Date: Thu, 14 Oct 2004 17:52:44 -0700 (PDT) From: gloryhole junkie Subject: Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE'S Tales from the Mall - 3 Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE'S Tales From The Mall -3 By Mr. gloryholeJUNKIE, Denizen of the Public Toilets ghj_4u@yahoo.com http://groups.yahoo.com/group/GHJ_MALL_OF_MALES Disclaimer & Warning: These "Mr. gloryholeJunkie's Tales from the Mall" are copyrighted/2004 to the author and should not be re-posted, printed or published anywhere else without the author's prior, written consent. Adhere to all legalities in your area. These tales are intended strictly for an adult male audience where the reading of such material is allowed. So if you are reading this instead of the interactive learning game, "See'n'Say for Elementary Grade School Level 1", that your parents just bought for you (and which, coincidentally, they think you're up in your room playing), the author strongly suggests that you instead go to that other "educational" amusement at this very moment! Sure, we men greatly admire your "precociousness", but you really must get back to "acceptable grade school basics", such as, "Cows go Moo" and "Cats go Meow". After all, if you're reading this, apparently your erotic literature reading skills are excellent (and we men are pretty damn sure you already know that "Daddies go Awww, son, swallooow it all!"). And if you're an adult male, whether single or a family man, you are advised to never, ever act upon your deepest and most, er, "pressing" sexual desire. Instead, it is strongly urged that you milk your daddy sausage (alone) while reading these tales rather than wandering into your son's bedroom once again with a huge boner in your Jockey shorts, asking the little guy if he can help you out like he did the last time. Give the kid a break - he's already got problems concentrating! Hell, he's trying to play the interactive learning game, "See'n'Say for Elementary Grade School Level 1" that you and your wife just bought him! Instead, if you must, find an eighteen-year-old male who looks six-years-old (start your search in a German experimental hospital) but never, ever "sexually couple with" nor put a child in a sexual position....or into a position that's sexual (gosh, that doesn't sound good no matter how one writes it)! You're the adult. He's the child. You're wearing daddy boxer shorts; he's in Tonka Toy underpants. You're six-foot-three, he's three-foot-six. You sport nine thick inches; he's boned at less than a third that length. You earn 200k a year; he feeds the dog for 3-dollars a week. Does a clearer picture need to be drawn in order for you understand the wide power and age disparity between you and your target of sexual depravity? Okay, one more. You can drive...and he's the little guy strapped into the car seat in the back. Look at him in your rear view mirror and you ought to know why you shouldn't pull off at the next rest area like you're planning. Preface: I suppose I did not have an "ordinary" childhood. But, heck, who'd want one? I was blessed to have had loads of fun as a child. Even if much of it came from the fondling, so-called "hardcore molestations" of thousands of strange men, I still perceived my childhood as great fun. And isn't most of Reality & Life really just one's own "personal perception" in the end? Some men have said, "Poor Kev, you lost your childhood being forced to service all those total strangers - some of them fifty years older than yourself at the time!" (Heck, some were SIXTY years older than I was, I tell them with a smile). I never saw my childhood in a negative way nor with any sense of deprivation. It never occurred to me that I didn't have a childhood. I mean, maybe Natalie Wood didn't have a childhood. But I did. Instead of a diminished childhood, my "playgrounds" were simply broadened out to include and incorporate men's rooms and parks, big dicks and squirt-feedings of daddymilk. By age seven, I had great fun romping around the suck woods before, during and after fellating numerous strangers along its paths. It was an adventure -one that had me foraging through foliage and cresting ridges like an Indian Scout. And in between that "fort" there and that "wagon train" o'er yonder, I'd stop and let men play with me. And that, too, was part of the adventure. Unlike other boys imagining the Old West, I didn't just wander into the "saloon", I had actual sex with the many men once I got inside. Let's face it, some kids can only "imagine" pirates and policemen and cowboys and firemen and kings and knights...and that's about it. They don't actually "encounter" any. But I, in a weird sense, got to not merely "imagine" such men, but got to encounter them quite intimately, if you will. Like other kids running along a path pretending they're being "chased" by robbers or Indians or highwaymen...I had actual, live men to play with once I got behind the "special suck tree". It was quite fun to stand before two or three men, each soaring much taller than myself, each in different "costume" (suit or baseball jackets or UPS uniform) and getting to grope their mighty bulges, to unzip them and have them all play with me. And after that, trust me, a game of tag on the school playground with your peers is a bore. Like what's the point in running around "tagging" someone if you couldn't then suck him off? It all seemed utterly pointless to me. But men, on the other hand, always came (cough) through. There was always a point to the games we'd play together. Sure, their point was to have sex with me, but they had a point, at least! So from little up, I always considered men to be extra special. They played games but always with a goal in mind. Kids my own age just seemed to be wasting time. That's not to say I chose sex over other interests or pursuits. I simply never thought it had to be a choice. Why couldn't I learn how to build a fire with my ScoutMaster AND suck his daddy cock? After all, I could walk and chew gum at the same time, so why not that? But even at seven, while kids my age were content to just, well, swim during swim practice, I never understood why our swimming couldn't end with a little poolside orgy with all our dads and coaches. It's not that I didn't love to swim, or wanted to have sex rather than swim. Its simply that I didn't find swimming and sex to be mutually exclusive. When I would swim with men, we'd have fun and swim...and then have sex. But kids my own age, swam and then...went home. They were, like, USELESS to me even at age seven! The same held true for most all pursuits in Life when you're a little cumkid. I would go into a mall men's room and "pee" but then always have a sexual encounter with a man or many men. But, if I went to the mall with other kids my own age, we'd go to the men's room, "pee" and then they'd...leave. As if we were "done" with what the men's room was designed for. Children my own age confused me. Instead, I was a kid who could cram over third-grade studies in the Public Library and also suck off men in its men's room. I could go to the Art Institute of