dirty stories, fiction

The Bradley Shower Pole

Content: bathhouse, anonymous sex, cis and trans men, blow jobs, (self) objectification, brief mentions of body dysphoria, glory hole, shower, tdick, anonymous sex, penetration

Jaime found the darkest little cubby, where he could barely see, and dropped carefully to his knees in front of the open hole. He adjusted the towel around his waist and waited.

He waited until his knees started to hurt. He fidgeted with the edge of the towel. He itched for the familiar distraction of scrolling through Instagram on his phone. He adjusted the pinch of the elastic band around his upper arm, the one the bearded, tattooed man at the front desk had given him with his locker key and a little plastic tag that said “392” on it.

The house music drowned out most sounds. He was trying to remember how to meditate when he felt, more than heard, a gentle bang on the wall. Then a dick appeared through the hole. Factory-installed. The flashing laser lights bounced off of the black walls and occasionally found him for long enough to kind of see the hole cut into plywood wallboard, and the shape, the general size. Light skinned, but he couldn’t really tell in the shadows.

He started with his hand, stroking, then quickly took it into his mouth. Half-hard. The smell of sweat, the tickle of hair on his nostrils when he sucked it deeper into his mouth. That smell of men was comforting to him, and dropped down into his pelvis like a firecracker. He could feel his dick starting to clench and swell, and he started to get that itch of desire, that craving to rub himself.

He had scoped out the glory holes the last time he was here, and decided that next time, he was going to try it.

He adjusted his knees so his heel pressed against his own dick, and gently rocked against it. He moaned a little, but it was muffled by the dick in his mouth. Not very big, but big enough to give that satisfactory feeling of his mouth being filled. Still mostly soft. Maybe a little softer than when he started. He probably wasn’t going to come. But that was just fine with Jaime.

In and out, some pressure with his hand at the base, his wrist pressed into the wall. He missed having someone’s hands in his hair, pushing on his head. After a few minutes, the dick withdrew. He saw a flash of the white towel through the hole in the wall as the person readjusted, then walked out of view.

His heel was wet from his own juices. He changed positions again to give his knees a break. And waited.

It didn’t take as long this time. Another dick. Thicker, but still pretty short. Jaime liked them short; he could swallow them deep and barely gag, but still get that deep breath of sweat and a tickle of fur. He was starting to get a sense of what he liked. This was his third time at Steamworks, and it was almost feeling comfortable, like he belonged here. Or like, maybe someday, he could.

He focused on this new dick, licking the shaft, flicking his tongue over the frenulum, sucking the head all the way into the back of his mouth. He lost himself in the rhythmic pleasure of it, pulsing to the beat of the heavy house music. His front hole was gushing now, and he could feel the wet drip from him to the floor, open and exposed. He wondered if he pressed his ass against the hole if the other man would fuck him. If he offered two holes, instead of one, which would the man choose?

The dick he diligently sucked, practically worshiped, was stiffening again in a way that Jaime thought meant the man might come, but he pulled out instead with a few grunts. Jaime was a little disappointed. He would have taken the man’s come, would have loved to have that thick, sticky taste of it hit the back of his throat, and never known which man it was when he went back out to the big room. A secret thrill. One so many of the men here surely knew, if they ever wanted to.

It was a test, really. Even though everyone was explicitly allowed in on Gender Fuck party nights, he still wanted to feel what it would be like to be in a men’s space, to be fucked by men as a man. He still wanted to feel what it would be like to cruise, to choose, to give the slightest nod, to be groped in a hallway without even a hello. He wanted to be a hole to fuck, to be used. Well, he’d be using them, too. Look at the glory hole — he wasn’t even seeing their faces. He just wanted their dicks, mostly. Though a hand on his head really would be nice. And maybe just a little eye contact.

He waited for another dick to come through his hole, the glory hole he was now thinking of as his. Certainly his favorite glory hole. His dick was swollen and throbbing, aching for touch. He clenched and released his internal muscles and felt it flex, felt the walls of his hole tighten and release. He wanted to get fucked.

Slowly, he rose from his knees and bent at an awkward angle trying to get his cunt and ass to line up with the hole. His belly was a little in the way to bend at this angle, but he managed, and could feel the slightly different flow of air over the wet folds of him as he pressed into the wall. The paint was probably sticky. Was this even safe, offering himself up like this? It could be anyone. This was risky behavior. He had calculated. He had thought this through. It could be anyone, and that’s what he liked about it. Right now, he was just a hole for the taking. Surely, some of these men knew their way around a cunt.

