Date: Mon, 22 Mar 2004 21:04:24 -0500
From: A. Cheshire Cat <kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Seduction of Mr. X

The Seduction of Mr. X
By: A. Cheshire Catt.
March 22, 2004
Email comments to kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com

Re: A young man seduces older men in a public washroom.

Smoking a cigarette, watching porn on the top floor of a bath house at about
five in the morning, in a darkness that's draped over my body like a wool
blanket, I suddenly remember someone. I laugh in my solitude, the sound
isn't detectable, the porn on the television, the gasps of young men, make
my gasp a moot point. But I found it funny.

My name is Gunther Franks. I'm 26 years old and as wiry as a fence post. I
grew up in the country and a few years ago I moved to the city to be
surrounded by sex and corruption and opportunity. Planting myself in the gay
community, I opted for a seedier part of town for my promiscuous promises. I
learned that gay men will have sex with just about anybody if the conditions
are right. For example, a rich man will not have public sex in a park right
next to his house, but will drive for half an hour to a park in the suburbs
to suck some young kid's cocks. Tourists visit the baths downtown (except on
Saturday night), but who wants a tourist, after all? Only scum visit the
public washrooms in malls, scum and travelling salesmen (for those who
believe there's a difference), and businessmen use the bathrooms in the
cafeterias of large skyscrapers.

It was one such skyscraper that I frequented, a lonely one where it seemed
no road even went to, where no shops seemed located, where no women went
with children during the day. Riddled it was though with a mess of men in
suits, janitors and ghosts like me who simply knew what lay in the bowels of
that gloomy corporate tombstone. Like a swamp in the city, a marsh of
concrete and cheap glass, it was situated in a trashy neighborhood. It can
still be seen as one drives on the bus expressway, off in the distance,
surrounded by a strange parking lot that seems to lack entrances. It
inspires dreamy thoughts of sci-fi flicks in some kids, but with me, it
suggests only one possibility: that's right boys, sex!

So there I was one day, going in to the bathroom around four o'clock in the
afternoon, which isn't very peculiar by any security standards, but funny
thing was I had absolutely no desire to go to the washroom. I walked down
the escalators that lead to the abandoned cafeteria (which had closed when
smokers, prevented by law to smoke indoors, took their lunch schedules
elsewhere). With an abandoned cafeteria, and nothing else but strange
mailrooms and maintenance closets down there, the bathroom entrance sits and
seems itself to purr under the flicker of fluorescent bulbs, swinging only
for those either brave or stupid enough to go in.

As usual, the path I've taken alone has made me horny. My body knows what's
going will be the result of this little expedition. Hardly as courageous as
an Ulysees, this destination is definitely mythical and lurking in the
strangely un-shadowed environs of this hole are creatures which society will
refuse exists.  I am undoubtedly the youngest of these men. Back then I
would have been twenty, looking younger, but strutting with an incredible
sass, an undefeatable faith in myself and my knowledge of what men love to
have for this afternoon snack. Men love boys, as a general rule. They love
to feel as though they have power over them. They pull their small heads
into their cocks and use them like rags. As I go into this bathroom I am so
excited to be their submissive toy, throwing cocky, sappy, lusty glances up
from their cocks, catching them in a moment of weakness when they wink or
smile, or perhaps even go so far as to say something.

When I enter the bathroom there is no one in there. I look at my watch, how
peculiar I think. I decide to take advantage of this opportunity to select a
stall that will provide the greatest of opportunities. I have the gift of
the useless skill, something one might call stall savvy. I have had more sex
in here than I have had in any other single place. I know this place better
than my bedroom even. I love the washroom, I love sex here, I feel very much
in my own element here. It is not my territory, nor is it theirs.

There are three for me to choose from. Small public washrooms are better
than larger for less people will fill it, and when it is full less people
are likely to join in. I have seen this place very full, full beyond the
capacity of the facilities. There is a row of three stalls, and from the
toilets within there is a view of the two urinals. From the toilets, to
one's right, is a bank of sinks, a mirror, a bright light, and the paper
towel. It is incredibly bright in the bathroom. Flaws be damned, souls are
shown.

