In The Elventh Hour [by Don]

By Don

Long drives make me horny. I attribute the feeling to sense-memory experiences stemming from the days when I cruised all the time. I spent so many hours sitting in the stalls of various rest areas along I-55, tapping my foot and dropping countless cigarettes into the bowl. Driving on that day, images flooded my mind's eye: Laying in the back of some hairy-chested trucker's cab, comparing cocks with a married man at the urinal, getting blow jobs from unknown strangers in the woods at 1:00 AM in the morning.

I had just spent the weekend in New Iberia Parish, home of dark-headed, thick-necked, full-lipped, French Cajun men: too many boots and tight jeans not to make any respectable faggot hungry for sex. So as I approached the "Adult Video" sign towering above the converted gas station, my groin insisted we stop for concessions.I pulled into the parking lot of the pink-painted building, considering the abundance of cars for a Monday afternoon. Definitely more action here than to be found in the city at that time of the day -- and probably some straight trade, too.

I was greeted at the counter by a greasy-haired, middle-aged man. He collected five dollars and I scooted along to the arcade. Once I had been buzzed through the steel door, I stopped just inside for my eyes to accustom themselves to the near dark.

Aside from the film, the only light in the place came from a dim red exit sign above the door. A whirling dervish of cigarette smoke hung in the projector's beam. I noted the area was divided in half. I stood outside the tiny theatre looking down the adjacent hallway lined with private booths. Home to the gloryholes, I surmised. The place had quite a reputation.

Instead of moving directly to the back, I took a seat in the middle of the last row of the theatre to assess the scene. Some men had their cocks out and were stroking -- eyes unmoving from what appeared to be your standard gayboy flick: sucking, fucking and lots of moaning over the top of a cheesy retro soundtrack. The plot involved a supposed straight plumber who kept getting involved with an impossibly perfect all-male clientele.

I was jarred from a moment of self hypnosis, watching the reflection of the red light on the tin ceiling, by the familiar cruise joint sound of someone repeatedly clearing his throat. The man at the end of my row shifted. I noticed a nelly-assed college boy sitting next to him, staring right at me, trying to make my face out in the dark. I hadn't seen him before, so I assumed he slipped in with the new arrivals -- mostly older guys and married suits -- the types that haunted places like this.

Despite crossing arms over my chest and looking at the ceiling, the nelly boy continued to crane his neck in order to get my attention. "Piss off," I whispered. Through a series of inexorable moves, I left my seat and navigated the way to the back of the building.

I was immediately hit by the smell -- a stale man odor overlaid with coconut-scented air freshener -- much like the interior of a cheap hotel. My eyes did a quick inventory of the hallway. Two guys were there with hands in each other's pockets. They had stopped when I walked in, but went back to it within seconds.

It was then I noticed a glimmer of light at the end of the dark corridor. I approached. There stood a youngish man in a bright white t-shirt with the face of a saint from some Italian Renaissance painting. He leaned against the wall, with one leg cocked up, both of his hands in his pockets. The pose accentuated his thighs and his chest. His nipples were dark and pushing through the tee. In that brief moment, I concocted one scenario after another for us, stiff from my own imagination and willing him into wanting me.

I entered the stall closest to him, not completely closing the door. I grew excited with anticipation. Random sex had always given me feelings of confidence and determination. I began tugging at my crotch , staring intently at my newfound object of desire. He seemed unimpressed by my advances -- remaining there, aplomb intact, eyes cemented to the floor.

Still inside the cubicle, I surveyed my surroundings. The room had a black and white television chained and mounted to the wall. The screen was covered in cigarette-burned and cum-spotted Plexiglass. The booth housed not one, but two gloryholes -- even kinkier than I had expected. I squatted and eyeballed the opening. A series of perfectly aligned orifices receded between the partitions, forming a tunnel of vision from one booth to the next. If the house lights had been up, I probably would have seen the wall at the opposite end of the room. Each booth had two opportunities, then, except the ones on the ends.

I remained in that booth for about twenty minutes, eyes fixed on the white of the man's shirt. I listened to a telltale cacophony: hinges creaking, men moaning and the sound of slurping on dick -- all interlaced with the piped in soundtrack of the movie -- a sort of erotic Muzak on Viagra, which played loudly and continuously, partly to enhance the mood but primarily to blanket noises made by the customers.

At that point, I decided having the saint boy was hopeless. He was obviously straight and too hesitant for my needs. I didn't have the time or inclination to "train" anyone that day, and moved I on in search of a good blowjob.

