I yearn for . . . no, I CRAVE the experiences that were had in times long past. Experiences and encounters in locations and venues that were almost always dark, often dingy and always redolent with the smell of sweat, sperm and sleaze . . . with some even having the intoxicating overtone of stale piss.
Those venues might be public toilets – often in parks and always late in the night – or bookshop backrooms – especially those with labyrinthine corridors made built from ply, painted black and featuring small booth-like rooms with vinyl mattresses on the floor or rough-hewn holes carved in walls at the height that a cock may be inserted. Dark warrens lit only by red light so weak you could hardly make out the bodies lurking ominously around the corners, waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting for you to walk past very slowly. No words were spoken. No permission sought. Fluids exchanged. When you’d slaked your thirst, you’d leave . . . and, by the time you got to your car – often parked a few blocks away, lest somebody recognise it and tie you to this place – you’d already be thinking that you could easily go back in for another encounter . . . or two . . . or three . . .
Or the location might be a grove of trees or dense shrubs in a park, or on a headland where families picnicked in the day as they admired the view and dreamed that one day they might have their house in such a place . . . indeed YOU might visit this same place the next day with your family and have in the front of your mind other, more prurient thought than your cousins, brothers, sisters . . . yes, and even wives . . . who lay on grass where you know sperm was spilled just the night before. “Come!” you say, beckoning them. “Come with me, let me show you something!” and you entice them through the well-trod tracks to the wind-swept cliff where, not 12 hours before, you emptied your guts into a stranger’s bowels.
And still at other times, the venue might be a sad, old cinema long past its prime, showing a never-ending stream of grainy 8mm porn. The cracked and torn leather of the seats sticking to your bare arse as you thrust your oh-so-very-strong erection upward toward the beckoning hand of the stranger alongside whom you have sat. His jeans rolled up around his ankles – just as yours are. His cock beckoning in the gloom as the gritty and grainy porn flickers on the screen. Both of you sit side-by-side, eyes affixed to the screen, but yet darting the left or right to catch a glimpse of his cock and marvel how it gleams and you wonder how it might taste . . . you reach toward it, his hips thrust upward giving you permission (not that you doubted it would be given) as he sucks in his breath when your fingers enclose the silken, soft skin around the bone-hard shaft that twitches and throbs under the touch of your hand. The skin feels softer, silkier, smoother than yours and you reflect on why it always does. You wonder if yours feel softer, silkier and smoother to all of those who have reached out as you are . . . but soon such thoughts are driven away as other, more compelling and irresistible thoughts erupt behind your eyes and you find yourself leaning over and wondering if (perhaps even hoping that) he will vomit his cock-snot into your mouth.
The best part of this rundown old cinema is the toilet. You head toward the green sign beside the screen, through a concrete-rendered tunnel for a few metres and into a room with a concrete piss-trough and a cubicle or two. There are no doors – at least not any more. There is no ventilation and the stench is overpowering, but you came here for this . . . you crave it . . . you live for it. In the piss-trough are countless fag-ends soaked with the rank, stale piss of dozens of others like you. There is a chain on the old concrete cistern that could flush, but you doubt that chain has been pulled for weeks – or even months. There is a very sad old faggot lying in the trough scooping the butts over his cock and into his mouth. He is, of course, naked and his floppy old cock no longer able to get hard. The skirt he wore lies beneath him but he still has his red stilettos on and he whimpers and begs you to use him as a toilet. You oblige, of course. Why wouldn’t you? And, as you relieve yourself into his pathetic, simpering, ugly face you wonder how long it is going to take until it is you that begs and pleads for exactly what this disgusting old faggot is begging for.
Why are all such places now closed? What has changed that makes them no longer viable businesses? I have tried, over the years, to encourage similar events in my home (post-divorce, sadly), but the atmosphere, the spontaneity, the rank, foul sleaze just cannot be recreated in a garage . . . and anyway, the amount of time spent advertising it, answering stupid questions of people who have no right to ask and sheer effort of preparing the space are simply not warranted for the one or two who do actually arrive.
And so now I yearn . . . no, I CRAVE the experiences I had back then and know that, if I could, I WOULD be that sad old faggot lying in the stench of the cold concrete piss-trough whimpering and simpering for all to use me as little more than what I have become.
“Take your photos!” I would implore. “Piss, Spit, Snot into my open mouth!” I would entreat. “Blow your cock snot deep into my faggot arse!” I would beseech. “No load refused . . . I don’t care!” I would growl in deep, guttural tones that echo the true state of my mind.