I select the third stall from the door, why you ask? The first one is
ridiculous. You can't see anything, and yet people at the sinks have the
advantage of lurking there and waiting for you to make a sound then jump
around the corner and take a disgusting look at you as if they have no idea
they are there. Plus, the door sticks and opening and closing it is too
hard, it lacks ease which is only a hindrance in this situation. The second
one is great, oh by far it is one of the best to pick from. New people would
pick it, why? One would have two opportunities on either side, and there's a
fabulous view of the urinals where some crazy action happens. Generally, if
there is graffiti, such as vague directions to hotels, where room "##" is
hosting an orgy at such-and-such a time, or a suggestion to be at Something
Street at 2pm three days ago and to grab your cock when you get there, and
such things, one will find it in the second stall. The third stall is the
best for people like me. The door is great, there's a hook for my coat and a
lock that works. The view of the urinals is enough for me to use. The option
of the second stall, the view of the shoe there will be apt for the
situation. The graffiti is nice, it's reached a lovely zenith and additions
to the murals and poetry are generally suitable. I pick it, enter it, and
lock the door behind me. Now it is merely a matter of waiting for prey, I
mean ^Å ah Hell, I mean prey.

I sit and lower my Levi's to my ankles. I tuck the buckle of my leather belt
into pocket so it doesn't make noise. I hate that, when there's even the
slightest of sound in that chamber besides, perhaps, moans and sighs and
other such illicit banter. I fix the elastic band of my black Calvin Klein
boxers so that it is straight and legible to anyone looking under the stall
walls. Lastly I wipe a smudge off my black boots, and finally thinking
myself absolutely flawless down at my feet I take note of other details.
It's important to note, when people look under stall walls there's not
really much to judge the person next to you by. In fact, it can create quite
the delusion of the character. I want to present a clean, stylish, young,
and hot look with merely the presentation of the pants, belt, boxers and
boots bunched up at my feet.

I can feel my cock growing with anticipation. I have a great cock that has
never let me down. Generally I will let men suck me here, I hate it when one
man, alone, sucks me off and he's been the only one to get me. I love it
when more and more men clamor to get a piece of me, and I generally give it
to them. I love the attention, I love letting them have a piece of me. My
uncut cock, a fat seven inches long, on my thin twenty-year-old body, pale
and smooth, is a thing that men want, and is a thing, that if their proving
themselves worthy, they will get

I love sucking cock too. I rub my teeth, pick the chaps off my red lips. I
practice my moans and sighs. I raise my eyebrows, and massage the wrinkles
away. Souls be damned, your flaws show.

I blow my nose. The finishing touches, involving my blurred silhouette in
the toilet paper roll, provide a sort of entertainment while waiting for the
parade of men to come along. I fix my hair and think of the times I have
spent in this stall.

There have been times when the men have actually climbed under the walls to
eat out my still raunchy ass while another kneeled in the door to suck on my
cock while I gripped his head and sucked the cock of a very stylish man's
cock, who held my head in one hand while the other held another head at his
ass, and that man was being fucked. It was the craziest orgy I was to be
involved in while in this room. To think, I could have been the only reason
it started. The Stylish Man had come in and spied me, and upon opening my
door, a lot of other men saw me, and soon it was an orgy, soon they climbed
around obstacles to be a part of it. Sometimes it's been very simple
situations. You know, a situation that reads like an older man's erotic
testimony. An lonesome old man walks in after I've been there thirty minutes
or so. He's far from young and attractive, but I am those things he is not.
He sees me in the stall and sees that I look nervous of his presence but
then when he makes only the most subtle of suggests I step up to the plate
and win him over easily. I feel as though I have reminded an old man of how
fabulous life can be, and he has given me some come in my young mouth that
gives me hope that someday I will be, as old as him, reminded of how
fabulous life can be.

Regular characters, or course there are a few. If I come here three, four
times a week, then surely others come too. If I come only ever around four
in the afternoon, then surely, during the rest of the day, there must be
other hours, like lunch time, that bustle and hop in here. I don't wonder
about the others though, they are foreign and the bathroom itself may as
well not even exist except for those moments when I walk up to it and
present my horny-self to it. There's a janitor though, he comes while I
come. I hate him though. I see him everywhere, not just here. He goes to the
bath on Sunday afternoons too. He's French and he has a massive cock. I can
barely even fit his fat cock in my mouth. I don't even try. He smells like
cleaners, his skin is greasy, and he shows no respect to the people sucking
his huge cock. I hate him. There's an old guy, another old guy than the one
mentioned before. (There are a few old men apparently.) This old man is
sweet though. Sweet and lucky, a lot of men suck his cock. He dresses well,
I like to imagine he's actually some high-ranking employer and people come
here for interviews. I've sucked him off before and never gotten a job. Yes,
I sucked him in hopes he'd give me a job. It's not that I wasn't good
enough. He sat on the toilet and I strutted up to him, brushed my face with
the tip of his necktie as if it were a feather and proceeded to suck his
short dick with the enthusiasm of a paid hustler getting a fortune for a
small favor.

