Coupling Up

Part of the 'Butt Monkey' series of stories by Robert Furlong

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I was back at the small toilet building tucked away among the trees in the park.

Curiosity about what I'd seen there on my last visit had got the better of me and I'd left the office early with the excuse of having a bad stomach and the promise that I'd "work from home" (does anyone ever actually do that?). Even on the drive here I wasn't sure if I'd have the guts to actually park up and take the walk to the tiny building, but it turned out that my fascination with what men do together in such places was far stronger than my fear of getting caught.

It was earlier in the day than last time and so it was lighter and not so bitingly cold; nevertheless the park was almost empty of people. If I happened to see anyone I knew – especially anyone from work, as unlikely as that was – I was ready with my excuse. I'd been caught by surprise on my drive home by a sudden recurrence of the stomach bug which had made me leave early, and had urgently needed to get to the nearest toilet I knew of.

It felt distinctly odd to be doing this. Not only was it strange for me to be, for the first time, actively seeking sexual contact with other men; the same guy who, just two or three months earlier, would never even have dreamt of doing such a thing. But it was especially bizarre that I was doing this on the same day that I'd arranged to go out on an evening date with a woman: my first bona fide date in several years. A psychologist might have told me that the two things were somehow intricately connected in my subconscious; I didn't want to probe such things deeply enough to find out.

I'd parked up near the sports centre and had cut across the deserted tennis courts and children's play area to reach the grey stone building. All the time, as I'd slowly made my way towards the toilet, I'd felt excitement building inside me.

Might I see two men having sex together, like I had last time? Would one guy put his mouth on the other's bum if I asked him to? Would they invite me into their cubicle with them? Would they ask me to join in with them?

And more to the point: would I dare?

As I'd neared my destination, my erection had steadily hardened in my trousers at the prospect of what lay ahead. Putting my hand in my trouser pocket as I walked through the park, I'd rubbed its thickening shaft through the material of my underwear; enjoying mulling over the possibilities of what might await me in the toilet.

Would I finally get to rim a guy? How would it feel to lick another man's arse after so much anticipation? How quickly would I climax?

Might he want to rim me, like the guy in the clothes shop had? Which underpants was I wearing? How clean were they?

What if he wanted me to fuck him? Would I be able to do that? Stand behind him, with him bending over the toilet bowl, grab his hips and work myself into his arse?

Would I be able to get my cock inside him? How much of it would he be able to take?

And obviously I'd need a – oh shit...

It suddenly dawned on me that I didn't have any condoms.

Jesus, how could I be so stupid?

I contemplated walking to one of the chemists' shops in town but I realised it probably wouldn't be much use. One of the drawbacks of having a large endowment was the difficulty in finding condoms which would fit.

The first time a girl had asked me to use protection back in my teens, during some pretty steamy groping in the back of her parents' car, I'd managed to split every regular-sized sheath in the pack which she'd brought with her without even managing to slide one over the fattened head of my cock. Needless to say, the steam had pretty quickly dissipated.

Following that rather literal anti-climax, I'd gone to great lengths to find a condom that was large and wide enough comfortably fit my engorged member without choking it or making me lose my erection because it took so long to try and squeeze myself into it. I was determined that any future opportunities with the opposite sex weren't going to be thwarted due simply to the inadequacies of a sheath of latex.

After a few skulking visits to various chemists' shops tucked well away from my parents' inquisitive gaze, I'd found – following several disappointing experiments locked away in my bedroom – that even so-called 'XXL' and 'Magnum' size condoms were painfully confined. I could roll the rubber a good eight inches or so down my shaft, but the ring at the base would dig in too tightly for me to keep them on for more than a few minutes. I'd needed to hunt around in quite a few bigger shops further afield before I discovered that that there was an even bigger size, designed for "the most generous attribute", which was called 'U'. I'd bought a couple of packets, ignoring the chemists' disbelieving sneers that a gangly teenager like me could have a need such for a product, and found back at home that they were a reasonable fit. Even fully unfurled 'U' size condoms left couple of inches at the base of my cock which the sheath was too short to reach, but at least the girth was about right.