Chicago on a field trip and also suck off a man at the urinals in its men's room. I could (and did) earn my Cub Scout nature badge by collecting leaves in the suck woods and also fellate fifteen men (and did) while on a trail. I could go to Wrigley Field to watch a baseball game with my dad and also suck off men in the men's room there. And all before I was eleven-years-of age. I never saw it as a "this or that" proposition. Sucking off men was just a natural part of my every day. I did it like anything else in my day. It wasn't something "external" or "at odds with" or "in conflict with" other things going on. I was able to fully integrate promiscuous sex with strange men into my every coming (!) or going as a child. I sucked men on my ninth birthday but also had cake and ice cream and a, well, not a pony ride, but you get the point. And yeah, I had a dad I didn't have to worry about. I mean, some parents can really put a crimp in an eight-year-old cumpig's "lifestyle". So I had a definite leg up there as well. But still, until I was thirteen, I daily had a mother that I had to concern myself with finding out. Yet as many men, especially married dads out there know, its rather stunning the things you can get away with right under the nose of some women - whether it be the nose of a wife or a mother. And I was a little cumpig child, lets not forget. I wanted to be at the open zippers of men doing those things - even if I had to rely on an adult to drive me there. :) Truth be told (aloud), what's a seven-year-old cumpig to do when he craves daddymilk and only "daddies" make the stuff? Simply being pragmatic, I had to have sex with adult men in order to get what I wanted and needed. Had you encountered me back then, you could not have pulled a big, ejaculating adult penis out of my mouth if you tried (and very few men tried, oddly enough). Men ask me, "How come you weren't dead by fifteen? So many kids having that sort of sex kill themselves." And, um, I always regard that question as their "curiosity" talking rather than some annoyance that I'm not dead. I have to say that I had a great childhood. Sure, it was loaded with tons of sex with strange men but it was also a childhood full of other wonderful things as well. But, and let's face it, you fellas beating off to porno aren't quite as interested "in the rest of the stuff" as you are in that part where a little boy is taking popshots of cum in the public toilets (funny, how that is)! My "surviving beyond teenhood" may also owe some thanks to the fact that my cum lust was embraced by my father. And one's parent is one's whole world when you're four and six and eight years of age. When you're a little guy, your dad is your "hero". So I knew it was more than "okay" to love daddymilk because my "daddy" said it was. In that way, I was allowed to become a "secure" cumpig. And often a sense of insecurity, rather than morality, is what drives homophobia or cumpig-shame, even if auto-homophobia and auto-cumpig shame. When I say that I was "raised" a cumpig cocksucker, that means more than simply sucking busloads of cock as a child. It means that I was raised to allow my true cumpig nature to become a fundamental part of my life and existence on this planet from little up. It's the same when one speaks of "having a kid" versus "raising a kid". Any family could have a son who sucks cock (and most do). But to be "raised" a cocksucking cumpig is significantly different. Let's face it, I suppose that's part of the "trick" in being happy no matter what events may have filled or colored one's childhood. Guys can say that I ought to be "fucked up" due to having so many perverts ejaculating into my little body. But you know what? I have encountered way more "fucked up" guys who, as kids, had no sex at all. And you know what, too? I have encountered way more "fucked up" guys who are fucked up because they bitterly hate their upbringing no matter the particulars. Which, I suppose stands to prove that sometimes its not the circumstances or events in one's life but the way in which one embraces or "faces" those events And then there is the fact that most of the men, strangers all, in my childhood were pretty "nice" and took it easy with me (in the beginning at least) sexually. Especially very well endowed men - they were always super sweet and took it easy, concerned that their big cocks might hurt me. So I have to admit, I wasn't encountering creepy idiots or psychopaths (I have encounter more of those on the Internet in recent years than ever in my childhood, quite frankly). As a matter of fact, I was having sex with the men - the dads, the regular joes - who populate any city or town. Most were really rather attractive men in their own ways. There was nothing "weird" about them. In fact, they were so normal, that my experiences with thousands of them in my childhood and adolescence taught me the "Truth" about male sexuality (and therefore, also about gender issues, male body image, cock size, men's insecurities, marriage, what dads really think/want, homophobia and all the libidinous gears that run most any man's sexual machine). I mean, after the five-hundreth married father of three steps up to you at age ten, unzips and puts his big, hairy erection into your mouth, you just start to get a sense that there's "something up" with lots and lots of married dads out there. And when you're eight-years-old and can go into virtually any public men's room and come out with a half-dozen loads of spemies in your system or when you can't go to a health club without doing every guy in the sauna, you just know there's something about guys that the world never quite imagines or speaks of. But still, you know it, first-hand, since you're the one polishing off a hundred cocks a week - even as a kid. And, of course, we're not merely talking about homosexual sex which is the biggest open, darkest, most secret yet most known yet least discussed, and yet most seductive, most berated, most intense, classical, sexual component in the world, which, continues to both fascinate and scare all of society. No, more specifically, we're talking men having sex with little kids, little boys, to be precise. There is something in the nature, the very essense of male sexuality, which (given its druthers), would, at times, bask in that sexual outlet to the exclusion of adult male-female coital sex. Why that is may be due to "perversion". Or it may simply be what the ancient Greeks knew of Man - his propensity for self-love and self-absorption. After all, sex with a "mini-me" is the ultimate "self centered" sex, if you will. On the one hand, screwing a male tot is having a sex toy, a cum receptacle, a little sex partner with whom one doesn't have to concern oneself with "complex" matters. In a sense, as a group of men ejaculate into a three-year-old boy, he's nothing more to them than one of those plastic twats one buys at the XXX. Yet, one the other hand and at the same time, its these men having sex, (as close as their psychologies can allow them), with their own self. They're often times "nurturing" and "loving" (yadayadayada) and giving what they think a little guy wants and needs - things perhaps they wanted or longed for or lacked in their own boyhoods. If there is a sexual fascination with "twins", there is certainly a thread of that in the sexual coupling of men and boys. And even more potently and clearly in the sexual acts between a father and his own son. And that's why married men and straight men and gay men alike, no matter their circumstances, have been found to be fascinated with such sex (whether they partake in it or not). Their wives or girlfriends are not "involved"; they are not competition; they are no match for what these men are doing with their sons and boys. It's a different place, deep within some men, that is fed through such illicit sex. In a sense, no matter what they may do to that boy sexually, what sort of sex they have with him - whether aggressive or sweet - its these men having sex or trying to "bond" with a part of themselves, and using that little guy as a conduit or tangible reflection of their own self. This third mini-collection of completely true tales relates more mall sexcapades from the author's own actual childhood. But this time, since some of you wrote to suggest that 'three tales at a time' were just too much j/o material (I don't know if that's a compliment or not), in this installment, there are only two. What's "interesting" about these two true recollections though is that neither fellatio nor sodomy are involved. Mr.gloryholeJUNKIE'S Tales From The Mall -3 Eden's Plaza, Wilmette, Illinois (Age 7, "The Spittoon") It was summertime after the first grade, so I was seven and three months old when my parents took me to spend an overnighter with my mother's parents in Winnetka. My father's sister had been in some legal battle over rights to a song she wrote and my parents wanted to be with her in court. It was always a luxurious change of scenery to stay with my grandparents. They had an incredibly huge home, a third-story loggia and an aviary filled with exotic birds. At the time they were in their late fifties, my grandfather still heading the company which owned a rather famous bookstore on Michigan Avenue. At the time, my parents had one housekeeper who would work from six in the morning until six in the evening. And as such, my grandparents had two maids who usually left by six in the evening, too. But they also had a driver, a butler and cook (a married couple) who lived in the two coach houses at the gated entry. I recall thinking, even when I was seven, 'Why don't a bunch of coaches live in the coach houses?' (And now, at forty-one, I, along with millions of other men, could not agree more!). It was a last minute decision to have me stay with them and so they didn't have anything planned for us to do on their "entertain the grandchild agenda book". The first day, I ran around the green lawns and stuck my finger into the beaks of various birds as my grandfather carefully showed them to me. But then, like all little guys, I got bored. One understands Princess Di's "boredom" with certain palatial riches. I mean, the Life Force, especially of Youth, is bigger than some jumbo gilded dining room, after all. So by late afternoon my grandparents knew that we should all go out. They figured we'd go to Eden's Plaza where my grandmother had, earlier in the week, seen a sweater set she liked but had to think about. And then we'd go out to dinner. We got to the mall at about five in the evening. It was mid-week, so there were the beginnings of a lot of regular after-work traffic at that time. We parked and went into the Carson, Pirie, Scott department store. For some reason, as we entered through the main glass doors, immediately my grandmother and grandfather went separate ways. It was only five and they never dined until seven, so we were in no real rush for whatever reservations we had for the restaurant we went to later. Maybe it was just my grandparents' independent ways, unable to shop with one another, that had them part almost the minute we walked into the store. "I'll be here looking", my grandmother said as she pointed and walked away. My grandfather had me follow him as we headed directly to the men's room. I was all excited because I loved men's rooms - was simply fascinated by them. I loved to look at men's penises hanging out of their slacks as they'd stand at the urinals. I loved doing that since as early as I can recollect. I remember going to the Illinois State Fair with my family when I was four-years-old and being in a sea of adult penises in one of the big men's rooms. Men at state fairs don't care who they're showing their prize bull meat to, after all. In fact, many men haunt state fairs just to wag the meat at little guys! So I had long been a t-room cruiser, even if just looking at what men had in their pants. My grandfather was a tall, trim, handsome man and very much the boss. You, me, all his employees and half the state of Illinois (as well as I imagine, some book publishers in NYC) did exactly what he told you to do. If he hadn't been a captain in the US Air Force in WWII, he'd have made a great SS officer in Berlin. We went inside the men's room, which was quiet. I didn't know anyone else was in there at first. My grandfather stepped up to a urinal and like most big-dicked men, unzipped as he stood about two feet back from the porcelain. I was, like, "Ohmygod! Look at my grandfather's huge penis with the skin on it!" He was soft, of course, but hung several good, noticeable inches. His piss was like a steady stream of water coming out of him. Apparently the man had to take a leak bad and that might have been another reason why we so quickly separated from my grandmother. I stood looking at him, his uncut penis just hanging there as he looked at me and asked, sort of stated, "Don't you have to go?" I shook my head and just watched him some more. He didn't act as though he noticed that or cared or whoknows as he continued to relieve his bladder. I wanted to die when his stream stopped because it meant exactly what he then did. He tucked his big meat away and zipped up. He came to the sink I was standing in front of and washed his hands. We left the men's room. But that, oddly enough, is when it got interesting. We left the men's room and he ran into a man who was shopping in the department right next to it. Everyone knew my grandfather and my grandfather knew everyone. And when you know such people who everyone knows and who know everyone, it, like a palatial dining room, gets old. I stood there a couple of minutes, being introduced to the man, a pleasant looking businessman type in his late fifties. The two men talked and talked and chortled as I stared all around, bored out of my seven-year-old skull. I looked at the lights on the ceiling and some Sale sign and even at this man's crotch, looking at the way a lump made a long bulge along the zipper line. When the man said, "Come here, they're right over there", my grandfather turned and said to me, "I'll be right back, just going to say hello." I then watched him walk only twenty feet away to greet a gray-haired