He waited, knees burning, in a partial squat against the wall, braced with one hand on either side wall. The glory hole spaces were made for just one body at a time.

Minutes passed. He tried to count his breaths, one through eight, then back to two, up to eight again, then start at three, all the way to eight. He kept losing track and starting over, but that’s what meditation is, isn’t it. Starting over. Again and again. Beginning fresh, without the weight of failure or shame or negative self-talk. He started thinking about his groceries, the laundry he hadn’t finished. His mind meandered to the computer programming book he was reading for his job, to what restaurants were between him and his apartment on 15th and which one he’d stop at on the way home. Then, he’d come back to himself, to his dark little corner with his hole exposed on the other side of the wall, and breathe again, and try to focus.

His hips and knees were starting to burn.

All I am right now is a hole, he told himself, over and over, like a prayer. Just a hole for the taking. Just a warm, wet thing, a sheath, a place to get stuffed. Please, please. He wanted it. He was probably still dripping. What a sight he would be from the other side of the wall.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, feeling desperate and even a little pathetic. What more could he offer? “Please, fuck me.”

That was when he felt fingers, rough and dry and thick, shoving deep into his front hole. He almost fell over, but had his hand in front of him on the other wall, braced. He cried out immediately and pressed back into the wall, into the other man’s hand.

The fingers weren’t all that good at what they were doing. Just poking, exploring. Then they withdrew. He heard grunts, or he thought he did, it was hard to tell over the loud house music. Then, something softer against his opening.

Please let it be a cock, please, he pleaded in his mind, though found himself mouthing the words. “Please, I want your cock,” he whispered.

It wasn’t that big. A few years of fucking dykes with their choose-your-own-adventure straps, and he got used to the big monsters, the ones thicker than a fist. It’s different to go back to the factory-installed variety after some time away. Softer. Sometimes it doesn’t feel like anything more than a tickle, a little pressure. But still, he prefers it. It feels right. There’s something more satisfying.

He tried to ease back on it, to take it deeper, but he couldn’t really go anywhere pressed up against the wall. He pressed anyway. He couldn’t really open any wider, his ass spread apart, but he reached back with his hands and counterbalanced his weight, leaning forward, and spread open his holes with his fingers. He’s so slick. He can feel it going in and out.

All I am right now is a hole.

All I am is a hole.

All I am —

All —

All —

His mind calmed, quieted, in that way that it only does when there is a cock deep inside. Something in his chest unwound, spiraling outward, through his shoulders and hips, through his fingers and toes. He had no words. He was nothing but a hole, nothing but made for this, nothing but open, open, open.

“All I am is a hole.” The words skated across his mind, the idea of the words, the idea behind the idea, and he didn’t have any words, didn’t have any thoughts. Blank boy. No thinking. Just a hole.

He was lost, not even in his body anymore, except that he could feel everything, every whisper of air current changeing against his skin. Where is his towel? On the floor. He didn’t notice when that fell. Probably filthy now, but he wasn’t thinking about that. What can he do? Nothing. Nothing, he’s just a hole. Just a hole for the taking. That’s it, take me. Take everything. Leave me empty. Leave me filled.

He felt shuddering against his ass, more pressure, a throbbing inside of him. Then the cock, the man attached to the cock, withdrew. No fanfare, no grunting (not that Jaime could hear, anyway). No announcement of orgasm or coming or jizz or being a good little hole for the man’s pleasure. Just air, where there was warmth. Just the house music suddenly flooding back into Jaime’s ears. Just the laser light dance in front of his eyes. Just the towel on the floor, and Jaime’s sticky hole.

His mind wasn’t working. No thoughts, only hole. What does he need? Warmer. Wash off. He headed to the shower. The men he passed in the hall checked him out visibly, obviously. One of them was holding his towel over his dick, not around his waist. He had a sexy chest, beefy with a good amount of hair. One of them stared at the scars on his chest. He doesn’t say anything. The smile and sparkle in his eye contact told Jaime he was intrigued.