Since then, I'd always been careful to carry a few spare 'U's in my wallet whenever there was a chance that sex might be on the menu, but right now, on the way to what might have been my first taste of anal sex with another man, I realised that I'd left all my supplies in my bedside drawer at home and those were probably well out of date.

(The last time I'd had cause to get them out, I recalled, was during a chat about safe sex I'd had with Jake several years earlier. He'd been asked to roll a condom onto a courgette in a Biology class at school and had come home horrified about how he was supposed to get something so flimsy onto his organ which was already, according to him, "too fat for it to fit". I'd brought a packet of 'U's down from my bedroom and had unrolled one for him, explaining that, like shoes, condoms came in a variety of shapes and sizes. He'd marvelled at the scale of the thing, stretching it this way and that as if he were mentally trying it for size, and then had asked, with a cheeky smirk, if there was such a thing as a 'U plus'. I told him that it taken me enough time and embarrassment to find the size 'U' and that if he wanted bigger, he'd have to find them for himself. He'd asked if he could "borrow one" and I gave him a couple from my packet, telling him that this was definitely a loan which I didn't want returned.)

There was simply no point of making a detour into town. I knew from bitter experience that the biggest size stocked by most regular chemists' shops would be Durex 'Max' or 'XL' and, even with the best will in the world, they simply wouldn't fit once my shaft swelled to its full thickness.

I wondered if perhaps the other guy – the one I hoped was waiting for me in the toilet – might have had more foresight than me and might have brought a pack of condoms with him. But on second thoughts, it was obvious that he'd most likely bring out a standard pack of 'featherlights', and then, like some of the women I'd dated, would quietly put them back away when he saw what I had to offer.

No – as irritating as it was, I'd have to postpone my first taste of buggery. My cock would have to make do with my hand this afternoon, while my tongue enjoyed the real fun.

Unless, I were to... you know... just this once?

No, I decided flatly. There were enough risks in what I was doing without compounding my problems.

I entered the small building and saw that there was a man at the urinals with his back to me. He was tall with short black hair and was wearing a black fleece with the green 'ASDA' logo sewn into the material. Evidently he must work at a local supermarket.

I walked up to the urinal and positioned myself alongside to him, leaving what I judged to be a respectable amount of space between us.

Glancing in his direction, I saw that he was a young lad – probably in his early twenties and certainly not much older than Jake – with a nondescript face which the right girl might find handsome. He stared ahead at the grubby wall in front of him without betraying even the slightest flicker of interest that I had joined him at the urinal. He was holding his cock out from the front of his pale grey jogging bottoms – I didn't want to bring attention to myself by looking directly at it – and seemed to be waiting to pee.

Perhaps, unlike me, he was here for legitimate reasons. Perhaps he really had popped in to relieve his bladder.

I unzipped myself and reached in for my cock, feeling more than a little self-conscious to be doing so next to another man. Urinals are normally a no-go area for me as I hate to expose myself to anyone. However, it would have looked very odd for me just to stand there gormlessly at the urinal, so I overcame my misgivings and, with some difficulty, pulled my length, still not entirely soft after my earlier musings, through my fly.

As I stared down at myself, wondering whether I was supposed to try and urinate or just stand there with my prick hanging out, the guy from Asda looked over at me, first at my face and then down at my cock. He made it obvious that he was doing it, as if he wanted me to know that he was checking me out.

Perhaps this was part of the code of such places.

I looked at over at him and saw that he was slowly masturbating himself. His organ looked quite long and thick, and he slowly worked his pale, almost translucent foreskin back and forth across the dark helmet of its moist, fattened head.

I wasn't sure what to do now, so I gently wanked my own cock a few times, hoping he would take this as a sign of my complicity.

Abruptly he said, "If you want to suck it, it'll cost you."

I didn't understand. Cost me, how? Was this a threat?

I was on the verge of zipping up and getting the hell out of there when, perhaps seeing my surprise, he explained, "If you wanna suck me off, it'll be twenty quid. I'll fuck you for thirty. For fifty, you can fuck me."