woman and two young college aged girls, the man's wife and daughters, no doubt. I stood where I was left and watched them laugh and talk. I yawned as anyone would. I looked around and there it was. The men's room sign...on the men's room door. The moment that I looked, and maybe it was his movement that first caught my eye, I saw a man in his late-thirties wearing a suit enter the men's room. I stood there a bit more and looked at my grandfather's back as he went on and on with that family about godknowswhat. I then looked at the men's room door again. It was just ten feet away. Even at seven, I knew, somehow instinctively, that there was fun to be had in there but it was fun that one had to be sneaky and secretive about. So like a panther, a three-and-half-foot tall little white panther, I took quick, quiet strides to my left and went back into the men's room. I saw the man who had just entered standing at one of the three urinals. He casually turned his head to look at me but then looked back at the wall tiles in front of him. I noticed he was sort of nice looking, fit, wearing a gray suit and had dark thick hair. I couldn't tell you much about his face other than it was stern but attractive. Usually adult men didn't scare me much at all really. But there was something to his stance or demeanor that was, for whatever reason, intimidating to me. I hesitated to use a urinal because of that so I stopped short and instead pivoted to go into a stall. He must have noticed my change of mind as we seemed to be the only two people in the place. His head briefly turned as if wondering why such a little guy would suddenly go into a stall. I tried to take the closest stall but it was locked. Someone was in it, which surprised me because it was so quiet and he must have been in there even when my grandfather was with me. No one but the man at the urinals had entered since. So I had to go into the only other one next to it along the far wall. I went inside and shut the door. I took some toilet paper and wiped the seat before pulling down my pull-up elastic waist slacks. Although we were going out to a casual dinner after shopping, nothing much was really all that casual where my mother's side of the family was concerned. I had on what was, ostensibly, to me at the time, basically my school uniform - only in different colors. I recall that I had on a white dress shirt, gray pull up slacks and a green, gray and white striped tie. It wasn't a clip on, I'd be shot dead before someone in my family would buy me a clip on tie. Instead, it was one of those pre-tied, always-tied ties. It might sound funny but I always loved pulling down my pants around adult men and especially in bathrooms. I was definitely one of those little kids who, when I could reach a urinal, would pull down his pants almost all the way to his shoes before peeing. It wasn't so much just that I liked pulling down my pants around unzipped men - although I did - but it was also because when you're four or five or even seven, often times you're "stuck" in zipperless pull-up pants. And at those ages, you're constantly warned by mom not to get them messy or anything on them. What's ironic about that is how the same warning can mean such different things to different people. I mean, as my mother would articulate the warning, she meant "grass, mud, chocolate" - stuff like that. But even by age seven, I knew enough not to roll down a hill eating a Hershey's bar while in good clothes. My take on or concern for her warning was always that I might get urine or semen on my clothes - even as a first-grader. As I stood in the stall, I could see the left shoe of the man sitting in the other stall. It was what looked to be an enormous dark brown moccasin-type boat shoe. I had seen many men's shoes by the age of seven and so, even now years later, I know that he must have worn a size 13 or greater shoe. At the time, I didn't know what that might indicate but it was a biggy. Just as I pulled down my underpants and turned to sit on the commode, I saw a figure standing outside my door. It was the man who had been standing at the urinal. He peeped in but then pulled back when he saw me notice. He walked away but didn't exit the men's room. I heard water running but that was about it. I hopped up onto the seat, my legs not reaching the floor. It was an especially tall toilet for some reason. Didn't these stores know that even little kids shopped with their mothers...and cruised the t-rooms? The man next to me may have noticed my shoes as I stood or something but he could not have possibly seen them as I sat there, the back of my shoes hitting the lower part of the toilet. And yet he began tapping his giant boat of a boat shoe. At seven, I didn't quite know what all the tapping meant really but just had a gut feeling it was something good. I watched him tap and tap as his big foot came closer and closer to the partition divide. It was thrilling to see this anonymous shoe apparently trying to communicate something to me. But then it stopped. I was crushed. I jumped off my commode and stood along the partition and tapped my foot back at him. I may have even tapped both feet, quite frankly. His shoe came closer and closer and then almost sweetly, in an oddly paternal manner even, it lightly tapped itself atop my little shoe and where my slacks were gathered. Without a word, he, or his shoe rather, was clearly indicating that he recognized that he was tap-communicating with just a little guy. And yet he didn't do anything else. In fact I heard him stand up instead. I looked upward along the partition and could actually see the top of his head, just the very top. He was tall enough that I could see his salt and pepper hair. But he had not risen for me. Instead I could hear and sense some commotion in his stall. I looked under the partition and now saw his giant shoes facing another pair of big black dress shoes. Apparently, giant boat shoes man let the other men into his stall. I was so frustrated! I was like stuck in my own stall while men played. I didn't know tons about bathroom sex at that age but I knew two things: Men didn't let other men into their stall normally. And if they did, it was for fun. I wanted a piece of the "fun", too. In retrospect, I was quite bold - especially for a seven-year-old - but, without even pulling up my slacks, I opened my stall door and looked at them where they stood in the other open stall. Neither looked all that startled really. I mean, you might think two adult men playing with one another's penises in a department store men's room stall might be shocked to see a little fella observing their homosexual play but neither of these men even flinched. The man in the gray suit, still not really smiling or anything, turned his body away so I had a better view of what they were doing. The giant boat shoe man was very handsome, mid-forties and wore a Yacht club type polo shirt with a crest emblem on it. The men were playing with one another's simply enormous erections - let's just say that their penises fit their shoes (or some such thing). They were just