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I thought I’d scoped it well enough, but to my great disappointment, someone was in my favorite stall. I had to be pretty careful not to use this bathroom more than a couple times a week; the men’s room near the Queer Student Union was well known for explicit gay graffiti on the stall walls, and if you were observed going in there on any kind of regular basis, people made assumptions. Assumptions that were true in my case, but I preferred to keep that my business. I had certainly outlasted other users before, sitting with my pants down, absently stroking my cock while I waited to be alone so I could finish jerking off. Sometimes my legs were so numb by the time I was done I could hardly stand. But those were occasions when I got my favorite stall. There were two stalls with a shared divider, but one was located directly behind the sinks, so someone washing their hands was looking straight at it in the mirror. The other was almost impossible to sneak a glance at directly, and that was the one with the best graffiti. It was also currently occupied, to my dismay.

“The other stall”, as I thought of it, certainly had its share of lewd invitations and drawings, but it was like a front yard “free library” compared to The Great Library of Alexandria next door. For every “I’ll be here at 10am with my fat cock out for any eager mouths” in the sink stall, there were three paragraphs of explicit erotica in the discreet stall. While the sink stall graffiti used phrases like “but fuk”, next door people wrote about sliding their thick, warm shaft past my ring and filling me with hard meat, and the ecstasy of submission and penetration. And the transient beauty of it all was that every weekend, the cleaning staff scrubbed off every last bit of it and it got to start over Monday morning. It was Thursday afternoon, and I’d been looking forward to replying to someone, to whose words I’d masturbated furiously on Tuesday. I was partial to graffiti that talked about training or teaching me to be good at bringing the author pleasure, and Tuesday’s paragraph on training me to take cock with either “good” slaps or “bad” slaps, depending on how well I bottomed, had really spoken to me. I’d cum so hard my hands were still shaking when I’d gotten to class that afternoon. Others had responded to our would-be tutor already, and I’d written a request quickly in fat red sharpie to teach me to be good, and how different kinds of spankings might help me to be sexier and more submissive while he posed me however he thought was best to fuck me. I was rock-hard all morning thinking about a more detailed response (I’d brought a fine-tip sharpie so I could write more), and now someone was in there.

Swallowing my disappointment, I entered the sink stall. I had cum in there before, and my fingers were crossed that there’d be something worthwhile to read while I brought myself to climax. I’d practiced drawing myself bent over, and I could at least practice some more. I unbuckled my belt and savored the feeling of first my jeans, then my underpants sliding down my legs and pooling around my ankles. Being naked from the waist down is super erotic for me and I was smiling at the feeling as I sat down, my cock already stirring to life. A quick glance around offered a little relief, as there was an unusual amount of writing on the stall walls. Not as much as next door probably, and a lot of it was short, but at least I could read a stranger’s words knowing he’d probably stroked off right here imagining me, or someone else, on our knees or on all fours.

I stroked my growing cock a couple times as I read, trying to figure out what the best bets would be. There were a couple quick lines written here and there by the bottom-curious “I want to get fucked, call me” (no number of course), “I love cock give me some” and soforth. There were also some uninspired entries by would-be tops. “Suck my dick”, “bend over 4 me” and “take it all bitch”.

Later in life, while scrolling through pages of “I am free use” on doublelist, trying to find even one “satisfy my big dick in your hotel room”, I would come to appreciate the lopsided ratio of top-to-bottom graffiti in this bathroom, but at that point it was all I knew and I had no idea how spoiled I was.

I was particularly interested, that day, in a couple drawings of an erect cock with accompanying instructions, and a few attempts at erotic poetry focusing on how someone would make me cum no-hands, just by fucking me.

I noted the coincidence only in passing - nobody ever really carried

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