He glanced at his watch. "But you'd better be quick. I haven't got long."

Perhaps his shift at Asda was due to start.

I muttered, still thrown by the prospect of having to pay for my fun, "I don't want to do any of those things."

He looked up at me with apparent interest.

"What do you want to do, then?"

His voice was deep and a bit husky, as though he was a heavy smoker. His manner seemed brusque; I got the impression that his natural habit would be to chase girls at the weekend with his mates rather than look for kicks in men's toilets.

I threw a look towards the open door of the building, concerned as to who might be out there walking along the tarmac path and overhearing our conversation.

"Is this place safe?" I asked quietly.

I had a newspaper article in the back of my mind about policemen – always young, hunky blokes – hanging around public toilets to catch out men who were out for some sex. "Sickos", the media always called them, and I realised that label could now be applied to me.

Asda guy shrugged. "If anyone comes in, we're just two blokes having a piss, okay?"

I nodded. There was a risk, but perhaps it was worth taking. After all, this guy couldn't be a cop: he had made the first move. Isn't that against the law; don't they call that entrapment or something?

He looked impatient. "Come on then... what do you wanna do? I 'aven't got all fuckin' day."

I decided to take the plunge. This could well be the opportunity I'd been waiting for.

I leaned forwards and said, my voice hushed, "If you'd be up for it... I'd rather like to rim you."

He looked straight into my eyes. His were dark brown and at that moment quite piercing in their curiosity. Obviously no-one had asked to do that to him during the time he'd been earning extra pocket money like this.

After he'd satisfied himself that he'd heard me correctly, he replied, his own voice low as though such base acts could only be whispered about, "You wanna... you know... lick my arsehole?"

I wondered afterwards if he had thought I might not know what rimming was and had felt obliged to spell it out to me. Like it had been something I'd heard on a late night TV show and had thought it might be cool to say without really knowing what I was getting myself into.

I nodded. "Yeah..." I felt a small smile form on my lips as if I were admitting something naughty.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly, as if telling himself that it takes all sorts, and then said, matter-of-factly, "That'll be twenty, then. Same as sucking."

I'd rather forgotten about the whole payment aspect of it. Did that make what we were doing more illegal or just more immoral?

I said, "I don't know how much I have on me, actually. Probably not that much."

He shrugged, like he didn't care. "Well that's the price, mate. Take it or leave it."

I pulled my wallet out, oblivious to the risk I was taking, and hastily leafed through the wodge of receipts and store cards which were stuffed inside it.

I found a couple of notes. "I've got fifteen... that's all..."

He didn't look very impressed and I was surprised by how disappointed I suddenly felt that I was likely to miss out on doing something I'd so looked forward to for the sake of barely the price of a magazine. I wasn't hugely enamoured with the idea of paying this guy for sex, but now that the prospect had been offered to have it withdrawn over such a paltry sum of money seemed grossly unfair.

Worrying that if he backed out now, I might not have the guts to come back here and go through this again with someone else, I added, rather desperately, "I've probably got a couple of quid in my back pocket..."

I think it was the apparent novelty of my request which tipped things in my favour. Although he was clearly trying to play it cool, it seemed obvious to me that he'd never been rimmed. I suspected that he had been with enough girls to know that it was extremely unlikely that he'd get any joy if he asked one of them to put her mouth on him down there, so if he was ever going to experience having his arse licked, this could be his one chance.

While making his dissatisfaction clear, to my relief he nodded and muttered, "You better make it quick."

Then he led the way into the nearest of the cubicles: the one in which the stubbled guy and his friend had so enjoyed themselves. I figured that the urinals must act as a sort of reception area for such transactions, allowing men to meet up and negotiate who would get to do what, with the cubicles affording the privacy for the done deal to take place.

Feeling a little silly to still be holding my dick which was poking out of my fly, I followed him into the stall. I closed the door behind me, aware of how sleazy this was for the two of us to be together like this in a public toilet. This guy was so much a younger than me – just some lad who worked in a supermarket who wanted a bit of extra cash – and here I was paying him for sex. Most likely this wasn't something he enjoyed doing – to him I probably seemed hideously old and in any case I was the wrong gender for him – but he was prepared to tolerate what no doubt seemed like a deviant interest for the sake of making a fast buck.