standing semi-face to face, but now in an "el" shaped relationship as to allow me to see better. Their penises looked big even within the grip of each other's very big hands. I recall having a silly mini-epiphany at that moment as to why maybe, very well-hung men especially enjoyed such fun with one another: their boners were big and I figured therefore that men must enjoy being in the grasp of another man's big hand. And I also noticed that neither man was sucking the other. Even as a little kid, I never understood how or why certain men didn't want or even like to suck cock and yet would play with other penises and let other guys, even little boys, suck theirs. But, like many other men I had played with, I figured these two were apparently relatively straight men just playing around some in the public toilets. They let me watch as they mutually masturbated. Then the big footed, yachts club man briefly asked, "You like these?" I nodded as I watched him wag his huge uncut cock at me. "Wanna feel them?", he then asked as he looked at the other man briefly with a "You into perving on this kid, too?" sort of questioning look in his eye. He seemed to be trying to make certain that the suited man was equally up to being a co-conspirator in molesting a little boy in the washroom. The suited man said nothing but instead he turned some more as to "offer" me more space between them in order to feel them both if I wanted. I was a little cock scamp by age seven and so I think they were both surprised (finally) as I gripped both their boners best I could at the same time. I lightly wrapped a little fist around each one. While I looked up at them, they looked at one another with the most devilish glint in their eyes. The man in the suit ever so gently ran his large hand atop my head as I gingerly squeezed the two men's thick daddy penises. They were both uncut and so thick that I'd have had to have used both my little hands on one to get around a shaft completely. They stood there, quite rigidly (as well as erect) letting this little kid play with their man-sized and aroused sex organs. The yachts club man had big nuts, like two plums, all dusted in darker salt and pepper hairs. The other man just had his big shaft jutting out of the zipper of his suit so I couldn't see his scrotum at all, although it made for a big lower bulge within the fabric. The two men took turns stroking the top of my head and down the back of it to my neck - not unlike men petting a dog, quite frankly. It was at once very "fatherly and loving" and yet at the same time, asserting some authority over the "child servant" playing with their penises. As I was all lost in playing with these men, their heads more than two feet above me, the yachts club man said to me but still looking at the other man, "Open your mouth, okay?" I was seven and trained to listen to men. And I loved sucking their penises so I opened my mouth wide. But instead of one of them putting his erection into my mouth, as I expected, the yachts club man stood a little closer and just beat off, near my open mouth but never putting his thick, big cock into it. In a few seconds his knees spontaneously bent and he was ejaculating - his long shaft sort of spitting daddymilk into my open mouth. Because of its force and his slight distance, it felt like warm, heavy shots from a water gun hitting my tongue and the back of my throat. He was as casual as could be about what he was doing, just standing there, looking at the other man as he blew seed into my mouth like he was out watering his lawn. And again, without even much looking at me, he said, "Stay like that...keep it open." With that, the suited man turned his hips to unload the same way. He aimed his cock at my open mouth, still flooded in the other man's semen since I didn't even a chance to swallow any. His load fired off like a stream of piss, but it wasn't urine. It was all daddymilk. The yachts club man held the back of my neck firmly in place as to hold my head steady while the other man ejaculated into it. "Keep it open wide", he repeated. These men either wanted to make certain I got every drop of their semen or that none missed and got on my clothing as "evidence". Thinking back, these two men were using me as their sperm spittoon, just spitting their loads of adult reproductive batter into a child's mouth. It made me wonder what these men may have been doing in their own homes with their own sons, if they had any. They were just so casual about the whole thing. And I loved it - all that warm, no, hot, sperm pudding in my mouth. I was a cumpig and knew what most thrilled me. I then swallowed the mix of semen in my mouth as the two men watched. The yachts club man smiled at me as he bent some to pull up his slacks. "You like that stuff, don't you?" I nodded and he patted my head briefly as he started to clasp his slacks. "Good boy. Now get back to your own stall, okay?" I looked up at them both, the yachts club man smiled but gestured with his head for me to return to the other stall. The suited man didn't look at me at all as he scooted past me and went over to the sink. Pants still down, I returned to my stall and closed the door, all happy to still have the taste of the two handsome men's daddymilk on my tongue. I sat on the commode again, as a minute later I listened to both men at the sink. I could hear the yachts club man say in a very jolly tone, as he washed his hands, "Well, that was fun. Who'd have expected that?", as if he were only now realizing what they'd done. And the suited man in a very deep, low, almost hush of a voice replied (finally), "You fucking wonder where some kids come from, don't you?" They laughed a little and the yachts club man said something to the effect, "That's his parents' concern, not ours. He's done that before - see the way he ate it all?" And again they shared excited, nervous laughter as one and then the other exited the restroom. Not more than a minute later, I heard the main door open and an unmistakable voice ask, "Kevin? Kevin? You in here?" It was my grandfather. I said, "Yes, just a second." And he said, "Oh, okay. I wondered where you went to. You okay?" "Yeah, fine," I replied as I pulled up my pants and tucked in my shirt. I exited the stall and saw my grandfather standing and waiting at a sink, the same sink the two men had just used to wash their hands. "I turned around and you were gone!", he said. "Sorry", I replied, looking one last time to make sure no semen was on my shirt or little tie. "I had to go." "No need to apologize, son", he said. "You do what you want and that's good." He stepped aside and let me wash my hands. And he said, "Let's go find your grandmother. I'm starting to get hungry." We found my grandmother with two sweaters in hand as she milled about the Ladieswear department. And there, sitting on a chair outside the ladies dressing rooms, was the yachts club man! He sat there, legs crossed, doing a crossword puzzle. He glanced up and smiled at me but was as cool as a cucumber (a huge, thick, hairy cucumber). He didn't budge or panic or anything. I stood there as