What I Did in the Public Bathroom Never Told Anyone

I was twenty-seven and I was late leaving a photography workshop I took twice a week. It was an autumn afternoon, almost night already, and the cold had caught me with just one cup of coffee in my body. I walked half a block toward the bus stop and, all of a sudden, the urge to pee bent me over in two. I wasn’t going to make it through the whole ride.

A few minutes from the school there was an old building with an inner arcade, one of those that connect two streets through a corridor full of food stalls. In the middle, almost at the back, were the public bathrooms that charged an entry fee to use them. They had never given me a good feeling, but that afternoon I had no choice.

I paid the woman at the counter, an older woman with a bored expression, and she handed me a handful of folded paper without looking up. I pushed the door open and went in. The place smelled of cheap disinfectant and the walls were painted on with marker, covered in scribbles and names. I chose the stall at the back almost on instinct, because it was the only one with the door slightly ajar.

Inside it was more decent than I expected. The toilet was clean, the latch worked. If it weren’t for the scratched-up walls, it would even have been comfortable. I closed the door, pulled down my pants and underwear, and sat. The relief was so great that a sigh slipped out of me.

To my left was the door. To my right, the wall separating my stall from the next one. And right at face height, in that wall, there was a hole the size of a large coin. I glanced at it out of the corner of my eye while I peed. On the other side everything was dark; nothing could be seen.

The stream sounded loud in the silence of the bathroom. When I was about to finish, I heard a dry knock on the other side of the wall, as if someone had set something down. And then, a voice that came straight through the hole.

“Is someone there?”

I jumped so hard that I covered myself with both hands on pure reflex, as if they could see me. The voice was that of an adult man, deep and a little rough, the kind that already carries years on it. I thought he needed paper, or that he had run out of everything.

“Yes, do you need something?” I asked, my heart still pounding in my chest.

On the other side I heard an “ah...” that sounded different, as if he had only just realized something. Then a series of noises: fabric, a buckle, movement. I stayed frozen for about fifteen seconds, not understanding. What is he doing?

Then I noticed something moving right next to my ear. Someone removed whatever was covering the hole on the other side and, for an instant, a bit of light came through. But that light was immediately blocked. And I saw, slowly, the thick head of a penis appear.

***

I was frozen. Panic shot up my throat. I didn’t understand what was happening or why that was there, centimeters from my face. The man kept pushing until the whole shaft came through the hole, smooth, veined, still as if waiting for something.

It took a few seconds for the fear to loosen its grip. And when it did, something else took its place, something I had trouble recognizing: curiosity. The penis was still there, unmoving, and I couldn’t stop looking at it. I brought my face a few centimeters closer, carefully, like someone approaching something they shouldn’t. The skin looked taut, almost shiny in the dim light.

Why is a man sticking that through the wall of a bathroom?

It was the first time anything like that had ever happened to me. I didn’t know these places existed, or that people used them for this. I felt like I was in a kind of trance, staring without blinking. The man moved a little, barely, and then went still again, patient.

I traced the shaft with my eyes, vein after vein, until I reached the base. And there, on the wall, I discovered what I hadn’t seen when I came in: little arrows drawn with marker, pointing to the hole. Around them, phrases written in different handwriting. “Here,” “free,” “no questions” and a couple of phone numbers half erased.

Only then did it hit me. This man thinks there’s someone on the other side who comes here for this. He thinks I’m one of those. He’s waiting for someone to do something to him.

I should have gotten up, pulled up my pants, and walked out. That was the logical thing, the healthy thing, what anyone would have done. But something mischievous got into my head and didn’t want to leave. Nobody knew I was there. He couldn’t see my face. I couldn’t see his. It was as if none of it really counted.

Without thinking too much, I ran the tips of my fingers under the shaft. I felt it shudder on the other side; he had noticed me. Then I took it in my whole hand, though it was so thick I couldn’t close my fingers all the way around it. The veins throbbed against my palm. The skin, indeed, was soft.

I started moving my hand back and forth, slowly, gauging each reaction. I brought my eye close to the hole and looked closely at every detail, every fold, until a clear drop welled out from the tip. I caught it with one finger from my other hand and spread it all over the head, up and down. On the other side I felt him twitch, and that, for some reason, turned me on.

