14th St. Subway Toilet -- (True New York Tales, Chap. 2) by Zipper Bird xgort@yahoo.com
Who would have thought one of the most erotic sexual experiences in my life would take place in a subway toilet? My parents or teachers couldn't have predicted it. I grew up in a rural area -- pet a cow once, not heavily -- there were no subways.
I started graduate school in NYC in the early 1980's. After a year of trying to meet a lasting boyfriend in more seemly circumstances -- smoke-filled bars and the like -- I was walking off a subway train when the 14 St. subway men's room seemed to call to me.
"Hey horny guy, wanna see some dick?"
Okay, I made up the talking men's room, because I`m not going to tell you a lie, that I went in there to take a leak. This is a true story remember. Only men with desperately full bladders or people with incontinence problems would use a subway toilet to actually piss. Subway restrooms were good for one thing; hot, immediate, anonymous sex.
However, it's not like you couldn't meet someone there and ask them home for tea if you wanted. I learned the key to good cruising is to be reasonably human, yourself, wherever you are. Doesn't matter if it is a subway tea room or the Spring cotillion, be polite. There was no air of Spring in the putrid smelling 14th St. toilet. At least on this day there weren't any pee puddles, puke piles, or gelatinous turds gracing the floor.
You have to watch out for men who think subway toilets are just for pissing, but at certain hours, there aren`t many of pissers around. On this day, around 8 PM, there were mostly guys looking to play around, get off, or watch. About seven guys stood around, with a few taking up space at the three working urinals and one toilet. No doors or privacy partitions. This was a time when the city budget was down the toilet, which probably accounted for the ones that were stopped up.
After I entered the room, one cruiser enlisted himself as door watchman. That is, he stood behind the door, looking through a bent metal louver, and gave guys a warning if a new person was coming in. That gave everyone a chance to compose themselves. If someone had their dick out, and weren't at a urinal pretend-peeing, he could get tucked in and zipped up. Wait for the real pisser to finish and leave.
New men came in mostly when a train stopped, maybe every ten minutes. Having a guy act as lookout was also a way to keep an eye out for the odd transit cop. "Odd" meaning the one who might want to come in and make an arrest. Not the typical NYC transit cop looking for a blowjob. Just a joke.
You wouldn't want most transit personnel around, even if they were a hung horny bunch. Most of them look like finalists in an ugly pageant. Even if they start their careers out average looking, a few years on a train or in a toll booth underground turns them ugly pretty damn fast. Breathing foul air and stale urine stench for forty hours a week is not beautifying.
When I was new to the subway toilet scene, I just looked, and rarely found. For months, didn't find anyone appealing enough to even jerk off with. What I liked about the protocol of the crowded subway tea room, especially in NYC, was that it was not fussy. It was getting down to doing what horny men like to do, and fast. Some bold, well-hung men, would sometimes come in, and after noting that everyone present was cool, pull their pants down, unzip, yank their dicks out. They'd have some drooling sucker on his knees in seconds. More often though, guys would jerk or hold their dicks at the urinal, until they met someone who appealed to them. They might jerk off watching each other, right in to the urinal, but usually they stepped aside to jerk or blow each other. There wasn't a lot of game playing and confusing signals. There were no partitions or places to hide. If you didn't mind "getting blowed" or jerking off while others watched, you'd be okay. I liked watching. Wasn't going to kneel or squat down in a subway men's room, for anyone. Just not me.
On this fine evening in the 14th St. subway men`s room, I met my jackoff Romeo at a urinal. He was wearing an expensive blue suit, probably a GiFishy. Or designed by some French queer. I'm not a fashion expert. Tall, nice body, but with an average face, intelligent looking though, about thirty years old.
His dick was the thing. It was the largest and hottest looking dick I'd ever seen. Not even in porno, have I seen anything like it. It was so fuckin thick, and about eight and a half inches long. It's staggering proportions made my dick look like a hotdog or peanut in comparison, when really it is considerably larger than either of those food items. Guys who aren't fixated on my face, usually get really turned on by my larger than average cock.