my grandparents discussed the sweaters. And as I waited around, I saw a very pretty lady emerge from the dressing rooms. She was a strikingly attractive brunette, tall and curvaceous in an emerald green dress which she "modeled" for the yachts club man who put down his crossword puzzle. "Looks beautiful," he said, "But you're beautiful." She said, "Well, then I think this is the one. We don't have time for me to try on any others anyway...you know we have to pick up the kids at six. It's the best one I tried on anyway, right?" She then returned to the dressing rooms to change. I looked at the man still seated in the large wing back chair and he looked over to where my grandparents were talking. And then he looked directly at me. He had his legs open and as if communicating something "dirty" to me, he spread them wider and then even wider. Anyone looking, if anyone had even been around, would have just thought he was stretching but I knew what he was doing as he was bringing attention to the huge bulge in his light beige slacks. He spit daddymilk from there into my mouth just minutes before. A few minutes later, what should have been - but oddly wasn't - an extremely "awkward" moment, we all stepped up to the same register counter at the same time. There was only one saleswoman on duty and so the yachtsman and his wife had to wait as she rang up my grandmother's purchases. A third party looking at us all would have thought that neither party knew one another in the slightest - which we didn't. Well, except for the tall yachtsman, standing to the left of the striking brunette, who had shot his sperm-loaded daddymilk, like a man spits tobacco into a spittoon, into the little kid standing to the far right of an older couple. Other than that, we were all just your typical suburban mall shoppers. + + + + Ghirardelli Square, San Francisco, California (age 8, "Sweeter than Chocolate") When I was little, every Christmas (shopping) season, my mother would arrange a trip to either Manhattan or San Francisco for just the two of us. While my father would stay home working, we'd spend three nights in either of those cities merely to enjoy the decorated department store windows and to tackle last-minute gift lists. My mother always felt that doors must be opened and the world enjoyed. In that way, she truly was an Auntie Mame (only on a tighter budget, I'd often joke). In fact, it's because of her that I maintain the same tradition to this day. I'll be in Rome at Christmas time with a well hung youth and always make thanks and a toast to her joie de vive. Its funny to think how many cocks and spermloads I have serviced in San Francisco ever this encounter at eight years of age. We arrived in the City by the Bay about ten days before Christmas and stayed at the Mark Hopkins. And oddly enough (well, odd unless you knew my mother), although, being located on Nob Hill, we never rode a cable car. My mother would say that, "hopping a cable car like some hobo (yes, hoBo) riding the rails is simply beneath any lady who wears heels" (and she always wore heels). Although we never got on a cable car at that time, she recognized that look of mine - that look of disappointment in a little boy's eyes (the same look which some men would see when I was told I couldn't eat their daddymilk). And she'd try to buoy me up by saying, "We'll get much better photographs of the cable cars if we're not on one." And you know what? Today, as I look through old photo albums...she was right. The first morning we were there, we ate breakfast in the hotel's restaurant, which was all festooned for the holidays. Then we took a taxi to shop for Limoges at her favorite store, Gumps. As she shopped, I even recall milling about looking at jade and "ivory" Buddas wondering why they didn't show the fat man's penis. It would have made for much more interesting sculpture if they showed some big fat uncut cock. But, then again, that's why from little up, I had a "preference" for Greco-Roman art. Afterwards, it was decided that we would venture down to the wharves (sounds hotter if you're not eight and with your mommy, of course). We taxied to Ghirardelli Square, the old chocolate factory converted into a mall. We'd shop some more and then have lunch in that area. We skipped the token Ghirardelli chocolate shoppe, planning to buy some sweets after lunch. Instead, I recall wandering around a maze of walkways popping into this boutique store and then that boutique store. My mother may have bought something small or nothing at all. She then asked, "Are you getting hungry yet?" And the second that she did, she eyed something through a glass panel of a door to a store behind me. It was a handwoven wrap, if memory serves me. "I have to go to the bathroom", I said, knowing this store would take her at least thirty-minutes to peruse properly. "Well, okay. But be careful", she replied. "I'll be in here so meet me back here...nowhere else." She went inside and I skedaddled out of sight. I didn't really have to go pee, I just wanted to see and maybe suck some man's penis. It was after noon already, after all. I found the men's room. It was behind an old, dark wooden door. I opened it and went inside. It wasn't very big, at least the one I had found. Inside, at the one urinal next to a white pedestal sink, stood a tall, trim, sandy-blonde-haired man in blue jeans, a leather sheepskin trimmed jacket and a mustache. And the only stall was occupied so I had no where to go. Well, I could have exited - but what little cock slut is going to do that!? So I hovered next to the sink waiting but the man at the single urinal apparently wasn't in any rush. He stood close to his urinal so I couldn't see anything but I also couldn't hear anything. Maybe he was peeing, but then again, maybe he wasn't. And whomever was in the toilet stall wasn't planning to leave at all - 'Perhaps not until the end of the day', I thought as I waited and waited. As I stood at the sink, looking at its faucets and wide rim around the basin, I saw several very thick, pearlescent globs of something on it. In fact, as I had been absent-mindedly running my fingers around it, they had gotten some of the milky fluid on them. When I looked at my glossy fingers, the blonde man asked in a low tone, "You know what it, don't you?" I thought I did but shook my head. After all, why would that be here on a sink? The man stepped back just a bit from his urinal, letting me see his horsecock of a penis. It was like a child's arm was coming out of his button fly (whereas I am sure he was hoping one would go IN). Without holding his shaft, he stood there, his arms at his sides, his huge penis hanging freely, as he said, "Cum...you know what cum is?" I nodded. And he lifted an eyebrow just a bit as he asked, "You do?" I nodded again. "What is it then?", he challenged, the entire time just standing there, slightly facing me where I stood - his horsedick hanging out of his jeans. "Um", I replied, "Daddymilk, right?" He chuckled to himself. "Daddymilk? Fuuuck, that's funny. Who taught you that word?" I just shrugged and asked, "Isn't