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This is not at all how Stede expected his night to unfold.
To wit: Stede is kneeling on the dirty floor of a bathroom stall in the shitty little low-ceilinged men’s room at Jackie’z, the hot velvety shaft of a faceless stranger’s dick resting in his palm.
“Yeah?” murmurs said faceless stranger, the smoky rumble of his voice slipping under the metal partition between them. The muffled reggaeton playing in the bar pounds in Stede’s veins, as if to convince him that yes, this is real, and yes, no matter what happens next, the world will keep on turning.
Sometimes, Ed just needs a break.
Tonight, though, he’d been standing at the bar, listening to Archie tell another one of her batshit stories from her time in the snake cult, when he was struck by an answer to the question he’s been asking himself for a while now but thought was just rhetorical. Apparently, if your inner monologue reduces down to a kaleidoscopic variation on “How did I get here?” for long enough, you might get an answer.
Fucking rude: apparently, he’s ultimately responsible for his actions? Apparently, he could… make different choices?
Well. Fuck.
So yeah, he needed a break. A moment. A quiet little sit, alone, away from all the voices, to collect himself before making said Different Choice.
Also sometimes he just prefers to sit when he pees.
So that’s how Ed got here here, at least—here here being, of course, the stall at the far end of the bathroom at Jackie’z bar. As for how he got to Jackie’z? That’s a question for 37-year-old Ed. Or 20-year-old Ed. Hell, even for 9-year-old Ed, maybe.
For the first stupid-ass lungfish amphibian blob thing who thought it'd be a great fucking idea to crawl out of the fucking sea. Fucker.
Anyway! Who cares!
49-year-old Ed finishes his pee.
And then, he sees the boots.
When it finally landed for Stede that yes, actually, after 5 years on low dose testosterone (plus countless wardrobe overhauls, several iterations of facial hair styling, three months of voice training, and quite a lot of what Frenchie refers to as “inner work”), he does in fact pass as a man 99% of the time—when it finally landed, Stede bought The Boots.
The deep brown Spanish calfskin toe cap and counter provide a yummy contrast to the silky teal Jacquard upper, a vibrant filigree of rosy maple moths woven into the shiny fabric. They’ve always been Stede’s favorite winged insect, but it had been years since he dared don an article of clothing bearing their likeness lest his sartorial embrace of their colorful whimsy be interpreted as an expression of quirky cis femininity rather than gay male faggotry and tip the Scales of Perceived Gender in the wrong direction.
So when a targeted Instagram ad for The Boots appeared amidst his morning scroll—on the very gay account he uses for following his favorite OnlyFans creators, no less—Stede took the plunge.
And now, they seem to have gotten him—well. Amazingly, euphorically, properly gendered.
If the stranger’s dick in his hand is anything to go by.
Ed has never seen anything like them, but maybe he doesn't look at shoes all that much, what with the feet generally being pretty far from the eyes (or the package, or the rack) of the person he's trying to cruise Or Otherwise Nonverbally Communicate With. And anyway, it's usually his boots that get the attention. (And his eyes. He knows.)
These fucking boots, though. These boots catch his eye the second he finishes his pee and looks down. The burnished leather, the… silk, maybe? The brilliant pink lemon swirl-ass butterfluckers fucking winging it all over that shiny teal background?
These are the gayest fucking boots Ed has ever seen. Definitely the most colorful. Who the fuck, Ed wonders, wears boots like that to fucking Jackie'z? This guy bought these boots, on purpose, and actually wears them out in the world. This guy knows how to live.
This guy probably fucks.
Gay Boots sighs loudly enough to be heard over the bar music. The broken toilet seat squeaks as he shifts. Fuck, he's finishing up in there, and then he's gonna leave, and then Ed’s gonna miss his chance to meet the man behind (above?) the boots at the sink in time to actually flirt—
Orrrr, he could—no. But also, he hasn't done that in ages, and. Yeah.
Fuck it.