As for rules, there are definitely a few. There are also simple manners. For
example, it's rude to talk in the washroom. It's rude to say anything at
all. If you're choking on someone's pubic hair, gasping for air, and you
can't breathe in order to suck, then you pull up your pants and politely
leave the washroom to couch your brains out. Go out for a cigarette, come
back in, don't worry about ^Ö but don't say anything in the stall. Also,
don't kiss. Kissing is a huge faux-pas. Everyone knows where those lips have
been buddy. We definitely didn't see you brushing your teeth between that
janitor's cock and my mouth. Neither do I want to have your lips touch mine,
nor do I desire to be seen having your lips touching them. There's really
nothing more erotic than grazing your lips just delicately over the perfumed
surface of a working-man's neck, the heat of your breath on his neck will
heat him up ten-fold. (Thinking about kissing, and the mouth, and the
breath, I pop in a piece of gum.)

And just then it can be noticed to the professional public sex whore, in the
distance, the escalator says someone is on it by changing its tone to a
lower one. Then a few seconds later the clamor of shoes on the
linoleum/marble floor can be heard. Then, without any fanfare, the doors fly
open and someone has entered. From my stall I can't see him. He'll be able
to tell I'm there though, the only stall door that's closed is obviously
occupied. He doesn't know who it is though. This is the fun part for sure.
The build-up, the suspense, and the intrigue: all of this creates in me the
adrenaline rush that feeds me a drug-like high that drives me wild. I
suddenly want to claw at the walls, I want to throw open the door and expose
my ass to the strange man and just let him go nuts on my body, I want him to
cum and piss and, christ he could even shit all over me for all I cared
right now. I fucking love this rush. But I sit as quietly as I can, even
though my heart is pounding loud enough to seemingly deafen me, he can't
hear it, and he has no idea the state I'm in.

He clears his throat.

But suddenly the door of the washroom is thrown in and someone else walks
in. He goes straight to the urinal. I can see him.

This guy was wearing a pair of black dress pants and had a gray blazer on.
He had gray hair shaved short. I listened, there was nothing to hear though.
This man was not peeing in the urinal. A tell-tale sign that he was actually
standing there stroking his cock into an edible tube steak. I leaned on the
edge of the toilet seat to get as close a glimpse to his actions as I
possibly could. Then the other man went to join him at the other urinal and
for the first time I saw him. He was wearing a black suit. He had hair,
salt-and-peppered, kept styled. He was taller than the other, but together,
from the back, they appeared to be very stylish. I grew hard at the memory
of the Stylish Man, conjuring up fantasies that now involved these two men.

To my horror, the toilets ran and the two men jumped in their shoes. Both of
them looked back at the stalls behind them and the new one noticed really
for the first time the occupied third stall. My heart was racing. The
original man, the black suited man, came toward my stall, in his hand he was
shaking his cock.

He leaned so close to the door that all I could see was a shadow through the
crack at the hinges. I felt embarrassed and small, I felt like an item on a
shelf, and then I loved this and enjoyed myself. I pulled my cock out of the
bowl of the toilet to present to him, slyly smiling like a temptation. He
pushed on the door, a sign for me to open it.

When I opened the door I saw Mr. X. Sargent once painted the Impressionistic
portrait "Madame X." The scantily dressed woman became a sensation in the
cities where she was seen, in art galleries in the prime of the belle epoch.
The woman herself didn't receive the same grandiose acceptance the painted
version of herself did. But at least for young men like me, there became a
desire in the psyche, to find that ideal character that bestowed all the
sexual attributes our minds can't even begin to form in one person. This man
was my Mr. X. As the door opened, the first thing that touched me was the
scent of his cologne. He wore a three-piece suit, a black one, and under it
there was a very stylish blue shirt with a tie that matched it perfectly. He
made me think of someone who was incredibly rich. He may not have been, but
he made me think it. Until he said anything, or suggested anything, he was
in my mind exactly what I was looking for. To be honest, I must have been
the same thing for him.

