1. Cam

It was a glory hole.

A bona fide, true-blue glory hole.

I stared at it with a mixture of wonder and skepticism, forgetting my open fly, my dick in my hand as I eyed the hole cut into the wood of the bathroom stall I'd bounded into like a racehorse on the loose. Damn Sprites. I needed to slow down on them. Then again, if not for the three I'd downed between my banshee dancing to Lush's amazing DJ, waiting for the line of urinals at the front of the bathroom might have been an option, and I wouldn't have stumbled upon this eighth wonder of hedonism. I'd never seen a glory hole outside of certain video categories on the Hub, and I'd always assumed they were some kind of cheesy relic of the past, like handlebar mustaches and payphones. As in, not a thing people still actually used.

Maybe they didn't? Maybe it was an aesthetic choice or a tongue-in-cheek wink to a bygone era? I squinted at the hole. I had questions. Like, had the owners asked for it to be built into their plans? I grinned to myself, imagining that conversation. Or maybe one of the club's patrons cut it into the wall at some point? Who the hell would bring a jigsaw into a club, though? No, the better question was who could get into a club with a jigsaw. This wasn't some Podunk roadhouse. It was a recently revamped and rebranded destination spot, one I'd driven forty minutes outside of Silver Ridge to find, endured being patted down by a very thorough doorman, and charged a ridiculous cover fee for entry. I'd come for the dancing and because I'd assumed it wouldn't be overrun with drunk U students, which it wasn't, thank fuck. So this was an extra perk.

I couldn't wait to tell Jesse. He was definitely gonna get a kick out of this.

Did people still use them, though? Or was that only a porn thing? I was clueless. Jesse would probably know. Or maybe Eric. Shit, I'd put money on Eric having used one at least once. That seemed like something he'd do. Mark and Chet? No way.

The hole was more an oblong oval than circular, and the interior looked as if it had been sanded smooth. Above it, among the other graffiti that peppered the stall, written in thick black Sharpie, was an arrow pointing down to it with the words "Anonymous Nirvana" on top. There were other designations surrounding it.

"Here there be orgasms."

"Suck or be sucked."

I squinted to read them in the dim, peach-hued light while around me, the music thumped and voices chattered from the urinals. Someone let out a dramatic shriek and called someone else a bitch. I ran my finger around the inside of the hole. Yep, smooth as satin.

A familiar leaden sensation churned in the pit of my stomach. Living with four other roommates, three of whom were in disgustingly healthy and loving relationships, had forced me to become accustomed to it. But sometimes the weight of envy was a lot to bear.

I wasn't low enough that I'd contemplate the heights of bridges or anything, but it was a thrumming void in my bones, a feeling I was missing out. I'd embraced a sober lifestyle since overdosing on pills almost two years ago. I ate, slept, and breathed school and my shifts at one of Silver Ridge's popular off-campus cafes. I didn't engage in drama. I didn't sleep around or party. I didn't skip classes, meetings, or work. I kept my head down and my focus on graduating since I'd fallen behind. So, I didn't think what I was feeling was loneliness in the strictest sense of the word, which would sound ungrateful, given that I shared a house with four awesome roommates who were also friends, but it also wasn't not loneliness.

I didn't know what the fuck to call it.

I zipped my pants, still eyeing the scribbles on the walls, then shrank back from the hole instinctively as someone entered the stall next to me.

Something clattered to the floor amidst a curse and came skidding my way in a kaleidoscope of bright light. After a beat of hesitation, I reached out the tip of my shoe, nudged the rogue cellphone back, and got a faintly audible "thanks" in return. There was a flash of a hand, a gleam of light catching on gold—a watch, maybe—as the guy picked the phone up.

That should've been my cue to get out of there, but when I didn't hear anything else from the other stall, I eased back to the far side of mine and peered at the hole. Without having my eye right up against it, combined with the dim lighting, it was hard to make out much more than the impression of a figure in dark pants, the glow of the guy's screen illuminated one hand. I didn't dare stick my eye to the hole, though. That'd be a huge invasion of privacy, and I was probably toeing the line already. Maybe? I had no idea what glory hole etiquette was.

I shrank back again at the sound of a biting curse—this one less frustrated than when he'd dropped his phone and tinged with what sounded like resignation.

Light flashed through the hole again, as if the guy was replying to a text, and then the stall went dark and quiet.

I held still, listening to the noises around me, listening for the guy to leave because I was oddly self-conscious about walking out now.

Except the guy still didn't leave. Was he waiting for someone?

Then, it dawned on me. Shit. He knew I was in here, the two of us separated by the thin wooden wall and one glory hole that might as well have had neon lights around it for as attention-grabbing as it was. Had he assumed I was in here waiting for a dick? Was he waiting for me to make a move? Was my presence in here some kind of widely accepted sign I didn't know about? How did this shit work?

At the same time my brain overheated trying to figure out the parameters of glory hole usage in a club, a tiny thrill rolled up my spine, gathering momentum and heat as it crept up the back of my neck.