Stede gives his packer a little jostle in the pouch of his jock, getting it oriented in the bulge zone of his jeans before he stands to pull them back up. He’s mildly chagrined about using the stall, but ultimately glad he decided to forgo the hassle of the STP tonight. Nobody cares about his choice of pee receptacle, he reminds himself. Nobody's paying any attention to him, nobody even noticed that he—
A gleaming black leather toe box materializes below the stall divider on his left, the tip just crossing into Stede's territory.
His cheeks heat immediately. This can't possibly be what he thinks it is. This isn't—
The toe taps, once, slow like a cat blink.
Stede is frozen.
The toe box creeps further into Stede's stall until the instep is directly underneath the stall divider. It taps again.
Stede runs the fastest, horniest risk-benefit analysis of his life. Before he’s even managed to review much less second-guess the conclusion of this analysis, however, his own foot has taken action. His foot has, without any input from his brain, sidled up beside the stranger's leather boot until the edges of their soles are touching. Like it's something his foot has done a million times.
He takes a deep, unhinged breath and taps his toe to the floor. A flicker of heat runs through him as the firm leather of his neighbor's boot presses into his foot through the fabric upper of his own.
A shaky exhale from the other stall, as though his neighbor had been holding his breath.
Stede has studied the gay classics. He has prepared for this moment as though studying the lines for a Broadway performance—one he never thought he'd actually get to star in—so he knows, in theory, what to do.
He lowers his hand, palm up, and hovers it beneath the stall divider.
Big hand. Biiiig soft pink hand. Golden hairy well-aged wrist.
The fingers give a friendly little wave.
Ed chuckles, so delighted by this turn of events that he doesn't even think about the state of the floor he's about to drop his knees onto before he lands. He's so delighted that he doesn't even notice the murderous twinge perpetrated by his left knee when he does. Gay Boots is waiting.
Ed unzips his leather trousers and shimmies the whole kit down his hips just enough to free his cock. There's plenty of clearance between the grubby floor and the bottom of the stall divider, fortunately, so he doesn't have to adjust his stance much to bring his cock to Gay Boots’s hand level. He sends love and light to whoever cheaped out on the fixtures for the bathroom as he gives his cock a few encouraging tugs, and then, as sexily as he can under the circumstances, he guides his cock onto Gay Boots’s pretty waiting palm.
Something settles in Stede’s soul the moment the dick makes contact. He wraps his fingers around the shaft, testing the weight, the heft of him; the cock grows hotter with every passing second like a freshly-activated hand warmer. Hotter, and harder, too; it's not his first flesh dick by any stretch of the imagination, but it's the first time he's ever been able to marvel at the details live and in realtime without being perceived, exactly. He drops to his knees, his own trousers still hanging around his thighs, to get a better look.
Gorgeous.
It's long—ooh, longer now!—cut, and just-right thick. The dusky rose tip glows invitingly under the buzzing fluorescent lights as Stede turns his wrist. He keeps his grip loose, just to get a feel for the contours of the ridges and veins, to assess the glide of the taut skin over the hard core beneath. He skates his fingertips up the length of the cock, hears an answering gasp from the other side of the stall divider.
Something hot and wild blooms deep in Stede's core.
This is not at all how Ed expected this handie to unfold.
Not that he knew what to expect, what with the aforementioned lack of experience with anyone wearing boots of this nature. But Gay Boots is really taking his time, like he's really examining Ed’s cock, studying him like a—
Like a bug.
Okay, maybe the boots make more sense now.
The sexy flamboyant boot-wearing entomologist in the neighboring stall swoops his palm around the head of Ed's cock, a move so sudden that Ed doesn't catch the punched-out grunt before it escapes his lips. Dr. Gay Boots’s hand pauses, his grip maddeningly light. A hint of a groan travels under the stall divider and up to Ed's ears.
“Yeah?” Ed says, valiantly willing his hips to remain still.
