Whenever I need to use a public toilet, I invariably go into one of the cubicles even if the entire row of urinals is empty. This used to be because, having had some bad reactions from women at the large size of my manhood, I was self-conscious about exposing my genitals to other people and preferred to hide myself away.
These days, that no longer bothers me at all. Since I've never had a bad response from men on that score, I've become far more confident about revealing my large penis to my own gender. In fact, I've rather grown to enjoy it.
I use the cubicles now because I like to read the graffiti on the walls and partitions: it's fascinating to find out what can take place behind the cubicles doors in the most inauspicious of public toilets. Even the respectable-looking conveniences tucked away in National Trust properties can at times be home to the most decadent of homosexual activity.
On this particular day, I'd popped in to take a pee in the toilets at the bus station in town and had, as usual, made a beeline straight for the middle of the three cubicles.
I decided, while I was peeing into the toilet bowl, that this must be a largely inactive venue as far as male-to-male encounters went. There was very little graffiti and what there was, was non-sexual.
"Earn 50K a year, no tax, no effort. Call -"
Not the sort of advert I was interested in.
I wondered if the bus station might be too busy to harbour any attempts at gay activity: the outer door was constantly banging open and men were forever tramping in and out. Or whether, perhaps, the people here were, not unreasonably, more interested in simply relieving themselves before hurrying out to catch buses.
Whatever the reason, this clearly wasn't the sort of place I was likely to have any fun in.
I'd actually come to the bus station on my son's behalf. Jake had booked himself a ticket through a budget coach company called Go-Ahead intending to pay me a visit at the weekend but had subsequently found something more interesting to occupy his time. Given the breadth and variety of his social life at university, this was not an especially surprising change of plan.
When he'd gone onto the company's website to try and change the date of travel, he'd found - just as I had a few hours later - that there was no obvious way of doing that.
Hence the trip into town on the way to work to see if someone in the bus station office would prove to be more helpful. And hence me standing taking a pee in the bus station toilets to help pass the time before the office opened at nine.
Not that I was in any rush to leave: as you've probably gathered, I've developed something of an interest in what goes on in gents' toilets.
Since divorcing Jake's mum and following a sporadic succession of failed relationships with women, I'd discovered by chance that a surprising number of other men are willing to attend to my high sex drive in exchange for me assisting them with theirs. I knew that many such men would not identify themselves as gay or even bisexual and would probably see occasional arrangements with their own gender as being a merely physical release, but in the right mood and setting - and public toilets seemed to offer both - they would seek occasional sly couplings.
After my first few tentative fumbling encounters, I had quickly come to develop a taste for this furtive and exciting form of sex and had started to appreciate the appeal of my fleeting companion's erections just as they seemed to enjoy mine. Not only that, but I had discovered in myself a fascination for the male behind; in its hairiness, its smell and - most tantalisingly - in its taste. Perhaps inevitably I'd soon been drawn to the earthy appeal of anal intercourse with like-minded men, and, after initially preferring to assume the more active role, I had, to my astonishment, found it hugely rewarding to allow my own rear to be similarly used.
Things that would once have never have occurred to me as being even remotely stimulating, were now a source of intense arousal. The smell of a stranger's well-worn underwear, the feel of his large, paired bollocks heavy against my fingers and the sensation of his hot semen squirting into my throat never ceased to surprise me in the power of their eroticism. Which was why I now so often sought out, in between the occasional evenings I was allowed with my on-off girlfriend Debbie, the pleasure of male company in places such as this.
Except on this occasion I quickly decided that I wouldn't be coming back to these toilets in a hurry. The lack of graffiti obviously meant nothing much went on here and I normally had little reason to stop off at the town bus station.
I'd have to continue my regular visits to the largely ignored toilet building hidden away in the park; always a good bet for a salacious after-work liaison. I'd also just discovered that the small gents' behind the town library wasn't as sleepy as one might expect, especially on Sunday evenings after 'Antiques Roadshow'.
As I was shaking the last few drops of piss from my organ and preparing to tuck myself away, I saw a movement underneath the partition through the corner of my eye. Looking down, it was a muddy trainer making a deliberate jabbing motion into my cubicle.
I knew this to be a sign that the man next door wanted my attention - and that it was unlikely that he'd simply run out of loo roll.
