Cubicle
Posted by michael michael on Saturday, July 14, 2012
Under: Cubicle
She's wearing heels that are far too high, and a dress so tight that it almost forces her boobs to flop out. She's applied so much fake tan I'm surprised she's not glowing. Her hair is so unnaturally blonde that I'm afraid to run my hand through it.
Right now we're standing on a street corner and she's bashing buttons on her phone; texting, as usual. We're waiting on one of her friends. He's a gay guy called Peter and I have to pretend I'm not uncomfortable in his company.Any minute now he'll come round that corner and they'll screech, scream 'OMG!', and hug one another.
Then it's off to the posh bar or nightclub, I don't really know, and there we'll meet the rest of them. I'll have to hug these girls I don't like and permit them to plant a kiss on my cheek, leaving a sticky lipstick tattoo. Then I'll sit and get drunk while they talk about people I don't know, degrading them and tearing them apart verbally.
These girls, their boyfriends will sit together, flexing their biceps and discussing how much they can bench, what the best supplements are, and advising on the best way to gain mass on their calves.
Through all of this I will nod and smile, answer yes or no, and generally just pretend that I give a shit.
We're still standing at the corner and she's still texting and I don't want to be here. I've been forced into a paid of skinny jeans and there's half a gallon of hair gel been dumped on my head. I look like a fag.
If I could just be alone, even for five minutes, just to gather myself and breathe. Just to get away from her.
I see it. Shining like a beacon of hope through my despair. A small, square light with the shape of a man on it; an underground toilet.
'I need to piss,' I tell her.
'Jesus!' She snaps. 'Make it quick, Peter's almost here.'
I'm not listening. I'm already crossing the road, my eyes fixed on the little square sign. A man is coming up the stairs, tugging at his fly. He gives me a knowing glance and disappears into the street. I descend into the murky depths of my personal salvation.
I push open the toilet door and peer inside. Green, grimy and disgusting, with a flickering light and an overwhelming stench of urine. I suck it all in; my haven.
There's only two cubicles with their doors still intact. I take the one second from the end as the farthest one is occupied. As soon as the door closes I rest my head against the cubicle wall.
There's no noise down here. I can't hear the traffic, or her tapping on her mobile, or even the guy in the next cubicle. It's bliss.
I open my eyes and the word FUCK is staring me right in the face. Next to that there's a huge cock spreading its cartoon juices, and just below that there's a huge set of boobs.
All around the cubicle is the sick, vulgar graffiti of those who came before me. There are phone numbers promising a good time, messages of thanks for the best fuck ever, and various drawings of sexual positions.
I wonder about these fat, lonely losers who use this cubicle to indulge in their depraved fantasies, and I suddenly need to piss.
While I'm peeing and reading the pornographic scripture, I hear a dull scratching sound. I look down and see a bony finger protruding through a hold in the cubicle wall. It's raggedy, yellow nail scrapes against the wall in a come hither motion. There's even a little message above the glory hole that says, 'Come Hither.'
Between my thumb and index finger my penis is growing fatter. The blood rushes through it, solidifying it, causing the urine to arc away from the toilet bowl.
I'm staring at the finger and my heart is thumping. The arcing urine has stopped but the scratching sound persists. I find myself turning, the finger disappears and I slot my penis through the hole.
There's a sudden grip and then warmth envelopes me. My hands squeeze tightly on the top of the cubicle wall and I press my face against the drawing of a massive set of balls.
The whole cubicle shakes as I convulse violently, my penis explodes and as I hold my breath there's a moan of pleasure from the other side.
The stranger releases his herculean grip and I slam against the opposite wall. I hurriedly tug on my fly and scramble out of the cubicle.
I stare at myself in the grimy mirror. A mixture of gel and sweat runs down my face and I'm panting heavily.
I watched a program about these men. They sit in the cubicle all day and other men come and go, sliding their manhood through that hole, and once they've chucked their load they leave money on the toilet seat for the phantom cock sucker to collect.
Knowing this, I decide to hide in another cubicle to a catch a glimpse of this pervert.
As I hide, my phone vibrates. On the screen there's bold capital letters, 'WHERE ARE YOU?', they say.
A door opens and I freeze. My phone clatters to the floor as I see the stranger in the mirror. I'm almost sick.
This man, the one stepping out of the cubicle, the one wiping his bottom lip, the one who just guzzled down my come and is now staring at me through the mirror, this man here, the one with the yellow fingernail, this man is my dad.
In : Cubicle