“Yeah,” says Dr. Gay Boots. The rich buzz of his voice sends a thrill up Ed's spine.
DGB lets go of Ed's cock just long enough to spit into his palm. Slick fingers wrap around his shaft, and Ed doesn't even try to hold back his moan.
Stede is on a mission. He’s going to wring as many illicit sounds out of his sexy bathroom neighbor as he can before he makes him come. Also, he may or may not intend to catch some of his release on the front of his packing jock. Who’s to say.
To that end, Stede experiments. He fists the cock slowly with a firm grip, his hand dragging along the tawny skin with more than a little friction.
He's rewarded with a whimper, high and strained. Hard to classify without the additional context that the accompanying facial expression would provide, so Stede eases up, just in case. Strokes him gently. Leans in close, lets his breath ghost over the head. A thin trail of precum glints like a river of diamonds, spilling from the slit and catching along the ridge of the crown. Stede’s mouth waters as he rubs the pad of his thumb through it, painting the garnet dome with shiny slick.
“Fuck-ing fuck. Fuck.”
Stede's cunt pulses with the words, the gravelly catch of the voice behind the partition lighting him up. His hips tilt forward of their own accord, and he groans as his cock sings with a bright little flare of heat. His packing jock has conveniently ridden back up his thighs, high enough to provide a teasing hint of pressure when Stede rocks against the side of his packer.
“God, you're perfect,” Stede says, tongue suddenly loosened by the vision before him and the effect he appears to be having on the gentleman in the stall next door. Stede reaches out to cup his balls with free hand, his fingers brushing lightly over the sweat-damp fuzz they find there.
“Please,” comes the voice, this time a thready whisper. “Please, I need—”
“I’ve got you,” Stede says, pulling a rush of saliva onto his tongue. He spits loudly, right onto the cock in his hand.
Ed's brain melts out his ears.
“Oh my god!” he cries.
His hips buck just as DGB begins to stroke him in earnest, the glide eased by fresh spit. DGB launches into a rhythm that will send Ed hurtling over the edge in short order if he keeps this pace—a bit of a feat these days, if he's honest. (Not that he's had any complaints.)
But his pleasure is rising just as sure as you please, the telltale heat coiling in his belly and curling up the base of his spine. His balls begin to scrunch and fill with light and warmth. Ed plants a hand against the thin metal wall between them, lets the other sneak under the hem of his black tee and rise up to flick at his nipple jewelry. The bright sting sends a zap of ecstasy straight to his throbbing cock. Ed bites his lip, breaths coming short and heavy.
“Ho-ooooly fuck, oh my fuck, I’m gonna—. Shit shit shit mate I’m gonna come, I’m gonna commmme!”
Ed kneels on the floor in a bathroom stall at Spanish Jackie'z, half-collapsed against the scratched-up sticker-covered powder-coated steel partition that stands between him and his mystery lover, his pleasure entirely out of his control.
His cock begins to pulse. Bliss rises through him like a clear, ringing high note, and he soars.
The cock in Stede's fist swells impossibly firmer a second before the first triumphant ribbon of cum spurts forth and paints Stede's forearm.
“That's it, you gorgeous thing, give it to me, there you go—”
Stede babbles with the release, the joy of it; he doesn't even know what he's saying, mind gone blank with the thrill of erotic power coursing through his veins. It's so feeble, almost, these drippy arcs of cum bending to the whims of gravity and aerodynamics. Such a contrast, anyway, to the convulsive shaking of the man’s leather-clad legs, the deluge of his throaty moans.
Stede slows his stroke, intent on drawing out this moment as long as he can, as long as this cock and this man will let him. Stede runs his thumb up the thick vein on the underside of the shaft like he's extruding the last of a luxury skincare product, no drop left behind. He pulls a keening whine out of his bathroom neighbor, along with the last pulses of cum. A loud thump—the man's hand, maybe, slapping against the metal wall between them.