He said, "You can rim me and wank yourself off, but that's it. No rubbing your cock up and down my arse, no spunking up against my arse... no nothing unless you happen to find a bit more cash."

I nodded. I was going to make a joke about him knowing how to make it seem so romantic, but I wasn't sure he'd understand. In any case, the word 'romantic' might cause him to misjudge my intentions and could scupper the whole thing.

I handed over the fifteen quid from my wallet and managed to scrape together one pound eighty in change from my pocket. He took the money, making it obvious he was less than impressed, and crumpled it into a ball which he stuffed into his fleece.

Then he turned around to face the wall and the toilet bowl and hitched his tracksuit bottoms down. He was wearing blue and purple stripy boxer briefs which he started to pull down but I stopped him.

"You can leave those pulled up," I instructed him. "At least for now."

He glanced over his shoulder towards me and threw me a disparaging look. Perhaps he thought that somebody who had paid sixteen pounds eighty shouldn't feel in any position to start issuing orders. Or more likely he wanted to show what he thought of dirty bastards who got off by sniffing the back of guys' underwear.

I squatted down behind him – I didn't want to kneel down on the floor in here – and he pulled the back of his fleece up to expose his arse to me. It suddenly dawned on me how the term 'shirt-lifter' had originated and I felt a little stupid that it hadn't occurred to me earlier.

His bum looked very attractive in his boxer briefs. His cheeks were round and muscular – either he regularly worked out or his job at the supermarket involved physical labour. The tops of his legs, just below the hemline, were quite hairy with a more dense growth on the inside of his thighs leading upwards towards his crack. This was going to be just what I'd been waiting for...

And yet, in spite of how much I'd yearned for this moment, part of me felt repulsed by how close my face was to this stranger's bottom. Part of me couldn't believe that, not only had I got myself into this unpleasant situation eliciting sex in a toilet stall with another man, but that I'd actually gone and paid for such a dubious pleasure.

Could I really be about to press my face into this man's backside? Could I really be about to sniff his arsehole like I was a dog on heat?

I'd expected to feel aroused by this – to be almost climaxing at the prospect of being so close to what I'd fantasized about for so long – and yet I wasn't. My cock had gone floppy and hung from my fly like it was spent.

I had the urge to stand up, apologise to this guy and make a quick exit from the toilet.

But I'd come this far. I had to follow it through: I had to see what it would be like. Even if it was disgusting, if I found the smell of him offensive and revolting and I wanted no more: I had to find out. If his backside stunk so bad it made me want to retch – I needed to know. It was best to find out now, this way, here in a toilet stall with a guy I was unlikely to ever meet again, rather than with someone I knew and would have to think up excuses for.

I could, after all, leave any time I wanted to. He had his money. I owed him no more.

I leaned forwards and slowly nuzzled my face into the colourful material of the back of his underpants, gently pressing my nose between his cheeks. I tentatively sniffed him – so cautious about what I might find – and immediately recognised the same earthy, intoxicating scent that had so excited me when I'd taken a smell of other men's underwear in the sports centre changing rooms and at home.

Without thinking, I muttered, "Yeah!" and pressed my face further into his backside, pushing the material of his briefs into his crack.

I was finally – after so many weeks of fantasizing about it and reliving what had happened with Guy – getting my face intimately close to another man's bum. I reached up and grabbed his hips, almost unable to believe how good it felt to be like this with him; crouching behind him with my face nuzzling between the cheeks of his arse.

I pulled him towards me and inhaled his scent – rich and musky and so much fresher than the smells on the underwear I'd bought online – as I forced my nose and mouth as far in between his muscular buttocks as I could. He pushed against me, working his arse against my face, as I gasped and panted to breathe in the full force of the thick, pungent odour of his backside. His whole crack was heavy with it, but low down, around where his hole would be lurking, it was at its strongest and I tried to shove my face into him there, grappling his waist towards me with both hands.