Without any hesitation, in one gesture of the neck, I took his cock into my
mouth and sucked him without mercy. He took my head into his hands, as if I
were a contraption, a device intended solely to pleasure him, and fucked my
face. He didn't say anything, he adhered to the rules. I respected that in
him. I did my finest job on him and he shot his load into my mouth in only a
matter of a few minutes.

I looked at him when I was done and he smiled. He smiled! I was beside
myself, he was happy with the blow job I'd given him. He stroked the hair
behind my ear. I felt like I was sixteen again and my dad was proud of me on
my first try. Then he quickly did up his pants and went to the sinks, washed
me from his hands, and left.

I was beside myself. Swimming in the bliss of my Mr. X's inauguration into
my life, I failed to notice the arrival of someone I'll call Mr. Y. A less
attractive character, but still without name and still bearing some of those
handsome qualities. He could see that I was raging in the throb of my cock
and went down on it without hesitation. I could still taste the cum of Mr.
X, I could still smell him, I wished for another five minutes with him.

Such a fleeting moment passed. Mr. Y couldn't continue sucking like this, he
stood and presented his cock to me. He was wearing one of those white shirts
that go so well with tuxes, he was very fashionable, but his ego was all
wrong and he didn't seem as flattering in his silence. He was just horny, he
wasn't looking for someone specific.

I put his cock in my mouth and shut my eyes. I grabbed onto his hips and
worked my mouth with his cock. I imagined it was the other's I was forcing
deeper, more violently into my mouth. But after only a few seconds he came.
Again, without a drop spilt, I swallowed his and resorted to jerking off.

I finished up alone. As I was about to leave the door opened. I thought. Was
he coming back now? I regretted spilling my seed too soon. I sat back down
and feigned interest in getting hard again for him. I would have tried, I
would have, but then I saw that it was the janitor. That damned janitor, he
didn't matter at all anymore. I just left.

He keenly eyed me every gesture for a sign of any interest I might display.
He didn't see anything. Not even the most subtle misgiving of my deepest id
presented him with anything. Right at that moment, I was all for Mr. X.

And really, isn't that was young love is? Someone craving, blindly, for
something that is entirely based on hopeless, fantastic ideals.

The days went by achingly, all I wanted was to be with him again. I wanted
his perfumed cock in my mouth, I wanted him to wink at me again. I wanted to
pleasure him, so I would do anything for him, all I'd have to do is see his
beg for it.

Weeks passed, and you know what, I started to replace him with only Mr. Y.
Mr. Second-Best was winning. Then one day as I sucked Mr. Y off at the
sinks, the stalls being filled with a hectic little orgy of its own, Mr. X
returned. The door opened and there he was. He was so handsome, and the
first thing he was me, down sucking vigorously at the silk-clad cock of the
second best. I stood, blushing like a little fan upon being surprised by a
star, and turned to the sink as if to hide but really there is no hiding in
these bathrooms, especially while standing at the sink. I couldn't believe
it, and my face (I've been told) never lies. Mr. Y, feeling defeated, did up
his pants and walked over to the stalls to get his juice out into the mouth
of the sweet old man. I turned around and Mr. X was standing really close,
pressed right up against me and I couldn't even get my hands up to do
anything. I hid my face, suddenly being coy. I didn't know who I was. I
thought I was the coldest tart that ever strutted down that marble hall to
this door, but now I knew I was something slightly warmer, just a bit more
vulnerable. Dare I say I was as shocked as anyone who really thought himself
a vampire to be shown that in fact his own heart was beating. At the time I
didn't even question it, but now I wonder if vampires exist at all: surely
everyone must, according to biological fact, fall in love, just as
everyone's heart must beat. He smiled and broke all the rules, I let him, as
he held my chin easily in his fingers and kissed me. The ruckus of the stall
doors banging, the toilets running, the men groaning and grunting as they
fucked each other all but three feet to my left: all of it died at once and
I was free from my life in that bathroom, his lips, fresh as spring mint,
sweet as passion in Greek myths, tragic as some sort of Shakespearean
foreshadowing, powerful as a Romantic symphony's final moments: there was
darkness and there was our breath and I felt all the swiftness slow right
down to a crawl. His kiss was the best moment of my life. Then his kiss
turned more ravishing, he grabbed my head and we leaned against the counter
of the bathroom, I braced myself with my free hands, and let him throw his
lips all over me. I finally slid my hand in under his jacket and felt as
though I would find back there the wings of an angel, certain I'd pluck out
a black feather though, nothing white at all.