I was mesmerized by this guy's thick dick though, watching him slowly handle it at the urinal, teasing me with it. After I put my hand on it, we both stepped to the center of the room to jerk each other. For a fraction of a second, I thought I might feel a little uptight about a half dozen guys standing around watching us. Ordinarily, I would want to be more private. But I didn't give a shit at the time. His prick had me hypnotized.
I just wanted to get my hands around this guy's dick and make it cum. It was great that he was into jerking mine too. I didn't even look up once at anyone watching us. To me, there wasn't anything else in the room except that dick, and the person attached to it, in that order. His dick got stiffer and larger as I pumped it, the huge mushroom head swelling up like an A-bomb explosion. Every once in a while, I'd take my hand off the shaft and slide my thumb around on the precum, spreading it over the huge knob, admiring his piss slit. His dick was as pretty as mine but looked almost twice the size, although it wasn't quite that. It just looked that big. It had to be seven inches in circumference. I've seen a few guys with big ugly monster dicks, but this guy's was a beautiful monster. Also, a few of the guys with monster dicks, also were kind of ugly in other ways. He wasn't.
He tensed up his body as his huge dick shot ropes of cum on the floor, and a few seconds later, I shot a splashy load all over the place. A blob of my cum rained down on his suit jacket, although I had tried to point my dick away during blast off.
I said "Thanks a lot, that was great." I smiled.
Then I pointed at the cum on his suit jacket and said "Sorry about that."
He said it was okay, stuffed his zucchini back in his pants, and left the room.
Standing there, composing myself for a few moments, I was glowing with pure post orgasmic pleasure. I felt happy. Very satisfied. It was beautiful, even in the seedy circumstances. It was more satisfying than the many times I slept with someone who genuinely thought I was too handsome, sexy, and amusing and for whom I felt the same. Even if I never saw him again, or never had a dick half that hot again, I knew I'd always cherish that experience in memory. And I have.
Would I want a guy with a monster cock like that for a lover? Hell no! I could never blow a dick that huge, and I'd hate the thought of his temptation to turn everyone on with it. Guys with cocks that spectacular should be government funded wards of the state, to exhibit in appropriate adult places, for the pleasure and edification of all.
A few years later, I ran into him again. I was playing in an informal pro-am chamber music group at an attorney's house off Riverside Drive. Mr. Monsterdick walked in with his bass fiddle. I don't know if he remembered me. His boyfriend was with him. His boyfriend had the same first name as me. When the hung bass player excused himself to use the host's toilet, I considered following him. I'd open the door and ask him if I could see his big cock one more time, even if it were just to watch him pee. I can be bold, but I didn't feel bold then. I found out he was a law school professor, at a school one of my female friends was attending. Never told her about him though.
I don't know if it would qualify me for beatification, but I never gave or got a blowjob in a subway toilet. I just did hand jobs in subway toilets, and that, less than a hand full of times. But, I`ll never forget the handful I got from Mr. Monsterdick.
Writing about real sex experiences, and making them sound erotic, is very difficult. It is much easier to write fiction, because relating what happens in our minds, or what we would like to happen, what we fantasize about in ideal circumstances, is much easier than writing about reality.
Would I trade my face for his monster cock? Hell no! But ask me again in ten years. Then, I might be ready for a monster cock face. --------------- Author's note: I welcome comments, or just a friendly letter to: xgort@yahoo.com
Presently, 2006, I am working on a romantic, erotic novel. I whipped this true recollection out in less than an hour. My novel contains a few phrases in French and German which need to be absolutely correct French and German slang. I would welcome help with this from someone from France or Germany especially, or someone fluent in either French or German. I can read in French, somewhat, and German somewhat better, so you don't have to write in English if it is uncomfortable for you.
Also, I would like a pen pal from a German, French or English speaking country, someone who has hundreds of interests and loves literature and writing, and can read in English because I write comfortably only in English.