ccasionally, I enjoy using the restroom. When I'm at home, I call it the bathroom. In public, it's the restroom. And it's always a pleasurable experience. Back when I was employed by quite a large, multi-national corporation (no, not Fox News Corp.), my fellow workers and I were sometimes subject to random drug tests to ensure that we were straight—er, I mean, drug-free.
One of the popular bumper stickers/tee shirts that protested this invasion of drug-privacy said, "Pee for enjoyment, not for employment." At the time, I had never really considered enjoying the act of peeing. Yet, the concept is sound. I'm not saying I get any kind of sexual fulfillment out of it (other than the fact that when I pee, my hand is in its favorite spot anywhere). My own fetishes definitely eschew the concept of pissing on dudes (or being pissed on by a dude) as a means of sexual stimulation. But that's just my bent, as it were. If it turns you on, piss on. Me, I choose to piss off, if you will.
But I digress. Let's get to the point of this little ditty.
As I alluded above, I was enjoying myself in a restroom recently, and when I emerged from my stall, I bumped into a shirtless guy who was standing in front of the mirror (I think the Brits call them reflectors, no?), taking selfies (I think the Brits call them self-portraits, no?). The dude was stage-ready muscle. Ginormous, ripped and beautifully tanned (in a tank-top-print kind of way). As an added benefit, the phone he used to take said selfies was my favorite brand.
He saw me come out (from the stall) and immediately dropped his hand (holding his phone) to his side, blushing. "Oh, I didn't know there was anyone here," he said. Despite his obvious embarrassment and coy demeanor (which, BTW, gave me a boner—even without the attached body), his voice was deep and resonant (which only added to the bonerific effect of the whole situation).
Noting his obvious distress in having been discovered, I took the opportunity.
"Oh, please," I smiled. "Don't let me interrupt anything, sir. I was just taking a private little piss. You know, getting pleasure from said activity."
He smiled, still shy: "Oh, thank you. I certainly didn't mean for you to see me in this state," he said, glancing down at his well-muscled, bare torso.
"Please," I insisted. "Your state is in no way offensive to me." I made a point of allowing my gaze to caress the aforementioned muscles. He seemed to take note. He lifted one eyebrow (how do people do that?) and seemed to struggle with suppressing a smile. "In fact," I ventured, "I find your development... quite remarkable."
He allowed his smile to fully form now. "Really?" He re-checked himself in the reflector, then looked back at me. "I'm flattered. And pleased."
"Oh, I can assure you: stumbling out of my stall and coming upon such a visage of physical perfection... the pleasure is truly mine."
We talked for awhile, in front of that reflector. He responded well to my requests for an occasional flex and pose. I asked him if he was getting cold, standing there in the stark nakedness of the public restroom. He nodded slightly. Minutes later we were running through the rain, under an umbrella (I think the Brits call them bumbershoots, no?), toward a waiting car.