through the kitchen and up the stairs to my attic room.  I sat down on the bed.  Conrad put down his beach bag, turned his back to me, and dropped his swimsuit.

No!  I was too close!  I glanced around the room.  What could draw his interest?  "Hey...see the poster over my bed?  That's Mark Spitz.   He won 7 gold medals at the 1972 Olympics in Munich."

Conrad turned to look.  He stood in front of me, naked.  A gigantic cut Kielbasa, five inches from my face!

"Nice," he said with utter nonchalance.  "I didn't think you were into sports."

"I'm not.  I just like swimmers.  I mean I like swimming.  Or swimmers who are swimming, I mean."

Conrad stood there, immobile, a frown on his face, as if he was trying to figure out a hard math problem.

He's waiting for me! I thought.  Reach out and touch it!  Go down on him!  But I froze.  "Um...um...I took swimming lessons ever since I was a kid.  I have some Boy Scout training manuals, if you'd like to see them."

He was still standing there.  Waiting for me!  I stood and brushed past him, being careful to "accidentally" brush against his penis with my hand.  "Oops, sorry."  I walked, so shakily that I thought I would fall, to my dresser, opened the top drawer, and pretended to rummage around.

"Maybe later -- right now I'm really hungry."  I heard Conrad fumbling around in his beach bag.  Pulling up his pants.

"You ok, Boomer?"

I turned.  Conrad was buttoning up his shirt.

"Yeah," I said, managing a weak smile.  "I can't find my training manuals, is all."

"Let me know when you find them.  I'd be interested in seeing them."  He put his trunks into the beach bag, slid on his sandals, and walked past me to the stairway.  "Ready to go back downstairs?"

"Oh, I have a couple of things to do.  You go on."

"Ok.  Thanks for letting me change up here."  He touched my shoulder.  "I'll see you soon, ok?"

I stayed in my room for the rest of the afternoon.  When my brother came upstairs to see where I was, I told him I had a stomach ache.  Later Mom brought up some chicken soup and told me I shouldn't have eaten so many hot dogs.

When the fall semester started, I was in school all day, and rarely saw Julie -- or Conrad.  Around Christmastime, I asked about him, and Julie said that they broke up.

See also: I Learn About Oral Sex in the Church Parking Lot; Going to Bed with the Boy Next Door.

A Week of Beefcake and Bulges the Plains

Plains, May 2017

On college campuses, the best season for beefcake watching is spring, when the heavy coats come off, and even when it's only 45 degrees out, undergrads break out the bulgeworthy short pants and muscle shirts.

Winter is good, too -- it's too cold to play sports outside, so they pack the gym.

But summer is a problem.  Most of the students are gone, and those who remain go off-site for their recreation.  You have to be diligent to find beefcake and bulges.  Here are my main findings of the last week:

Saturday: Car Wash for Life

I was out jogging, and I passed two teenagers advertising a car wash.  Shirts off, muscular physiques.

Sunday: The Bulging Boy with his Parents

My date and I were on the patio of an Ethiopian restaurant, when a family sat next to us: middle aged husband and wife, and son of college age, wearing athletic gear -- t-shirt, blue gym trunks, tennis shoes.

From my vantage point, I got a view directly to his crotch, which was tenting, regardless of how much he squeezed it, changed positions, or crossed his legs.

How embarrassing is it to get aroused while eating out with your parents?

I see tents quite often in class, but it's only a glance as I'm walking by.  This one was an uninterrupted view for 10 minutes.

Monday; The New Bodybuilder at the Gym

(Top photo).
You rarely see serious bodybuilders at the YMCA.  This guy must have been on vacation: tall, long blond hair, hairless marble-statue physique although he wasn't lifting a lot.  I tried to get a sausage sighting in the locker room afterwards, but there was an open door blocking my view.




Tuesday: The Librarian

I was back in the library, hoping for an instant replay of the Glory Hole from last Friday.  Nothing happened, but there was a new reference librarian, not the usual Creepy Old Guy usually there: mid-30s, buffed, bearded, chest hair sticking out over his button-down shirt.

His face wasn't anything to write home about, but he definitely stood out on a campus full of twinks.  Worth keeping in mind for later cruising.









Wednesday: Ahmed

The cute undergrad from Dubai that I met at the International Student Office.  Wouldn't kiss, but he let m go down on him.

Thursday: The Workman

This was the night of my date with Ahmed, but also, as I was driving past the Islamic Center, I saw a guy working on the roof.  Black, buffed, shirtless, holding a hammer.















Friday: Grindr at the Ice Cream Parlor

My friend and I were out jogging, and we decided to stop for ice cream (I know, stupid).  He was taking his time with his sundae, so I pulled out my cell phone and clicked on Grindr.

There was someone 30 feet away!

I looked around.  A middle aged heterosexual couple, a large family all eating ice cream together, and a bohemian boy.  He was thin, bearded, wearing tan shorts and shoes but no socks.  Sitting at a table with a girl, checking his cell phone.

