(Please note- You have chosen to enter the "Urination" section. That means raunch. If raunch is not your scene, please stop here. Otherwise, welcome to the world of scat and water sports-my version of it, anyway!)
Part 1
THE RAUNCH MOTEL
The Pacific Breeze actually looked better as a faded eyesore than it did when it was in business. Lee always said that it used to look like a giant wad of bubble gum. Not that people looked at it much now. The mall blocked all but a corner of the abandoned motel from Sequoia Boulevard, and the construction site behind the mall meant it was only a matter of time before it would be gone. Somehow it was never vandalized much, except for a few FUCKs. They were probably keeping an eye on it to keep kids from screwing around with it at night and vagrants from moving in. Maybe the deal on it wasn't closed, and they had to keep it standing until then. The windows were boarded over, and rusty chains looped through the doorknob holes.
The mall was more interesting. A multiplex meant people coming and going from noon to midnight, and the Villa Roma restaurant, a piano lounge, and the fast-food places drew their own crowds through the day and into the evening. There was a bookstore with a coin-operated rocking horse in front. Candle shops, shoe stores, popcorn. The atrium in the center had palm trees and a kind of big blue rock. Water sheeted down its sides, and there were a few molded benches if you had to sit down.
The part of the mall closest to the old Pacific Breeze was the San Diego Health and Fitness Spa. It drew mostly regulars. Older men liked the early mornings, but as the day wore on a younger crowd came in, guys on their lunch breaks, guys from the bases, professionals who made their own hours, guys with time on their hands. Lee's day started around then.
He was maintenance at the Spa, a familiar face around the mall, say forty, a touch of silver at the sides; you could see from his shoulders that he must have spent years doing heavy lifting and hauling, but where you would expect a belly there was just a straight line; his butt's tight bulging roundness was the only break in his up-down line, an explosion--with a mini-explosion in it: a small hole in the ass of his faded denims, the raveled threads a dirty white fringe around it. His half-shut eyes were a kind of explosion as well: lines rayed outwards from a green glitter people looked away from quickly as they might from the sideways glance of a lynx. Several regulars knew that Lee also took care of the Pacific Breeze--in a special way that the thousands of customers who came and went and shopped and looked and pushed strollers at the mall every day would never have guessed.
Late every afternoon, the last hour or so of good daylight, Lee stepped softly into a small janitor closet in the Spa's sub-basement and walked from there through a murky twenty-yard tunnel that led to another janitor closet two levels below the old Pacific Breeze's main floor. Back up to ground level inside the old motel, brown-stained sheets to collect from the thick black vinyl mattresses, soaked towels, beer cans, empty popper bottles to pick up everywhere. He was supposed to turn the industrial detergent hose full blast right away on the walls and bottom of the motel's old indoor pool, empty now except for twenty king-size black vinyl mattresses lining the bottom around a drain grate the size of a manhole. Two diving boards extended out over the drained pool.
Lee always turned up his heavy metal station first and lit up a joint and took his sweet time getting started, sniffing in the bouquet of fresh latrine stinks from the day's pissing and shitting scenes, because that's what he and about a hundred other local guys knew happened there every afternoon steps from the mall: piles of guys pissing and shitting on and in each other for hours.
Their "casual drifting" into the Spa towards the middle of every day was a piece of work: academy award performances of nonchalance, "oblivious " to each other as they stepped into the Spa for their "workouts"--guys who connected with ordinary guys in all the ordinary ways everywhere else in San Diego like straight guys anywhere, in banks, examining rooms, luncheonette counters, you name it. Everybody was totally cool and knew that all the other guys would be; they also knew they were not just your average guys who play disgusted when they get a whiff of the thermonuclear disasters they cut when they're alone, or check their holes for greasy shit-tang in bed at night, or once in a while when they're stoned do the old "glass-of-warm-beer" scene--but guys who had tasted plenty of shit from other guys' holes and knew how to gulp down hot piss from other cocks besides their own, guys who knew their scene was being public toilets for guys.
Once they were safely in the tunnel leading from the Spa's sub-basement fuckplay would begin. It was a tradition that when the regulars noticed a new guy they would suddenly show him scenes to try to make him shoot the load they knew he was trying to save. New guys knew about the tradition; they just never knew when or how hot the scene would be, like say a young stud with a fantastic butt suddenly bending over right in front of them, spreading his cheeks and blowing a hot, ripe one straight into their face, or sudden orgies, seven or eight guys sucking and rimming each other while looking desperately at the new guy and begging him to get into it with them. Sometimes one of the regulars would volunteer to slide out his shiny four-foot golden load in soft loops with a slick popping sound. But the new guy would always try to keep his cum until far along into the main scene so he could keep taking in the scene as long as possible with his drooling dick in a tight, aching upward curve.
