"Please piss in my mouth. Please piss in my mouth," I whispered through the partition.
The voice was mine, the thought was mine, the desire was mine; but the words came back to my ears as from a far shore; as if another me was standing alongside myself speaking my deepest secret to the world.
But there I was, kneeling in the single stall of the bathroom at the rear of the upper balcony in this dilapidated movie palace begging a stranger I would never see again to quench the fire that raged in the pit of my being.
The Paramount Theater stood in the middle block of Third Street in the town where I was born. The brilliant marquee now dimmed with few bulbs left burning on it's pre-neon glory. My father had taken my mother here on a date, I imagine. Once a glorious art deco movie palace, now it was a run-down urban architectural blight with heroic fresco's hiding beneath the grime on the walls and clouds hanging in a brown sky on the ceiling. As a boy, I had stampeded with a herd of Saturday afternoon matinee baby boomers from the rank toilets in the basement up to the rafters of the third balcony that clung to the front of the projectionist's booth in a space permanently closed to patrons; if one observed the sign that dangled from the chain barring the stairway.
It was during those rampages that I discovered the secret bathroom in that forbidden balcony. A small room at the far back corner of the building with just one urinal and one toilet standing side by side. "It's so the guy that runs the projector can take a dump during the movie," said one of the older boys. I liked sneaking up there to take a leak without having to leave the theater, walk passed the lady mummy in coke bottle glasses who took tickets and sold popcorn, and down the stairs to the public rest rooms. One curiosity was the hole drilled in the partition between the urinal and the toilet, but if I even thought about it at the time, I would have figured it had something to do with ventilation, though the toilet was barely separated from the rest of the room by a flimsy plywood wall and a sagging saloon door on rusty hinges. Sometimes this bathroom was locked, but I figured the guy showing the movie was in there, or maybe one of the men (there was always a few) who had jumped the chain as well and were watching the movie from this high perch.
But a day came that I dashed up the back stairs to relieve my bladder of the large coke I had bought from the fossil at concessions. As I burst through the door ready for a major whizz I froze. A man at the urinal was turned sideways and his dick was pushed through that hole. Beneath the stall door I could see a man was kneeling down. From the look on the guy's face who was standing I knew I had invaded something adult and I bolted. But a puzzle was now in my head and it wouldn't be resolved until a few years later when a boy named Blake pushed my head down on his dick and I slid into my sexuality.
Time passed and I had never returned to the upper balcony at the Paramount, though the idea of that glory hole had never been far from the surface of memory. High school had been rough for a catholic boy with forbidden urges and I ached for another dick in my mouth. What had been going on in that balcony all of these years? How could I join that fraternity?
I handed my ticket to that same old lady, now permanently perched on a padded stool. I followed my boyhood memory up the back stairway and passed the forbidding chain. I tiptoed up to the bathroom door and opened it. The empty chamber, dank and dimly lit by a yellowing bare lightbulb echoed the muted soundtrack. I closed the door and returned to the seats. Alone in the upper balcony my heart racing, my breathing shallow, I rubbed my crotch.
And then I was no longer alone. A man breezed passed me in the aisle and sat a couple of rows down from me. He was from the college I guessed, with a trim haircut and a crew neck sweater. Now my mind ascended into panic. What do I do? How does this work? Have I concocted the whole thing in my mind? Men don't go to the Paramount to get blowjobs! Then, as soon as he sat down, he got back up, nodded slightly to me as he passed and moved toward the bathroom at the rear of the balcony. Fearful he might vanish like a magician's assistant entering an enchanted cabinet, I jumped to my feet and stumbled up the stairs after him.
I found him standing at the urinal and his pants seemed to be unhitched as his belt rested loosely above his buttock. Moving as if in a silent film I flickered into the stall and threw myself on the seat without bothering to drop my trousers. I pushed my eyeball to the hole. He slowly stroked his semi-erect cock with his left hand, giving me a perfect view of the dream just a foot away from my lips. Did I cough, or slurp, or fart? I cannot tell. But I made a noise, perhaps my belt buckle scraping wood as I sank to my knees. He pivoted like Astaire on an ebony dance floor and slid the silken head of his cock through our barrier of anonymity and I took it's soft rigidity into my mouth. Tugging madly at my denim and cotton brief prison I released my own still boyish tool and stroked madly. He began to grow in my mouth and his hardness made his veined flesh seem like a warm marble sculpture. I began to taste the viscous nectar that his balls were pushing ahead of the cream globs I hoped to swallow when slowly he withdrew from my mouth, his cock was softening before my eyes. Panic returned. What had I done wrong? He didn't shoot. What does he want me to do?
That's when I heard my own voice coming from that far place within. That's when I knew, instinctively, what was driving both his and my desire. That's when I uttered the words that completed the puzzle I had struggled with since I stood in this same room long ago as a boy and heard that splashing of liquid on the same floor where I was now crouching.
"Please piss in my mouth. Please piss in my mouth."
As I swallowed as much of his warm mineral self as possible and dribbled the rest if his golden saltiness on my chest, I groaned as my own cock started to drag the semen from the pit of my prostate. His dick grew hard again and he began to shoot his cum into my throat as I sprayed mine onto the floor.
They tore the Paramount Theater down soon after. I miss that shrine.