After an hour of entering and leaving every booth in the joint, halfheartedly stroking several cocks and inserting my dick through quite a few holes (the recipient of nothing more than a too-toothy blowjob), I took my place along the wall of the hallway. I suddenly realized the saint boy was gone. In my panic, I began rattling the doors of each stall. Most were occupied, but I checked both gloryholes in every booth I could get in.

Just as I was about to give up, a mustached man vacated the booth that I had originally occupied. I entered it and took my perfunctory glimpse through the partition. There he stood. Saint boy. He was in the exact same pose he had assumed in the hallway, but this time with cock protruding from the fly of his jeans. Although it wasn't the biggest I had seen, it was nicely shaped with classic proportion and detail. The head was slightly red. He was so hot and hard, I could see the skin stretched to its limits on the underneath of his shaft.

As I moved down to completely kneel on the floor, I noticed another cock protruding from the hole on the opposite side of the guy's booth. It was fat and probably eight inches long -- barely squeezing itself through the circumference of the opening. I forced my body lower, straining to look at the saint's face. I needed a plan and fast.

He stood there, staring blankly at the screen. I ran my finger across the bottom edge of the hole waiting for a sign and trying to gauge his preference. The cock coming through the other partition remained there, growing larger and harder. After a few, I stood up, deciding the guy wasn't interested in giving or receiving. I sat down on the bench inside my booth and listened to his breathing. I heard his zipper drop and pants hit the floor. Hastily, I assumed my previous position on the cement.

My eye stayed attached to his now naked body. His stomach was lean and his arms, chest and thighs full and robust: musculature typical of blue-collar workers. Probably a dock hand or pipe welder, I fancied. He took a step away from the wall so I could see the silhouette of his round Roman ass. I imagined a small patch of curly black fur surrounding a tight, little sphincter. Quickly, I inserted three fingers through the opening in the wall -- begging for his attention. My hand blocked the view of his body, so I removed it unsatisfied, to take another look. To my amazement, he was now stroking the fat cock of the man in the other booth. I had totally misjudged the situation.

Without further prelude, he backed himself toward the anonymous cock. His thighs strained to push himself onto the meat as the struggle to contort his stocky form into the proper angle ensued. The face showed determination and I silently laughed. He was inexpert yet thoroughly excited. He needed guidance, and I was more than willing to offer assistance.

Just then, the music stopped. Silence strangled the room. The fucker grunted. I knew we had penetration. I leered back through the opening, hoping saint boy would look down and acknowledge me and perhaps even bestow a glimmer of hope. Instead, he looked to the sky, as if had found his personal god.

I stayed there on the filthy cum-soaked floor, watching a film of sweat build on his perfectly carved chest. He was jerking himself off hard and fast as he rode into oblivion. Enslaved by the scene, I contemplated my feelings: the longing, the promise, the rejection. Normally I would have moved on in search of my own pleasure, but his desire was so strong. It was expressive as words or deeds. I watched a man in his absolute, full glory, alone with his sexuality, not knowing his fucker's face, much less his name.

As his cock gushed, my hand filled with my own white-hot juice. I spread my fingers to watch the blobs and strings of cum separate and fall lazily -- joining their brethren on the floor. Still crouched down in a heap, I saw his calves flex slightly as his asshole released its hold on the neighbor's shaft. The fucker let his cock stand there, buffed and polished, still slick and shiny from its expedition. By the time he pulled it back through the hole, the saint boy's jeans were being buttoned. Then he was out the door.

Slowly I regrouped myself, and went into the theatre. This time the exit sign was blinding. There were maybe five guys still sitting there, silently watching the screen. I stood in the doorway, feeling the mood of the room as it shifted between tension and lethargy. I knocked over a bottle sitting on the floor. The place itself was an absolute hovel, the squalor of which was only fully apparent in the early morning hours when the movie was shut down and the attendant threw on the lights.

I sat down in one of the seats and lit a cigarette. Smoking was indeed sublime, and this time the movie looked promising -- an exceptionally tawdry tale that all took place on a cattle ranch. The man at the opposite end of my row shifted. His knees were vibrating ever so subtly and I began to watch them intently. I did not notice the cowboy hat until he stood up and made his way down the entire row of seats and stood next to me. He offered his apology and turned to maneuver past my knees -- I arched my spine and lifted my pelvis out the seat -- cock brushing up against his denim-clad ass. He looked like the fucking Marlboro Man making his way to the back. I tossed my cigarette on the floor and stood up glancing back at the exit sign to smile. Again, I walked toward the booths.