The main party was always in the drained indoor pool, and as guys arrived and began to guzzle the free beer they would find lounging spots on the terrace of vinyl mattresses to watch the "starter scene" in the middle of the empty pool. A favorite opening scene was twenty or so sweating Latino dancers swaying to make their cocks slap around to a pounding disco beat and hoarse young male vocals: "I gotta suck and fuck, can't stop fucking, can't stop fucking, yeah, yeah," continuing with "I wanna be your toilet, man, and lap your shit and piss all day! Uh! Uh! Uh!" As the beat pounds on the guys can see that some of the drops splattering on them from the dancers as they slowly jack aren't just sweat anymore: steady yellow streams are starting to come from the ends of the dancers' cocks. The streams become stronger. Some spatter against the other dancers' stomachs, some on the mattresses, and some always reach to the guys sprawled on the mattresses, making them hump up and flop around and jack faster or grab their dicks sideways to bend them back from the edge of just starting to cum. The dancers yip as they feel each other's hot urine, dancing harder into the beat. Several dancers' faces pinch up just as one of them blushes deep red, a "yes-that-was-my-fart" red. "Baby, you-oo-oo stink" one giggles, and the other dancers join him in sniffing the air and lurching and straining toward the ass of the guy who farted. His fart rinses through the fountains of piss, a hot smothering stink that means the urinal scene has graduated to full toilet. A dancer times a thunderclap fart to rip just as he does an open-ass bump, and the others curse and dance as silent farts wisp and curl around the room from several holes at once. The cocks all prong up, curved back like tight-as-steel monster hot dogs. They stare into each other's eyes, dancing closer and closer. A stink of old burning metal and stale sauerkraut fills the air as each guy takes a shit to the beat, catching warm hamburger, pizza, rice and beans, cornflakes, and french-fry turds in their palms and smearing everybody around them, the nasty smell drifting off and leaving behind a sharp, buttslick tang, twenty flavors of brown manstink, a woodsmoke spice of ripe male hole. They bump and slide against each other, fucking to the music in smears of shit. The dancers back away from each other a little, their heads tilted back, their eyes closed, as they sniff like dogs. Molten lightning bolts from their piss-slits crisscross as they jab their fingers into their dirty holes, their cum sheeting widely as they scream loud fuck-grunts. The other "motel guests" roll back and forth and jerk and eat their own piss and shit to show all the other guys in the room how bad they want to eat male shit and drink male piss. By this time warm water is starting to pool up an inch or so above the vinyl mattresses, just enough to float turds--dark bitter ones, veggie gold ones, grayish-tan weenie shapes, soft piles, corkscrews, all floating in the warm water with mounds of pissfoam at mouth level for the guys writhing on the mattresses, hot guys from every race and color and class in the city shitting and cumming, jacking and pissing in a nonstop blur of slamming male bodies.
Nobody else at the mall in the afternoons would hear or smell anything from the old motel, or if they did, figure out that's where it was coming from. Their hearing no longer even registered the clangs and thumps and yells from the construction site that imploded into the grinding hum of the boulevards all day, and whiffs of herb could come from anywhere. The scenes at the Pacific Breeze went on just steps away from knots of girls outshreiking each other, boys nonchalantly shoplifting, and moms in curlers managing toddlers, totebags, dropped toys.
Part 2
Jeff's face was beginning to be a familiar one at the mall. The rest of his pack had trekked on months before, maybe college, maybe wherever, leaving the turf his. That was okay with him, but then just about anything was. Always tall, he still loped like a boy sometimes, but more and more moved like a slinky cat, absorbed by the feel of his bare shithole against the seam of his rolledup denim cutoffs. Did anybody notice, he wondered. Did it matter? Whichever, it was funny, like everything else. Sometimes his hazel eyes flashed an urgent "Let's fuck!" from behind his dirty blond curls that startled older male passers-by until they recovered a second later and warned themselves that the kid's attention, if it focused anywhere, must have been on some new-age comic book he had just palmed. More likely though Jeff was just taking a break from rounds of his favorite stalls.