***

The fear was still there, crouched low, but the arousal was gaining ground minute by minute. The tip began to shine more, wet and gleaming, and I had an absurd urge to taste it. This is wrong, I thought. But deep down I told myself I wasn’t really doing anything bad. I was just playing, poking at something I had never even allowed myself to imagine.

Before deciding, I brought my nose closer and smelled it. I wanted to be sure it wasn’t a bad idea. It smelled clean, like soap, nothing else. That was enough to convince me. I stuck out my tongue and gave the head a short lick over the top. On the other side I felt him trembling, and I knew, without seeing his face, that he liked it. So I did it again.

I straightened up for a second, pulled my underwear and pants back up, flushed just in case, and knelt on the floor to continue more comfortably. The stall was small and my knees ended up pressed right against the cold wall. I took the shaft again and ran my tongue along the underside, over the most sensitive spot. I heard a muffled groan from the other side.

I played with my tongue around the whole head until he pushed a little farther and the tip brushed my lips. I opened my mouth and let it in slowly. When I felt how much space it took up, I closed my lips around the shaft. Inside, I kept moving my tongue, and on the other side there was nothing but trembling and ragged breathing.

Little by little I began moving my head forward and back, letting my lips travel the full length. Every time I wanted another centimeter deeper. The saliva built up and started to be heard, that wet, rhythmic sound filling the stall’s silence. I had gotten so hot I barely recognized myself.

At one point I went too far and the head hit the back of my throat. The sensation made me uncomfortable and I liked it at the same time, a weird mix I didn’t understand. I took a breath and pushed again on purpose until I gagged and my eyes filled with tears. It was addictive in a way I was embarrassed to admit. I pulled off to breathe, and those thin strands of saliva were left linking my mouth to it.

***

I jerked him off for a while with my hand, which now slid easily over all the wetness, and then I put him back in my mouth. I picked up the rhythm I liked best, and the sound started again. I had never tried anything like it before, and the craziest part was that I had no idea who the owner of it was. A complete stranger, a voice, a shadow.

I felt him writhing with pleasure and that pushed me to go faster. I choked on him over and over again, not wanting to stop. I heard him moan, louder now, and I loved knowing that it was me taking him there, from my side of the wall, faceless and nameless. I sped up even more, determined.

Then, without warning, I felt the first hot spurt hit the inside of my mouth. Then another. And another. The texture caught me by surprise and gave me a different gag reflex; I spat out a good part of it almost without thinking. But he kept going, and two more spurts managed to get in before the shaft started to soften and bend on the other side.

My mouth was full of a sensation I didn’t quite like. I spat out what was left in a quick motion, but I could still feel traces everywhere. I watched it withdraw slowly through the hole and, immediately, someone covered the view on the other side with whatever they used. It ended as abruptly as it had begun.

I stood up, my legs a little shaky. With my tongue I gathered the little that remained and, almost to finish what I had started, I swallowed it. I felt that load go down my throat and the taste settle in my mouth. It sounds disgusting said that way, I know. But the sheer perversity of the whole thing was so strong that I almost regretted spitting out the rest.

I wiped my mouth with the paper, washed my hands twice, fixed my hair in front of the stained mirror, and tried to look like nothing had happened. I left.

“Thank you,” I told the woman at the counter.

She looked at me with a half smile that made me think she knew perfectly well what had just happened in there. Outside, in the corridor, three men were waiting. They all watched me as I passed. I had no way of knowing whether one of them had been the voice, or whether none of them had. That uncertainty, instead of making me uncomfortable, gave me a shiver that wasn’t fear.

I walked toward the stop with my heart still racing. On the bus, while car headlights slid past the window, I couldn’t stop replaying every second. And the more I tasted it again in my mouth, the more turned on I got, as if my body were asking me to repeat it.

That night I tossed and turned in bed until late. I kept telling myself I hadn’t done anything that serious, that nobody had found out, that I hadn’t even seen his face. And between one excuse and the next, without realizing it, I had already convinced myself of something I still don’t dare confess to anyone: that I was going to go back.