I hadn't messed around with anyone in I couldn't remember how long. Between balancing my schoolwork, shifts at the cafe, and dealing with my parents, I didn't have the mental bandwidth for another person, but fuck, I missed touching someone. And being touched. Sure, Jesse and Sam would sometimes rope me into their couch cuddle sessions back at home, but it wasn't the same as true intimacy. I missed orgasms that didn't come from my own hand. I missed the feel of warm skin under my fingertips—or what I remembered of it. I'd been so fucked-up on pills my sophomore year I could barely remember any of my first experiences with other guys, which still bummed me out when I thought about it.

I had a profile on Grindr and a couple of other dating apps but hadn't had the guts to use them yet. What if I was too broken? What if no one wanted to hook up with me? It wasn't like I had tons of experience. Or at least experience that I remembered.

But something like this? Something anonymous and quick? Something that didn't require any awkward getting-to-know-you conversations or expectations? Something that didn't require me to even have a name or a past? God, I was into the idea so much more than I expected to be. It could be an interesting way to test the waters without having to worry about seeing the other person ever again. Or even seeing them in the first place.

I'd been a straight arrow for months on end, and I missed feeling a little impulsive, a little reckless. A tremor of excitement and nerves made my hand shaky as I extended it, finally remembering some of the glory hole porn scenes I'd watched on the Hub in the past. Nervous that I was too out of touch and about to be totally cringe, I slid two fingers through the hole and, with a fortifying breath, beckoned.

I snatched my hand back, breath ballooning in my chest until I saw black spots and released it. I watched the hole raptly, ready to die of humiliation, even if I'd be doing it under the blessed cover of anonymity.

Nothing.

The sting of embarrassment replaced the anxiety, and I shook my head at myself before it could fully settle in. Shame wasn't necessary. I wasn't doing anything wrong, and besides, whoever the guy on the other side was, he'd never be more than a faceless stranger to me. I could just wait here until he was gone and then walk out. No one would be any the wiser.

Except, once again, he didn't leave.

Was he hesitating? Considering my offer? Or was he about to go report a creeper in the club's bathroom. Fuck, I'd definitely never live down that humiliation.

Lonely college student arrested for being total skeezer in gay club bathroom. Ugh. Depressing and humiliating.

And then there was a shift of light near the hole. A darkening. I tensed with anticipation, pulse skyrocketing as my dick perked.

The guy's cock wasn't fully erect, but it was on its way, swollen glans starting to peek out of his foreskin. He was a nice size, nice shape. I didn't have a lot of personal experience with dicks that I could remember, but I liked what I saw and was sex-starved enough to wrap my hand around him before I fully registered what I was doing. He felt good in my hand. Warm. Alive. Solid. Human. God, I'd missed that feeling. On the other side of the wall, I thought I heard a sigh turn into a sexy groan as I pumped the stranger's shaft a few times and teased my fingers up and down his thickening length to see how he responded.

"Fuck." Somehow, I heard the quiet curse, tinged with pleasure rather than exasperation. "That's perfect." The encouragement seeped under my skin and sent my dick from half-mast to full throttle. God, I really was way more into this than I ever thought I'd be. I didn't think I'd ever had a glory hole fantasy before, but now it was full-blast tantalizing.

I wanted to taste him, feel his heat and hardness in my mouth, use my tongue to make him come undone.

Safety, though. I fumbled a condom from my back pocket. I'd been carrying it around like a lucky rabbit's foot for the last three months, in case I got a wild hair and decided to follow through on human contact. It was better than nothing. I dropped it on the floor with a curse and had to let go of him to retrieve it and tear it open.

The guy moaned again as I rolled it onto him, and relief poured through me. There were never condoms in blowjob porn, and I'd half expected he might retreat when he felt me putting one on him. Instead, he pushed insistently against my hand as I gripped his base.

Truth be told, I hadn't given much head in my life, couldn't remember much of it, and never with a condom on, but there was something oddly erotic about the barrier, the way I could feel the heat of his skin through it, the ultra-smooth texture when I leaned forward and swirled my tongue around his tip before closing my mouth over him.

"That's it," came another murmur that sounded like praise and far more than I probably deserved, considering the condom between us. But maybe he was into the anonymity of the experience, too. I imagined what it must be like on the other side, the enigmatic pleasure of the unknown, not being able to predict what would come next. It made me harder. I quickly unzipped my pants, using my free hand to stroke myself as I took the stranger farther into my mouth. I didn't mind the faint taste of the poly that made up the condom. On the contrary, it somehow added to the experience.

The gruff moans and soft praise coming from the other side of the stall satisfied a craving I hadn't even realized I'd had. It wasn't just that I missed touching and being touched, I missed pleasing someone, feeling wanted.

I inhaled through my nose and took the guy's cock deeper, working his base with my hand. With every thrust into the back of my throat, I pushed myself to test my gag reflex, determined not to let it stop me.

This was exactly the kind of release I needed. Raw, intense pleasure without any strings attached.