I finished shaking my cock and, with it still unzipped, did a quick scan of the partition between us. There seemed to be nothing unusual about it, other than a square piece of wood at waist-height which had been screwed onto it, presumably to repair a hole which some obliging soul had carved out.
I began to wonder if the bloke in the next stall simply had a twitchy leg.
When I looked more closely at the square of wood, though, I noticed that three of the screws holding it in place had been usefully removed by some obliging soul, allowing it to be slid diagonally upwards.
I peered back underneath the partition: the foot belonging to the man next door foot was prodding quite deliberately in my direction.
As it seemed probable that he was trying to let me know that he was looking for sex if I was willing, I rotated the wood to reveal the large hole underneath I had expected.
The guy immediately jumped up from the toilet he'd been sitting on and stood in front of the hole. He was wearing a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms which showed off the bulge of his crotch, but these were quickly yanked down, along with his faded stripy boxer-briefs which had seen a good many better days.
His cock was still limp and insubstantial. It was a coffee brown in colour, as were his balls, and thickly surrounded by a forest of black pubic hair. However, the skin of his belly and his thighs was considerably paler: he probably wasn't as dark-skinned as his genitals would suggest.
If I had to guess his ancestry from what little of him I could see, I'd say it was Eastern European. Quite a number of Polish men were working in town and we'd also had an influx from the Baltic countries.
Wherever he was from, he knew the drill as far as sex in public toilets went. Whatever his sexual persuasion, he knew that when a guy opened up the hole in the partition between your stalls, you could assume that you were about to pleasured in one way or another.
His cock, still limp, was therefore promptly and unceremoniously thrust through the hole, demanding gratification.
I was keen to demonstrate to him that I knew the drill too.
I squatted down and, before doing anything, carefully examined the organ that was being presented to me. It was fully flaccid - he wasn't even slightly aroused by the prospect of what another man might be about to do to him - which made me think he was probably straight. This was a guy who enjoyed the simple pleasure of having his penis stimulated by another person, regardless of whether they were male or female. It was an all-embracing outlook, and one with which I could greatly empathise.
I reached up and gently fondled the slack foreskin covering his withered, brown shaft. It was almost rubbery in texture - warm and yielding - and I massaged it as sensually as I could between my forefinger and thumb. I felt a tingle of excitement that this was a stranger's manhood I was stroking; that I was touching the private part of someone I wouldn't even recognise if I saw him in the street.
His cock was of a fairly average size. I knew from experience that it might, when aroused, enlarge dramatically in girth and length to become as large as my own, or that it might, just as likely, remain the same size as it was now but just point upwards. Such things didn't really bother me: this was another man's cock being offered to me and, no matter what its proportions when either floppy or hard, I intended to have as much fun with it as I could.
Just a few years earlier, when I'd still been married to my wife, the idea that I might enjoy stimulating other men through toilet partitions would have appalled me. And yet I had, in a relatively short space of time, developed a deep appreciation for the sheer variety of other men's cocks - not to mention their balls and bums - and was now most adept at pleasuring them in a wealth of situations, all the while frantically stimulating my own.
Grabbing his foreskin more firmly, I eased it back across the head of his organ, exposing his wrinkled pink-coloured helmet. Underneath was wet and slimy and the sharp smell of his piss and testosterone hit me.
I felt my mouth water from how moist it was and how harsh this stranger's sex smelt. I put my face close to it and sniffed at it, enjoying its characteristic odour and especially the forthright, acrid whiff of the head. I loved having another man's organ so close to my face, marvelling at its unique and secret smells, something I once would never have thought possible.
I slowly masturbated his foreskin back and forth across the pea-shaped cock head, feeling the shaft growing very slightly but not as much as I would have liked. My own manhood, in contrast, was growing markedly larger: the bitingly masculine smell of this stranger's cock was most arousing and the surprise of having it poking through the cubicle partition for me to play with was proving most exciting.
I tried a different approach and repositioned my hand. Putting my fingers underneath his shaft and my thumb on top of it, I tried to stimulate his whole organ in the way that I would my own. Again, I thought I could feel a slight hardening as I wanked him like this, but the overall state remained resolutely floppy. It seemed that being fondled didn't really do it for him.
That was disappointing: until then I had thought I was becoming quite accomplished at the delicate art of masturbating other men.
I tried a few other techniques, hoping to stumble on the one that would get his cock growing so I could beat him off properly and perhaps even coax him to climax in my mouth, but his organ remained stubbornly unresponsive.