Don is a writer, designer and queer cultural commentator. He also webmasters the scintillating Vindicate.com. Nightcharm featured a review of his site in our Cream section in September of 2000.
Graphic design: David K. and Ann Will


	By Don Long drives make me horny. I attribute the feeling to sense-memory experiences stemming from the days when I cruised all the time. I spent so many hours sitting in the stalls of various rest areas along I-55, tapping my foot and dropping countless cigarettes into the bowl. Driving on that day, images flooded my mind's eye: Laying in the back of some hairy-chested trucker's cab, comparing cocks with a married man at the urinal, getting blow jobs from unknown strangers in the woods at 1:00 AM in the morning. I had just spent the weekend in New Iberia Parish, home of dark-headed, thick-necked, full-lipped, French Cajun men: too many boots and tight jeans not to make any respectable faggot hungry for sex. So as I approached the "Adult Video" sign towering above the converted gas station, my groin insisted we stop for concessions.I pulled into the parking lot of the pink-painted building, considering the abundance of cars for a Monday afternoon. Definitely more action here than to be found in the city at that time of the day -- and probably some straight trade, too. I was greeted at the counter by a greasy-haired, middle-aged man. He collected five dollars and I scooted along to the arcade. Once I had been buzzed through the steel door, I stopped just inside for my eyes to accustom themselves to the near dark. Aside from the film, the only light in the place came from a dim red exit sign above the door. A whirling dervish of cigarette smoke hung in the projector's beam. I noted the area was divided in half. I stood outside the tiny theatre looking down the adjacent hallway lined with private booths. Home to the gloryholes, I surmised. The place had quite a reputation. Instead of moving directly to the back, I took a seat in the middle of the last row of the theatre to assess the scene. Some men had their cocks out and were stroking -- eyes unmoving from what appeared to be your standard gayboy flick: sucking, fucking and lots of moaning over the top of a cheesy retro soundtrack. The plot involved a supposed straight plumber who kept getting involved with an impossibly perfect all-male clientele. I was jarred from a moment of self hypnosis, watching the reflection of the red light on the tin ceiling, by the familiar cruise joint sound of someone repeatedly clearing his throat. The man at the end of my row shifted. I noticed a nelly-assed college boy sitting next to him, staring right at me, trying to make my face out in the dark. I hadn't seen him before, so I assumed he slipped in with the new arrivals -- mostly older guys and married suits -- the types that haunted places like this. Despite crossing arms over my chest and looking at the ceiling, the nelly boy continued to crane his neck in order to get my attention. "Piss off," I whispered. Through a series of inexorable moves, I left my seat and navigated the way to the back of the building. I was immediately hit by the smell -- a stale man odor overlaid with coconut-scented air freshener -- much like the interior of a cheap hotel. My eyes did a quick inventory of the hallway. Two guys were there with hands in each other's pockets. They had stopped when I walked in, but went back to it within seconds. It was then I noticed a glimmer of light at the end of the dark corridor. I approached. There stood a youngish man in a bright white t-shirt with the face of a saint from some Italian Renaissance painting. He leaned against the wall, with one leg cocked up, both of his hands in his pockets. The pose accentuated his thighs and his chest. His nipples were dark and pushing through the tee. In that brief moment, I concocted one scenario after another for us, stiff from my own imagination and willing him into wanting me. I entered the stall closest to him, not completely closing the door. I grew excited with anticipation. Random sex had always given me feelings of confidence and determination. I began tugging at my crotch , staring intently at my newfound object of desire. He seemed unimpressed by my advances -- remaining there, aplomb intact, eyes cemented to the floor. Still inside the cubicle, I surveyed my surroundings. The room had a black and white television chained and mounted to the wall. The screen was covered in cigarette-burned and cum-spotted Plexiglass. The booth housed not one, but two gloryholes -- even kinkier than I had expected. I squatted and eyeballed the opening. A series of perfectly aligned orifices receded between the partitions, forming a tunnel of vision from one booth to the next. If the house lights had been up, I probably would have seen the wall at the opposite end of the room. Each booth had two opportunities, then, except the ones on the ends. I remained in that booth for about twenty minutes, eyes fixed on the white of the man's shirt. I listened to a telltale cacophony: hinges creaking, men moaning and the sound of slurping on dick -- all interlaced with the piped in soundtrack of the movie -- a sort of erotic Muzak on Viagra, which played loudly and continuously, partly to enhance the mood but primarily to blanket noises made by the customers. At that point, I decided having the saint boy was hopeless. He was obviously straight and too hesitant for my needs. I didn't have the time or inclination to "train" anyone that day, and moved I on in search of a good blowjob. After an hour of entering and leaving every booth in the