At first, about a year before, he would go in just to take a quick whiz like anybody else. Then, once, he was sure he had to crap real bad and rushed into one of the stalls and squatted his bare white butt back and pulled one cheek outwards and put his weight on it and then leaned to pull the other cheek outwards and then shifted his full weight to the inside curves of both cheeks to stretch his crack open and make his hole the size of an oreo cookie but it turned out to be just a burning fart that ripped and echoed around the wet bowl. Half-expecting to see his weapons-grade fart melt the tiles, he noticed a good magic-marker drawing of a guy sniffing another guy's mouth and asking him whose shit he's been eating and the other guy saying it was a lot of different guys' shit and "Lap it up, man, because it tastes so fuckin good!" Jeff's buddies always sneered about the queer shit on the walls of the can and then would usually talk for a while about a teacher everybody knew was a homo and then go on to plan ways to get beer so they could get shitfaced.
As time went on Jeff secretly checked out all the stalls, knowing not to go in too much when the other guys were around. When they were around and he got hot, he would pretend to hold in a load until one of them would say "So go take a fucking shit, asshole, before you crap your fucking pants. We'll wait." He loved that one drawing, and came back to that stall every time the coast was clear. He started trying to guess which guys he saw walking around the mall might be into sniffing their own toilet paper, his cock dripping a sticky spot into the crotch of his cutoffs as he looked at asses stuffed into tight denims, wondering which ones had major loads still in them and which ones had skid marks on their jockeys. He pictured cute guys shitting their pants, or just sliding out shiny brown coils on the floor, and would pretend when he cut one himself that it was some other hot guy's fart he was smelling.
He thought it was kind of funny that the maintenance guy at the Spa would turn him on most. He had seen Lee many times before, but lately all Jeff could think of was how much turd there might be in Lee's hole, how much it stunk, and how many times a day he shit--big loads of shiny brown logs, or soft piles with hot power farts packing a whole room with stench--whether he pissed the same time he shit or went back and forth from pissing to shitting. Jeff made it into a little game for himself, a one-man toilet orgy in his head starring the Spa's maintenance man.
One morning as the mall was slowly starting to fill up Jeff spotted a kid he definitely did not want to run into and quickly stepped sideways into the entrance area between the display windows of a store that hadn't opened up yet. The moment he did so he realized he had also stepped through an invisible wall into a furnace of concentrated ass gas just cut by none other than the maintenance guy, who had obviously ducked in a moment before for an emergency of his own, a hole-blistering fart that couldn't wait.
"Sorry."
It was the first time Jeff had ever heard the guy's voice. His reflex was to duck back out into the mall, but he heard his own voice in his head: "Hey, shithead! Enjoy it!" So he decided to play stupid and stare into the store display windows like he was seriously considering buying a Swiss army knife or a walkie-talkie, for the first time openly feasting on a fart really from another hot guy's hole! In recent weeks Jeff had in fact started to do some real scenes based on his fantasies, like skipping wiping so he could build up thick smears in his crack and poke a finger in and then sniff the ripe finger while he walked around. He had started to catching shit in a plastic bowl instead of dumping in the toilet bowl and then spreading a coating of it around his mouth so he could lick it and swirl its bitterness around in his mouth as he jerked off.
As he stood near Lee he could feel his dick getting hurting hard and pretended to have to check out the cameras in other display window so he could turn and give Lee a clear shot of the cannon in his crotch, sticky spot and all. Lee caught the action, hoarsely muttering "Yeah!" His own piece thickened as he 'casually' ran his hands around his cock and butt, staring straight into Jeff's eyes.
Jeff suddenly began pounding his closed fist against his button fly and whimpered helplessly about ten times, his clenched ass snapping forward spastically each time, sweating red-faced and cursing as his little sticky spot turned into a lake. This brought Lee to a ten-gun salute all over the crotch of his jeans, groaning for guys' shit and piss just loud enough for Jeff to hear, which forced Jeff into fuck number two as his balls strained so hard to re-empty they began to ache. No sense either one of them stepping back into the mall now, as they panted "Yeah!" and "Hey, OK!" and "All right, man!" Jeff heard himself tell Lee he sure was very hungry and really liked to eat a lot. A lot. "Me too," Lee rasped. "Meet me in front of the Spa at five. I know a place close to here where we can go."
I welcome your comments. Bkcycler@aol.com (Dan)