“Okay, okay, okay—”
Stede loosens his grip. “Ah, sorry, I’ll just—”
As loath as he is to let him go, Stede is exhilarated by the anonymity, the baked-in evanescence of this chance encounter. He gently releases the man's cock, watching it bob and oh-so-slowly begin to soften as he absentmindedly reaches for a handful of one-ply with which to wipe his hand, the floor.
Oh, fuck, he wanted—
Stede looks down at his lap. There, painted across the front of his lime green packing jock, is a thin wet stripe, a dark smattering of droplets. One or two on the front of his pants, too, but they blend well enough with the dark wash denim. A deep satisfaction washes through him and settles in his belly. He fills his lungs, exhales with a victorious sigh.
And freezes.
A gorgeous brown long-fingered hand hovers under the metal stall partition, palm upturned. Offering.
Stede's mouth goes bone dry, his ears suddenly stuffed with cotton. The cold-water plunge from euphoric horny pride to—well, whatever dissonant swirl of emotions this is—dizzies him before he’s even fully processed that this man is offering to reciprocate in kind… and he patently cannot.
But Stede wants.
Stede's body responds as though motivated entirely by the kinetic memory of an event he has never personally experienced—or perhaps it's an unhinged hope that drives him now, fueled by a desire so strong it bypasses his every dysphoric filter and inhibition and fear, as he reaches into his lap, plucks his soft silicone packer from the special pocket in his packing jock, and
fwump
plops it onto the offered hand.
Oh, shit. Ohhhh, fuck.
All the blood that had pooled in Stede's cock and plumped his cunt now rushes to his face in a vertiginous wave, but what's done is done. There's his dick, on this total stranger's hand, limp and cute and silicone as ever. Godspeed, brave little toaster.
“Oh—oh!” The man's voice cuts through the ringing in Stede's ears. “Hang on, man, lemme just—shit—”
Leather creaks as the fellow staggers to his feet. A zipper draws closed. The bathroom stall door opens, and. Well. So what if Stede has had that particular cock longer than he's had his name? They've had a good run.
The squeak of the tap at the sink, the clunky pumping of a wall-mounted soap dispenser. The song playing in the bar ends. A slower, nastier beat takes its place, the muffled cheer of the crowd out beyond the bathroom door a thousand miles away. Stede presses his forehead to the cool metal partition, closes his eyes. Tries to focus on his breathing.
Heavy bootsteps.
“Hey, sorry, man, I, uh.” Thunk. “Shit, ow.”
Stede opens his eyes.
Leather-clad knees have reappeared on the floor of the adjacent bathroom stall.
Stede blinks.
Two hands materialize under the partition, palm up, Stede's Caribbean blue extra large uncircumcised soft silicone packer gleaming atop one of them.
“Wanted to, uh. Wash my hands first. Y’know, ‘cuz.” God, that voice. “I mean, if you wanted—”
“YES!”
Stede's belt hits the floor with a clang as he rises up on his knees, thrusting his entire apparatus towards the stall divider. He snatches his packer from the man's palm, drops it into the puddle of fabric between his thighs to deal with later.
“You wanna—?” the man asks.
Stede grabs a hand, cups himself with it. Groans.
“Yessssss,” says the miracle next door.
He’s—fuck, he’s so fucking sexy. Ed’s palm settles against DGB’s topography in an instant, the cushy fur-covered swell of his pubic bone warming the heel of Ed’s hand, the thick button of his cock hard against the mound of his thumb, and there, just above Ed’s fingers, the tantalizing dip of a hot wet heat, carpeted with what Ed is certain is a gorgeous mess of curls.
This night could not get any better.
Ed presses up slightly with his fingers in a sexy reinterpretation of the martial arts-ish “come at me bro” beckoning motion, the undersides of his knuckles sinking into plush wet folds in an invitation to grind.
“Oh, shit,” Ed hears.