joint, halfheartedly stroking several cocks and inserting my dick through quite a few holes (the recipient of nothing more than a too-toothy blowjob), I took my place along the wall of the hallway. I suddenly realized the saint boy was gone. In my panic, I began rattling the doors of each stall. Most were occupied, but I checked both gloryholes in every booth I could get in. Just as I was about to give up, a mustached man vacated the booth that I had originally occupied. I entered it and took my perfunctory glimpse through the partition. There he stood. Saint boy. He was in the exact same pose he had assumed in the hallway, but this time with cock protruding from the fly of his jeans. Although it wasn't the biggest I had seen, it was nicely shaped with classic proportion and detail. The head was slightly red. He was so hot and hard, I could see the skin stretched to its limits on the underneath of his shaft. As I moved down to completely kneel on the floor, I noticed another cock protruding from the hole on the opposite side of the guy's booth. It was fat and probably eight inches long -- barely squeezing itself through the circumference of the opening. I forced my body lower, straining to look at the saint's face. I needed a plan and fast. He stood there, staring blankly at the screen. I ran my finger across the bottom edge of the hole waiting for a sign and trying to gauge his preference. The cock coming through the other partition remained there, growing larger and harder. After a few, I stood up, deciding the guy wasn't interested in giving or receiving. I sat down on the bench inside my booth and listened to his breathing. I heard his zipper drop and pants hit the floor. Hastily, I assumed my previous position on the cement. My eye stayed attached to his now naked body. His stomach was lean and his arms, chest and thighs full and robust: musculature typical of blue-collar workers. Probably a dock hand or pipe welder, I fancied. He took a step away from the wall so I could see the silhouette of his round Roman ass. I imagined a small patch of curly black fur surrounding a tight, little sphincter. Quickly, I inserted three fingers through the opening in the wall -- begging for his attention. My hand blocked the view of his body, so I removed it unsatisfied, to take another look. To my amazement, he was now stroking the fat cock of the man in the other booth. I had totally misjudged the situation. Without further prelude, he backed himself toward the anonymous cock. His thighs strained to push himself onto the meat as the struggle to contort his stocky form into the proper angle ensued. The face showed determination and I silently laughed. He was inexpert yet thoroughly excited. He needed guidance, and I was more than willing to offer assistance. Just then, the music stopped. Silence strangled the room. The fucker grunted. I knew we had penetration. I leered back through the opening, hoping saint boy would look down and acknowledge me and perhaps even bestow a glimmer of hope. Instead, he looked to the sky, as if had found his personal god. I stayed there on the filthy cum-soaked floor, watching a film of sweat build on his perfectly carved chest. He was jerking himself off hard and fast as he rode into oblivion. Enslaved by the scene, I contemplated my feelings: the longing, the promise, the rejection. Normally I would have moved on in search of my own pleasure, but his desire was so strong. It was expressive as words or deeds. I watched a man in his absolute, full glory, alone with his sexuality, not knowing his fucker's face, much less his name. As his cock gushed, my hand filled with my own white-hot juice. I spread my fingers to watch the blobs and strings of cum separate and fall lazily -- joining their brethren on the floor. Still crouched down in a heap, I saw his calves flex slightly as his asshole released its hold on the neighbor's shaft. The fucker let his cock stand there, buffed and polished, still slick and shiny from its expedition. By the time he pulled it back through the hole, the saint boy's jeans were being buttoned. Then he was out the door. Slowly I regrouped myself, and went into the theatre. This time the exit sign was blinding. There were maybe five guys still sitting there, silently watching the screen. I stood in the doorway, feeling the mood of the room as it shifted between tension and lethargy. I knocked over a bottle sitting on the floor. The place itself was an absolute hovel, the squalor of which was only fully apparent in the early morning hours when the movie was shut down and the attendant threw on the lights. I sat down in one of the seats and lit a cigarette. Smoking was indeed sublime, and this time the movie looked promising -- an exceptionally tawdry tale that all took place on a cattle ranch. The man at the opposite end of my row shifted. His knees were vibrating ever so subtly and I began to watch them intently. I did not notice the cowboy hat until he stood up and made his way down the entire row of seats and stood next to me. He offered his apology and turned to maneuver past my knees -- I arched my spine and lifted my pelvis out the seat -- cock brushing up against his denim-clad ass. He looked like the fucking Marlboro Man making his way to the back. I tossed my cigarette on the floor and stood up glancing back at the exit sign to smile. Again, I walked toward the booths.

	Don is a writer, designer and queer cultural commentator. He also webmasters the scintillating Vindicate.com. Nightcharm featured a review of his site in our Cream section in September of 2000. Graphic design: David K. and Ann Will