it? Daddymilk, I mean cum? Isn't cum daddymilk?" "You got that right", the man said as he stepped a little closer, his penis just a foot from where I stood at the sink. "And you got it all over your fingers, you know that, right?" I nodded and then did something that I think shocked him. I put my fingers up to my lips and started licking the stray, unknown daddymilk off of them. He spontaneously uttered, "Oh fuck...you ate it!" He sounded all shocked but at the same time, he gripped his huge shaft and gave it a few jerks. "You know what that stuff is, don't you? Makes babies...men make it...??" I nodded and lapped the rest of the gooey stuff off my fingers as he watched. "And you don't care?", he asked as he slowly milked his horsedick. I shook my head. "Oh, that's fucking hot", he said. "Is it yours?", I asked. "Fuck no", he said as he looked at my face. He then asked in an encouraging tone, "You like the taste of cum?" I again nodded. "Yeeaaaaaah, cum is good, isn't it?", he said. "Yeah", I replied. Then he whispered, almost mouthed the words, "How old are you?" "Eight", I answered. "Fucking hot", he said as he masturbated in front of me. I reached out, since he was just a foot away and he dropped his hand, letting me get a feel of his monster cock. "Fuck, yeah...", he muttered as he watched my small hand milk his huge slab of uncut cock - surely, my first feel of real, genuine, AAA meat right out of the Castro. He stood there letting this little kid pull on what had to have been one of the most "popular penises" in all of homo Frisco. Then he did something that shocked me. As I played with his erection which was veiny and meaty and thick and as long as my forearm, he scooped more of the "seedy deposit" some stranger had left behind from the sink and placed the goop up to my lips. "Eat some more", he urged. And I opened my mouth, savoring the still fresh, thick semen of someone in the San Francisco area - probably that of someone still shopping around at Ghirardelli Square. "That's fucking hot you like the stuff", he said as he fed me more until the sink was clean of swimming spermies. Then he licked some off his fingers as well. "Glad to see you love cum like I do." When I heard a slight clunk, I looked and saw another man now standing outside the one stall. He was dark haired, also had a mustache (as was the rage in the early 70s) and his trousers were down to his ankles as he masturbated. He had apparently heard us and had been watching, for at least the last several seconds. He was about the same age as the blonde man, in his late-thirties. At that moment, another man came in causing the dark-haired man to jump back into his stall and the mustachioed blonde to press back up to the single urinal. I remained at the sink as this third man, a nice looking although nondescript middle-age tourist, looked at me and then at the back of the blonde man. It was as though he were trying to put two and two together - like were we father and son? Was I waiting to use the urinal next? Had we been "playing"? That sort of look. He then went to the one stall, but finding it occupied came back to stand along the wall. He pointed to the back of the blonde man's jacket and asked, "Are you next? Are you waiting?" I shook my head and he smiled, maybe happy to know he would be able to relieve himself quicker - or that some little boy was just hanging out looking at adult penises. What surprised me was that, as he stood along the wall, he started to unzip while he was ten or more feet away from a urinal, which was still occupied. He didn't pull his cock out but his bright red underwear bulge, came pouring out of his black slacks. He noticed me looking and, like any graying dad in his late-forties, he just smiled and said, "I'm getting ready...got to go bad." The blonde haired man got the message and stepped away from the urinal. Although he flushed, he didn't stuff his huge cock back into his jeans. I don't think he could have had he tried. He side-stepped over to the sink where I stood and sort of, no other way to say it, "pretended" to be closing up his jeans. But his horsecock just hung there, now flaccid but hanging out as it brushed along the sink. The tourist dad didn't notice at first as he immediately snatched the urinal and pulled his cock out of the red underwear. I was at such an angle that I could easily see the meaty penis that had been making that big bulge. He moaned a stage whisper of an "Ahhhhh, that feels good" and then chuckled to himself as he peed. Then, when he turned his head, he saw the mustachioed blonde man's dick still hanging out of his fly. But instead of getting angry or annoyed, all he said was, "Big schlong you got there, guy." "Yeah", the blonde man said as he stood at the mirror looking at himself and combing his hair. The dad tourist finished peeing (I could see) but he continued standing at the urinal. "You know there's a kid in here, don't you?", he asked in a light-hearted tone of the blonde man. "Yeah", the blonde man replied. "Little kid at that." The tourist dad then pivoted his body, letting me see this thickening penis. He smiled at me but then asked the blonde man, "We doing something with him?" "What do you mean?", the blonde-haired man asked as he turned around and leaned against the sink, showing us all his huge horsecock. "Doin' something?" The tourist dad now looked all confused and yet quite bemused. "You know you got your pants open there, right, guy?" "Yeah", the mustachioed blonde replied casually. "Is he your dad?", the tourist dad then asked me. I shook my head and said, "My daddy's in Chicago." The two men laughed and the tourist dad said, "Well, then this would not be your daddy." The blonde-haired man began to slowly masturbate, sort of like he was just used to putting his horsecock on display for guys in public toilets. "So its established nobody here is his daddy", he said. "You know him?", the tourist dad asked me again. And I shook my head again. "Just met him", the blonde-haired man replied. "Fed him some cum off this sink here." The tourist dad's breathing clearly quickened as he heard that. "What?", he asked as though he had not heard right yet if he had heard right, he wanted to hear it again. "Someone left some jizz on the sink", the blonde-haired man said. "And you ate it?", the tourist dad asked me, as he started to masturbate rather vigorously. "He loved it", the blonde man said. "Ain't that right, kid? We both love cum, don't we? And you ate up that entire puddle of the Unknown Cummer, didn't you?" I nodded. The man at the urinal just muttered, "Oh my, oh my...Saint Terese, help me, I'm going to cum..." The blonde haired man grabbed me by the wrist, more out of rushed enthusiasm than force, and pulled me over to the ejaculating man. "Come on, come on...", the mustachioed blonde instructed as he forced my two hands into a cup and placed them at the piss-slit of the tourist dad's mushroom cockhead. The dark-haired man had been listening and now, with his door open again, he jerked off lewdly as he watched from outside his stall. The blonde man then barked orders to the