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“Hold up, Mr. Roboto,” he says with a laugh. “You can spare five minutes from your quota crushing and your bladder. I’ve got to get back anyway, but I wanted to tell you it’s my turn for the season pass. Are you up for Saturday?”
Mark lives for his turn at seeing the Seattle Mariners games from passes he goes half on with his cousin. I’m flattered he invites me, but I can only tolerate a certain number of crowded public outings per year. Seeing that in the last fifteen minutes, it’s been pointed out that I never take vacation and I’ve been called ‘Mr. Roboto’, though, I nod. A bit of forced peopling will probably be good for me.
“Sure. Thanks for thinking of me.”
“Cool. I’ll pick you up at—”
“I’ll drive,” I cut him off at the thought of being stuck in the passenger seat at the mercy of his haphazard driving. Making the journey from Bellevue to the stadium in Seattle with someone else is cringeworthy enough as it is. “It’s the least I can do,” I add.
“Alright. Sure.”
I now have three minutes to take care of business. Walking toward the restroom, I roll my shoulders, determined to not let my short countdown agitate me. When I glance in the mirror, however, my unruly hair is enough to make me forget all sense of time.
I hate my hair. Probably because I hate excessive use of hair products that could mold my wild waves into something tamer, but the thought of feeling like I have a concrete helmet on is not appealing. Wetting my hand at the sink, I force down a few of the rogue locks that are sticking up more than my liking before I head to the urinal.
The door hinges squeal, bringing in a draft of air from the hallway. I hear footsteps on the tile floor behind me and focus on tuning them out to finish my business. A body appears in my peripheral, however, and a dress shirt clad shoulder nearly touches mine.
Someone has bad ‘urinal etiquette’. Everyone knows it’s common courtesy to take a urinal at least one down from one that’s in use.
“Hey,” a chipper voice greets me, forcing my gaze to my neighbor.
As I gape, trying to search my brain for restroom greeting responses, I’m completely stupefied. Cameron Fairway. Cameron Fairway and his very non-Fairway sandy hair and his obnoxiously youthful skin.
I manage something that sounds like a grunt before I focus on the white tile in front of me, willing my dick to get over the interruption. He’d better not start trying to chat me up while we take a piss. Nothing could kill my stream faster than when we were kids on the orchard, running off to the woods to take a leak and Jesse wouldn’t shut up. Like all little brothers, he just had to follow me everywhere.
Mark and I chin nod, if anything. No words. Even for as much as Mark talks, he gets it. I’ve probably got a decade on Baby Fairway, though. Maybe he’s got baby brother syndrome.
It’s oddly quiet. Not only is the fact that I can’t finish frustrating, but I realize I don’t hear anything from the urinal invader. For some reason, the presence of something else in my peripheral has my gaze glancing down and to my left.
Mother. Of God.
That is a huge cock.
Huge. Fucking huge.
Is it even real?
Well, of course, it’s real. Who would put a fake dick in their pants and point it at a urinal?
My brain becomes aware that I’m gawking at another man’s cock, but the thickened girth of it prevents me from tearing my gaze away. There is no way that it can normally look that size, can it? It’s hard, or at least half-hard. It’s got to be, but still…
The realization that he’s still not pissing has my heart rate speeding up. I do the exact opposite of what my instincts tell me not to do—make eye contact to see if he noticed.
My throat closes up like a guilty privacy-thief as his cerulean eyes stare back at me. I’ve been caught. Of course, I’ve been caught. Shit. How long was I gaping at it?
His parted lips are one more indicator of confirmation. Like a vacuum, my breath and time come back to me, both accelerated. I whip my gaze to the dick it belongs on and zip up, trying to go about it nonchalantly.
I just gawked at my boss’ son’s dick. I don’t gawk at anyone’s body parts. I learned that lesson the hard way when I was eleven and walked into Miranda’s room to ask her if I could have some notebook paper. All I saw was a split second of her fastening her bra before she started shrieking like a banshee. Her reaction startled me so much that I turned and ran right into the damn wall. She told Mom I was peeping on her. Peeping! I just needed some fucking paper. I didn’t even fathom that she had boobs before ‘The Incident’.
Mom and Dad gave me curious looks for months after that, like they wondered if I had developed other behaviors they needed to watch for aside from my hygiene and organization rituals. It was… horrible.
I head for the sink, although it's the first time in my life I want to forgo washing my hands. All I can hear in my head is Miranda’s shrieking.
I don’t even know if he took his piss. I was too focused on my own actions, but he sidles up to the sink next to mine. My face is burning, listening to his water run as I concentrate on getting the suds off my skin. He makes a soft throat-clearing sound, which triggers every paranoid cell in my brain to life.
Did he clear his throat to get my attention? To talk out what just happened? Or is it a nervous sound because he’s also trying to ignore what I just did?
Logic tells me I’m overthinking the entire thing because that’s what I do, right? I’ll ignore it. The entire incident. Just like he’s probably trying to ignore it by making that casual throat-clearing sound he made.
