Was this the Best Cottage Ever - Part 2
Over the years I visited these toilets from time to time, usually travelling between Manchester and London or vice versa. It was always something to look forward to.
Quite often during weekdays there was not much if anything going on, but it was worthwhile stopping there nevertheless. For one thing, there was the graffiti. Pretty well all the walls were covered in it. There was the usual array of desperate lads who posted notice of what time they'd be there, gagging for cock either in their mouths or up their arses. Some of them gave phone numbers which I always thought was a bit risky. Some of them were accompanied by drawings of their equipment, usually just a crude cock and balls, sometimes with a bit of bush sticking up like bristles on their bollocks.
But occasionally there was something more poigant. One lad had written asking if the guy who had been there on a particular date at a particular time could get in touch. Presumably he'd been a dream fuck?
The one that sticks in my mind was wonderful and life affirming. It was from a guy who had been using this cottage for over twenty years, but was moving to a different area. He wrote to thank all the lads he'd shagged or been shagged by, sucked or been sucked off by, or had wanking sessions with over all these years. He mentioned some by their first names and said what a whale of a time he'd had. Good on you, mate, I thought. That's what it's all about. I hope he found somewhere half as good near his new address.
If you hung around long enough someone would turn up and sometimes, but not always, you could get into some pretty tasty sex. But if that didn't happen, or I didn't have much time, I could guarantee a good wank just reading the graffiti and letting my mind, and dick, do the rest. Unless the council had repainted the walls ...
I did once witness the aftermath of what I presume was a fairly serious crime. I'd stopped off to check out the action. There was no one there so I stood at the urinal stroking my cock waiting to see if anyone would turn up. Suddenly there was the screeching of brakes and about six guys, clad all in black, ran in. They went straight into the cubicles and quickly changed into completely different gear. Then they ran out again and the cars roared off. They paid no attention to me, which was probably as well, and I decided that today was not the day for a jerk, so I disappeared too.
I never did see the guy from the earlier post again, and I did not feel the need to write on the wall suggesting where we might meet!
Now the toilet blocks have been destroyed. But, for me at least, they leave behind a warm glow and I never pass the spot without thinking of the amount of hot spunk which flew out of cocks in those buildings or the woods behind, and the amount of happiness so many lads found there.
Quite often during weekdays there was not much if anything going on, but it was worthwhile stopping there nevertheless. For one thing, there was the graffiti. Pretty well all the walls were covered in it. There was the usual array of desperate lads who posted notice of what time they'd be there, gagging for cock either in their mouths or up their arses. Some of them gave phone numbers which I always thought was a bit risky. Some of them were accompanied by drawings of their equipment, usually just a crude cock and balls, sometimes with a bit of bush sticking up like bristles on their bollocks.
But occasionally there was something more poigant. One lad had written asking if the guy who had been there on a particular date at a particular time could get in touch. Presumably he'd been a dream fuck?
The one that sticks in my mind was wonderful and life affirming. It was from a guy who had been using this cottage for over twenty years, but was moving to a different area. He wrote to thank all the lads he'd shagged or been shagged by, sucked or been sucked off by, or had wanking sessions with over all these years. He mentioned some by their first names and said what a whale of a time he'd had. Good on you, mate, I thought. That's what it's all about. I hope he found somewhere half as good near his new address.
If you hung around long enough someone would turn up and sometimes, but not always, you could get into some pretty tasty sex. But if that didn't happen, or I didn't have much time, I could guarantee a good wank just reading the graffiti and letting my mind, and dick, do the rest. Unless the council had repainted the walls ...
I did once witness the aftermath of what I presume was a fairly serious crime. I'd stopped off to check out the action. There was no one there so I stood at the urinal stroking my cock waiting to see if anyone would turn up. Suddenly there was the screeching of brakes and about six guys, clad all in black, ran in. They went straight into the cubicles and quickly changed into completely different gear. Then they ran out again and the cars roared off. They paid no attention to me, which was probably as well, and I decided that today was not the day for a jerk, so I disappeared too.
I never did see the guy from the earlier post again, and I did not feel the need to write on the wall suggesting where we might meet!
Now the toilet blocks have been destroyed. But, for me at least, they leave behind a warm glow and I never pass the spot without thinking of the amount of hot spunk which flew out of cocks in those buildings or the woods behind, and the amount of happiness so many lads found there.
5年前