There were other men in the shower, three of them at one of the shower towers, one at the other. They watched him as he approached. Side eye; quick glances, then looking away — or long hard stares. Jaime shivered a little, though it was warmer in here, and the mist was making it humid.

He took an empty shower head between two men. Is this what high school gym locker rooms were like? Is this what I would’ve felt in high school, had I been a guy in the locker room with the other guys? Guys older than me, more developed? Hairier, bigger, voices already dropped? His thoughts came slowly, through a fog, more of a flash of a high school scene and a question, almost a deja vu. As if he’s remembering what would have happened, in his other childhood, in his other life.

The first time he accidentally brushed the man next to him, he recoiled quickly, with a sheepish look in the man’s direction. He didn’t seem to notice. Maybe the water is stimulating enough that the touch didn’t register. Maybe he didn’t even actually touch him.

But then, the next time — a hand at his hip. Gentle pressure, fingertips pulled him back. His butt made contact first, and the man’s other hand rubbed it under the hot water, squeezing a little, tentatively, like a question. Jaime arched and pressed back further, bracing one hand on the shower pole, spreading his legs. He could feel the man’s cock, hard and jutting out, pressing against his crack, but not in the right spot. Jaime squirmed, on his tiptoes, switching his hips forward and back to try to get the right angle. The man wrapped his arms around Jaime, touching his chest and stomach, making his breath catch when he brought his hand down to the hair between his legs.

The man on the other side of Jaime was watching them. He started off rubbing soap through his chest hair and along his belly, but now he’s rubbing his dick, his eyes hungry and eating them up. He locked eyes with Jaime and didn’t look away. The man behind Jaime is dragging his finger between Jaime’s legs, but doesn’t seem to know what else to do. He smacked Jaime’s dick a little, which is more surprising than painful — water sprayed and Jaime yelped, almost slipping, but regained his footing.

The other man smiled. Jaime smiled back, feeling bold and like a hot piece of ass that everyone wants. He bent at the waist, reaching. He didn’t think he could, but he’s always had a long torso, and when he bent, he reached the other man and slid one hand along his thick thigh. He’s squat, thick, dense, and so was his dick. Jaime opened his mouth, and it took no work for the other man to slip it in.

The man behind him shifts his hands behind Jaime and starts guiding his dick into him. He tried Jaime’s asshole, but finds it tight, unlubed, and keeps going. Maybe his dick is too soft. Maybe he didn’t mean to slide right into Jaime’s front hole, but it was right there, open and slick, still full of the come from the glory hole, and it happened so easily. He had trouble getting a good angle where he can keep moving his mouth, but he kept trying, lapping with his tongue, holding on to the man’s hip and thigh, sometimes circling his fingers around his cock. Sucking, when he could, before it popped out. Desperate for it to get back in.

He realized he was fussing, trying so hard to do what would feel good for these men, and he tried to relax a little. That helped. The man behind him had him by the hips and was thrusting mercilessly. They fit together, something matched in his hipbones and Jaime’s, in the size and shape of the man’s cock with the size and shape of Jaime’s hole. It’s the click Jaime had been craving, the satisfying union, the white noise of his empty head and full hole.

Two full holes.

His arms went limp for a moment. Impaled. Only a body, only this beautiful body, this home he sometimes hates but mostly loves, the smooth chest and furry belly, the ears too big and the hands too busy, the cock small, but ideal. Just enough. Just right. It fit, somehow. It matched. And someday, it’ll fit perfectly right in someone’s mouth, the way other cocks fit into his holes, the way it feels when the sheath is just right.

A smack on his cheek. He realized he was being held up. The man in front of him tilted his face up, hand under his chest, holding some of his weight. Jaime finds the muscles of his legs, looks up at the man, blinking.

“Just checking,” he said. His hair is dark because of the water, but he’d be blond or redhead if he was dry.

Jaime’s mouth was open in an O, and he lowered it back down to the man’s dick. The man gives it to him eagerly, keeping one hand on Jaime’s shoulder. He sucked again, losing himself in it, eager and hungry. Starving. Oh please, oh please give me your come, please let me suck it, he thought. He tried to think it so loud, begging, pleading with his mouth, so that the man would hear his thoughts and understand. Please, I want to swallow it, I’m good at this, show me you like it, give it to me, please.