I had my "friend" profile up, not my "hot" profile, so I quickly sent him a photo of my chest.  He glanced over without cruising.

A moment later, a photo of his penis appeared.  Or somebody's penis, an enormous Kielbasa, semi-aroused.

I'm free Sunday night.

See also: A Day of Beefcake and Bulges on the Plains; Tracking Down the Glory Hole Boy

The Glory Hole in the Library Bathroom

Plains, May 2017

Last Friday the campus was deserted.  The secretary in the main office was gone.  I walked down hallways so empty that the motion-sensor lights were off.

The food service was closed, so I had to walk all the way across the street to get lunch.

The campus gym was closed for remodeling, so I would have to go to the YMCA later.  But I had a more pressing problem: I had to use the bathroom.

When I have to sit down, I don't use the restrooms in my building -- they're heavily used, and so rather gross (a surprising number of college students don't know how to flush), and not at all private.  I use the one in the campus gym -- closed! or the one upstairs in the Business Building -- out of order!


Ok, Performing Arts, second floor.

Ocupado!

The only other secluded, non-gross restroom I could think of was on the third floor of the library, quite a walk, but...I had no choice!

I climbed the stairs to the third floor.  There were three students in the study area, at separate tables: a girl, a cute Hispanic guy, and a young-looking Middle Eastern guy.

I was curious about the cute Hispanic guy  taking notes from a book -- classes were over! So I walked past and took a peek: pharmacology.  He must be working on a late paper.

He looked up as I passed and stared at me suspiciously.  He was slim, with a round face, prominent eyebrows, and sensual lips.  Long, thin arms, square hands.

The Middle Eastern guy was working on his laptop: all I saw was black hair, a thin eyeglassed face, and a red t-shirt.  He looked very young.  I wondered if he was a newly-admitted student on a tour, taking a break in the library?

 I didn't want them to think I was there just to use the bathroom, so I crossed the room and headed for the PQ Section, French literature.  I browsed through Medieval, Renaissance, 19th Century, and turned the corner to a dead end with 20th Century.

I almost tripped over a guy sitting on the floor, reading an old book.

"Oh, excuse me!"

"No problem," he said, looking up briefly.  He was tall and thin, with black hair and a serious tan, wearing a purple university shirt and jeans.

I was already in this corridor, so I had to pretend to be looking for something.  I picked out a book on Gide and walked past the floor guy again, through the quiet study area.  I put the book down on one of the tables and headed to the restroom.

It was a long, narrow room.  You walked past the sinks into a little alcove with thick, heavy walls, for the urinals, and then another alcove with two very large stalls.  I chose the farthest one and sat down.

Then I heard the far door swing open.

I'm gunshy -- I can't do anything with someone else walking around outside, not even a boyfriend.  I would have to wait for him to urinate, wash his hands, and leave.

He didn't urinate.  Was he just standing there, admiring himself in the mirror?

Maybe he didn't realize that there was a guy in here!  I coughed to let him know.

Now he walked toward the urinals -- and past them.  He stood outside the toilet stalls, as if trying to decide on one.  I was invisible -- he wouldn't know mine was occupied.  I coughed again, to let him know.

He opened the door to the other one, went in, dropped his pants, and sat down.  I saw his tennis shoes and jeans, and a little of his tan socks.

Great -- now I would have to wait until he finished his business.  I pulled out my cell phone and waited for the sound of...you know.

No sound.

He must be gunshy, too.  So we would play the waiting game.  I tapped my foot impatiently..

Suddenly he shifted position and knelt on the floor, facing the wall between us.  I saw his cock under the stall, very thick, uncut, maybe a Kielbasa.  He was playing with it...

Was this...tea room trade?

But this was the University library!  I was a faculty member!  Besides, I had an apartment.  I could go on Grindr.

He was aroused: not a Kielbasa, a Bratwurst, but thick as a beer can, and close enough to touch.

I reached down and wrapped my hand around it.  He moved forward until his cock was sticking out from under the stall.

I got on my knees, crouched on the cold linoleum floor, and started licking the head.  He pushed it through even farther, arching his back.

I went down on it, steadying myself against the wall.  It was an uncomfortable position!


This is silly! I thought.   Invite him home!

I thrust up and down.  He was breathing heavily.  I reached out and stroked his balls, licked the huge mushroom head.  He arched his back farther.  Some more thrusts, more tongue action.  Soon he let out a little cry and pumped out his load.

He stood, pulled up his pants -- he was still partially aroused -- and left.

I returned to the toilet seat, flushed with erotic satisfaction.  I finished my business, washed my hands, and returned to the quiet study area.  Hispanic and Middle Eastern guy and the girl were still occupying their tables. Floor guy was gone.

Which of the three did I go down on?  I couldn't tell by the skin color, size, shape, or any other factor.

I sat down and read my book, trying to make eye contact with one of the guys, or both.

Middle Eastern guy looked up and smiled.

That's not proof positive, of course, but...

I might have to use the restroom again on Monday.

See also: A Glory Hole at a Rest Stop in Arkansas; Tracking Down the Glory Hole Boy.