I suddenly turned and pulled my jeans right off, and stood there my cock
point right into his package. I moved quickly, I loved the intensity of this
now and slowly regained a sense of the role I was to play. I lowered myself
onto his cock and worked it into a slimy log, while at the same time I spit
into my hand and soaked up the lips of my puckered ass. It'd been a long
time since I'd actually been fucked. Oral sex had become simply a hobby,
sex, as in love-making, that was still something sacred. This was a moment
for the sort thing one considers sacred. When the instant was
precision-crafted I turned and threw one leg up on the counter and presented
my ass for his plowing pleasure. He gently eased himself into me. Kissing my
back as it broke out in a sweat, I gasped and moaned, and with all my
animalistic qualities at their peak I refrained from smashing the mirror in
a fit of lust and ended up putting only the palms up on the cool glass. We
were actually steaming up our own reflections. (Oh, but I've got a better
story of steamy mirrors for another time.) He put one hand on my shoulder
and fucked me like a porn star. He looked so, how would I say it,
professional? Ecstatic? Comfortable in my ass? At home in the washroom,
committing a sin, a crime, on this planet, at this moment? He was the
quintessential wicked sinner, and I was his guilty pleasure.

I didn't even need to touch myself, I was cumming all over the counter, it
was just dripping out of my throbbing head as he fucked me harder and
harder. Suddenly he twitched in a suggestive manner and I felt him push in
me really deep, and all his juices poured into my in surge after surge of
dreamy, uncanny delight.

As he remained inside me for one more moment of pleasure I noticed Mr. Y had
been watching the whole thing. Through the distance of my reflection I
cocked my eyebrow as if to say, "You weren't good enough to get this far,
you didn't even have chance." He looked at me with a spiteful sneer. He
seemed volatile and threw open the door and left.

At that moment I also noticed a lot of the other men, though still jerking
off, had removed themselves from their oral pleasures to concentrate on the
visual delight that was being fed to them as Mr. X had once fed me his cock.
He looked at me in the mirror with the sweetest of smiles and pet the back
of my head. Never once saying the word I felt I suddenly wanted to know
everything about him. I couldn't though. I wasn't allowed. I wished he'd
give me a card or a sign to join him outside, but to be honest I didn't even
wait for him, I just grabbed some paper towel and wiped my ass clean.
Giggling with him while the other men remained in a state of shock. I
hesitated as much as was socially acceptable but eventually I had to leave.

Leaving the bathroom that day, I had no idea it would be my last day there.
All I could think about was coming back to that washroom in twenty-four
hours. Taking him up the ass again, taking him a bit further on the Odyssey
that is Knowing Gunther Frank.

Mr. Y had other plans though. He thought he would have the last laugh.

As I left the washroom I heard a bunch of people coming down the main
corridor and could hear the distinctive topic of "sex in the men's room." I
decided to take the longer, less popular hall that lay to the right of the
bathrooms instead of the way I could hear them coming, to the left. To be
honest, I hurried and made it around the corner, quietly, before they turned
the corner. Within seconds I could hear the loudest clamor in my life. Men
were pouring in all directions. It was unlike anything I had ever heard in
my life. I ran for my life, my social life that is. I didn't care for
anything. I took all the most calculated routes from that lonely little
skyscraper that I could think of.

Finally far enough away from the place I soon saw that another man had made
it away, no one in particular, but it was one man from the orgy. I lit a
cigarette, a post-sex/post-run-from-the-law cigarette. I thought only of Mr.
X and his fruitless attempts to explain himself.

That night I was sure to tell everyone I knew about it at the party I was
at, as soon as we were all sufficiently stoned enough to not really notice.

Next morning though I was singing a different song. I brought in the
newspaper, rubbing my head as I had a bit of a headache. I threw it on the
table and made a pot of coffee. As I waited for it to brew I walked back and
looked at the front page. Nothing of any importance to me, just a war here
and there, that's all. I poured a cup soon enough and went back to flip it
open. A Schumann quartet was playing. The sun was shining. And there he was.
In cuffs, being led by police into the popular station downtown: his story
was a three column spread.

Why, why would some pervert get so much? Mr. X was the city council's
finance minister. His name shall remain anonymous (even more so than Mr. X).
He was aged and his suit had a price and he was spending my tax money to
look that good. But damn, he looked good. He was going to jail. It seemed he
was looking awfully defeated, but also, it seemed, he was staring right at
me as he'd looked at the camera.

Wow, I thought. Absolutely fucking wow!