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Suit Shopping

8-aug-2002

I'll admit that I was nervous cruising a mall washroom. I wasn’t sure what I was shopping for. Wearing platform heels and a blond wig, I stepped gingerly through the door.

There were all varieties of men hugging the urinal wall. I blended in. I took an open spot, pulled out my girly dick and waited to see what I’d find.

In short order, all three guys were pulling on themselves. Another was at the sink, eyeing us. Behind me to the left, an enormous man lumbered from an open stall door. He looked discouraged, like he was waiting for a late appointment. Everyone was gay, it seemed, at least for the time being. No one spoke.

For nearly a half-hour, men came and went. Men masturbated. A few pumped each other’s dick. Some actually came to pee. Nobody kissed, nobody body-surfed. Disappointing. I wasn’t buying any of it. I am a queen with all kinds of sexual interests, fromthe perversetothe banal, but mute mutual masturbation is too button-down-collar to interest me.

Worse still, I couldn’t stand the interruptions. In the middle of the anti-climactic action, I kept wondering, For God’s sake, can’t someone lock that door? Each time the first of the two sets of doors squeaked open, everyone involved jumped to attention, hiding their perky pricks in the urinal basins before the intruder entered through the second door. Boring.

Then we had to wait until the new arrival gave a leer and jerked at himself too, or left. Too often, kids came in. I’m sure the inappropriateness of place and the fear of being caught are part of the appeal for some men, but I felt the bad kind of dirty. My swollen dick penetrating a piss-filled basin with sweet kids hanging around made me feel depraved. Being queer has been an upward effort to leave shame behind, not wallow in it.

I’d had enough public humiliation. I grabbed the hand of a cute suit and dragged him ,into a semi-private stall. (The voyeur in the john next to us wedged his face between the floor and the stall wall, peering up at us. Always thoughtful, we tried not to step on bins—almost successfully.)

I’d been warned that two-per-stall wasn’t safe—Security counts shoes— so I stood on the toilet seat. I introduced him to every dick’s favourite new friend: my tonsils. When the oral meat-and-greet was over, I readied myself to leave. He tut-tutted, offering to switch places. He went down on me, tendeily, which I loved.

Alas, it had to end, and, with a kiss, it did. We straightened our respective ties and panty hose and walked casually out of the stall. There were some new faces mixed In with the previous pud pullers. For a moment, I felt superior, like I was the best-dressed queen in the room. I’d found what I was shopping for: Intimacy, though by the time I washed my hands, he was gone.

Miss Cookie La Whore loves to shop, but has only tried on that one suit.