tourist dad, "Come on...do it, do it...shoot that load...come on...shoot it...give the little kid what you got...give him that cum...shoot that daddy seed...come on..." Between listening to the licentious urging of this horsecocked pervert and looking at some little boy with his two palms cupped to his cockhead, awaiting his milky outflow, the man just lost it - he experienced an orgasm probably more intense than he had since teenhood. His body was like shaking and quivering as he expelled the daddymilk from his hairy scrotum. He stood there shaking his head in disbelief over what he was doing as he ejaculated. Oh yeah, he was quite nervous and amazed and in disbelief - yet somehow he made sure he had perfect aim as he beat off into my little handcup. We all watched the middle-aged man's semen coat and fill my two palms. This man needed to bust a nut! We all looked at the pearly sperm-goo, really a daddy's milk, still alive and able to breed as it microscopically swam across my hands. "Come on, come on...", the mustachioed blonde man said to me with a huge grin. "You know what you want to do with that good stuff...come on, show us..." And with that, as the tourist dad stuffed his penis back into his black slacks, I lifted the sordid palm cup to my mouth and began licking up the salty-sweet, very gooey-thick seed - fresh out of the man's scrotum. "Oh my God", the tourist dad said with a delighted although shocked laugh in his voice. "You really are eating it! My cum. Oh my, my, my! Do it, do it, please, please...!", he said as he stared at this eight-year-old boy slurping up his parental fluids. And I complied (happily) letting the liquid DNA of this man pour into my mouth as the blonde-haired man "helped" by guiding my cupped hands to my mouth. "Drink it baby, drink it! Drink it all! You got it, babe!" He then slid his right index finger through the white goo on my palms and ate some himself. He looked at the tourist dad and said, most seriously, "We're all eating your seed, man! Watch us all eat your seed, man!" He then waved over the dark haired man who quickly hitched up his slacks a bit and came over. "Get a scoop of this seed, man", the blonde-haired man ordered the dark-haired man. And the dark-haired man took a fingerful of pearly-pudding and put the goop into his mouth. The tourist dad was clearly stunned and yet thrilled at the semen depravity he was watching - and thanks to the contribution of his own semen! "Three of us eating you, man, eating your fucking cum", the blonde-haired man said, looking the tourist dad right in the eyes. "You going to eat more?", the tourist dad asked me as he double-checked his belt and zipper. "Cup 'em, cup 'em", the blonde-haired man said as he again gripped my wrists, making me cup my hands once again. He then said to the dark-haired man, "Jack it into the kid's hands" And as I stood there, palms cupped, both the blonde-haired man and the dark-haired man stood on either side of me as they beat off their truly huge cocks. They rather furiously stroked off as though they now were fueled by something worthy of their orgasm or some such thing. They had a mission and a purposeful use of their seed, I figured. Within a minute of one another, each blew a load directly into my cupped hands. On eor two blasts shot like streaks along my wrist and cuff, but most of their combined scrotal-output flooded into my hands, filling them quite full - more than you might expect. I'm not sure how many ounces of semen came out of the two, or which shot more seed, but soon my cupped palms were brimming in a mixed deposit from these two horsedicked strangers. "You going to drink all that, right?", the tourist dad asked as he watched with this huge smile on his face. "Sure he is", the blonde-haired man said with knowing confidence in my cumpig ways - confident he knew a cumpig when he met a cumpig (even when that cumpig was only eight). I slurped up the slimy, gooey, milky fluids, which sloshed a bit, in my cupped palms. The sound of the slurping alone was so sordid it had to have given the men a second boner immediately. And as they watched me ingest their collected daddymilk, the blonde-haired man was again stroking. He bent down and took a big slurp of the goo himself (or a slurp of himself, truth be told). The dark-haired man then groped me lewdly through my slacks - thoroughly feeling both my boner and the crack of my small butt through the material before racing back to the stall. "He live back there or something?", the tourist dad asked as we all watched the man lock his door. "Yeah", the blonde haired man joked as he tried to get his horsecock back into the fly of his jeans. But he had to open them fully in order to "arrange" his big sex organs properly. "He sucks all the tourists then goes home, from what I know of him." The tourist dad patted my head and said that it sure looked like I enjoyed all that sperm. And then he left. The blonde-haired man took me by my two little hands and asked if I wanted to stay with him. "I can show you places, sneak you into a few. Have you ever been to any of the theaters in the Tenderloin?" I said no and told him I lived in Chicago but that my mom and I were on a little shopping trip. "No kidding?", he said. "I thought maybe your parents were divorced. So you don't live here?" I shook my head. "Damn it", he said. "Can you figure out a way to stay with me a few days? What do you think?" As he let me openly squeeze the enormous, nearly obscene lump inside his jeans, I desperately wanted to - but knew it would be impossible as I replied, "I don't think so." "Where are you and your mom staying? Maybe I can pick you up?" he asked. "I'll get you all the cum you can drink, baby." "Really?", I asked. "Fuck yeah!", he replied. "You're in the fuckin' Cum Capitol, baby. Lots of men will cum in you here. What do you say?" "I dunno", I said. "Come on, where you staying?", he pressed on. "The Mark Hopkins", I answered. "Fucking nice, real nice", he laughed. "What room? You and your mom got different rooms?" I nodded and told him my room number. "Fucking cool, baby", he said with a huge white-toothed grin. He was damn good looking - and picking up an eight-year-old in a public washroom. "I'll call and bring you to some places I know real well", he said. "You going to be around tonight? Your mom doesn't even have to know. I can pick you up after eleven tonight. Say I'm your dad. What's your name?" I told him and he said, "If asked, I'll tell the hotel I'm your dad...but nobody asks anybody anything here in San Francisco." I then left the restroom, afraid I'd been gone too long. My heart raced, afraid that my mother might be angry or worried. Instead when I got back to the shop I'd left her in, I found her still trying on clothes. The bell jingled on the door of the shop as I went in and all she said was, "Oh, I'm so sorry, honey! I have been taking so long! But they just have so many pretty things here." As my hands still reeked of three men's semen, there was my mom apologizing to me! END Mr. gloryholeJUNKIE ghj_4u@yahoo.com http://groups.yahoo.com/group/GHJ_MALL_OF_MALES