He didn’t know if the man behind him was going to come or not. He was still getting fucked, slower now, but thoroughly. The water was not the best lube, but it was enough that he wasn’t chafing, only occasionally feeling a tug when it wasn’t quite slick enough.

I’ll take your come, too, he thought. I’ll take it, if you give it to me. I want it. Fill me up, oh, fill up my holes with your come, please.

The steam of the shower made all the images blurry, coming in and out of focus. The red tiles, the white towels as men walk by, skinny legs and fat legs and somebody brought their own Adidas rubber sandals to wear. Men stopped, watched, looked. At him.

He brought one hand down to his dick. He tried out a few swipes but can barely touch it directly, too sensitive, too swollen. He would love to wrap something around it, like that little squishy silicone toy at home. Instead, he made his fingers into a v and pinched it a little at the base, using the folds around it to make friction, movement, sensation. Up and down. He’s so hard. He likes when it feels this swollen, this big. He can feel it contract as the man behind him kept slamming his dick inside, and he pushed on it from the outside while it’s being pushed from the inside.

It didn’t take long. He came, finally, gagging on the fat cock as it spurts at the same time, and squeezing the man behind him so hard that he can’t stay in. He yelled, but only once, before he got a hold of his reaction and keeled forward, letting himself be lowered all the way to the shower floor by the man in front of him.

He’s gone. He’s nothing. He’s a puddle under this water, rain over him, pressed against this hard tile, warm but still cooler than the water temperature.

He’s humming a little, trying to get his breath back, still seeing stars. “I’m okay,” he said, as he saw the man trying to catch his eye again. He started getting up. “I’m good. Uh,” he cleared his throat, trying to consciously lower his voice. “Thanks.”

He turned to the other man. Gave him a nod. What’s the etiquette here? A high five? “Thanks.”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice gruff, a big, dumb smile hiding under a dark beard. Jaime didn’t remember ever looking at his face before backing into him, but his chest was familiar, something comforting about the curve of his pecs, his strong arms. The man held his eye a few beats longer than he was comfortable, but as soon as he breathed, Jaime felt hypnotized, light on his feet.

He felt the other man at his back, a hand on his shoulder. “Hey now, don’t fall or nothin’.”

“No, I-I’m good,” Jaime replied. He wiped his eyes. He should get out of the steam. “Thanks. Thanks.”

With water dripping into his eyes from his hair, he found his way to a dry spot nearby and toweled off as best as he could with this thin, scratchy gym towel. If he was noticed, if his small dick or scars were stared at, he didn’t see it. He was floating, clear.

And he was starving.

He wound his way through the dark hallways, peeking into the open doors, mostly finding men sprawled naked and touching their dicks on the beds. He moved out of the way for another man to pass, dark skin in the dark light, white towel bright. He found his locker, took the band off his arm, and slid the key that said “392” into the lock.

At some unknown point after he put his gray jeans back on, and before he slid his worn in Phish tour shirt over his head, he started grinning. Like a fool; like a freshly fucked boy toy. He shivered all the way to the backs of his knees, starting from his neck, and made his way downstairs.

As he turned onto the glistening sidewalk, wet from today’s rains, the house music faded and his eyes adjusted to the absence of lasers. His body buzzed. Every pore was alive, sensate. The city glittered in front of him. He breathed deep. What didn’t smell like garbage had that distinct petrichor smell of concrete and rain, desire and satiation. He could tell his cunt would be sore tomorrow. His dick was still throbbing, humming. Pleased with himself. That was what he wanted, and he did it.

He did it.

Now, he thought, as he started the short walk home. Now, I want some spicy noodles. And he knew just the place to stop on the way.

Published by Sinclair Sexsmith

Sinclair Sexsmith (they/them) is "the best-known butch erotica writer whose kinky, groundbreaking stories have turned on countless queers" (AfterEllen), who "is in all the books, wins all the awards, speaks at all the panels and readings, knows all the stuff, and writes for all the places" (Autostraddle). ​Their short story collection, Sweet & Rough: Queer Kink Erotica, was a 2016 finalist for a Lambda Literary Award, and they are the current editor of the Best Lesbian Erotica series. They identify as a white non-binary butch dominant, a survivor, and an introvert, and they live outside Seattle as an uninvited settler on traditional, ancestral, & unceded Snoqualmie land.

2 thoughts on “The Bradley Shower Pole”

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