“Yeah man,” Ed says. “Whatever you want, can I, like—”
Ed pulls his hand back towards him until his fingertips line up with DGB’s cock. He swirls the pads of his fingers over the perfect firm little knob, and fuck, Ed’s only regret here is that he can’t get his mouth on him from this angle—well, he could, but his hair would definitely touch the floor, and a man's gotta draw the line somewhere.
But if the wrecked groan from the other side of the partition is anything to go by, he’s on the right track.
“Shit, fuck, yes,” DGB says. “Yeah, like that, back and forth—oh fuck, harder, please—”
Ed watches DGB’s freckled thighs quiver as he increases the pressure against his dick, his own cock twitching sympathetically as he strums the webbed length. DGB grinds down against Ed's hand, the swell of his cock flicking back and forth over the ridge of Ed's fingers as he rocks them from side to side.
DGB whines like a fucking tea kettle.
Ed gets experimental, rubs against DGB’s cock with a swirling motion.
“HnnrnghrghHNNGH, just like that, oh god!”
“Yeeeeeeaaaah,” Ed says, his mouth watering at the frantic flutter of DGB’s hips.
“Oh my god!”
DGB plasters his body against the partition between them, the rounded edge of the steel panel stopping just above dick level.
It's so fucking hot.
“Fuck, man,” Ed gasps. “That's so fucking hot—”
Stede rolls his hips, grinding his bush against the cold steel edge of the partition. The wave of pressure against the hidden root of his cock, the insistent swirling fingers flying perfectly over his glans, the miraculous absurdity of his incredible fortune—the delicious paradox of intimacy and anonymity—
And god, he was so turned on to begin with.
He’s close, is the point.
Electric flames of bliss surge through every nerve, every sinew in Stede’s body. He's lost control, fully at the mercy of his own desire. His cock throbs, hotter, brighter—actually maybe a little too bright—he needs—
“I need—”
“Tell me what you need.”
“Canyouputafingerinsideme, justonefinger, I’msofuckingwet—”
“Fuck yes. Fuck, man, you’re so fucking hot—”
“YES!” Stede sobs as the requested finger slips inside him, giving his hungry cunt and all his luscious internal bottom growth something to clench around, something to feel.
“Yeah, baby, fuck my hand, there you go—”
“Oh my god, it’s so good!”
“Yeah, that’s it,” says the man, the honeyed bourbon growl of his voice urging Stede closer to the edge.
And then the finger begins to stroke. Long curving frictionless thrusts glide relentlessly over that spot, that sweet place along his front wall, the shocking thrill of it harmonizing with the ecstatic glow that radiates out from his cock to his crown to the tips of his toes. A faint splatter against his thighs, a slick, gushy crescendo as he reaches for the stars—
One more grind of his hips and Stede’s coming, hole pulsing cock singing heart pounding really coming. Maybe also screaming, a little, as a thousand pinpricks of dazzling rainbow light erupt before Stede's eyes. The finger inside him goes blessedly still, and clever hands gentle him through it, cupping him, rolling lightly against his cock.
“Oh my god,” Stede says.
“Holy shit,” says the sex god next door.
A beat. A breath. The finger withdraws, and those lovely hands slip back under the stall divider.
Stede sighs. “Well.”
This part of the script, he’s less sure of. Hookup exit protocols are not Stede's strength to begin with, but what’s the done thing when a literally faceless stranger makes you see god in a bathroom stall? Never leave? Propose marriage? Pray for death?
He begins to put himself back together, anyway. He did in fact squirt a little, right onto his packer, but he figures one silicone sojourn into the broader public restroom is enough for the night, so. He dabs his packer with a little toilet paper, gives up when the one-ply sticks to the foreskin, and tucks it back into his packing jock. Reasserts his trousers over his nonexistent ass. Steps in (and nearly slips on) an errant splort of jizz. Hears concurrent recombobulation going on next door.
Well, it's a night he'll certainly never forget, anyway.
He takes a deep breath and unlatches the stall.
Fuck, he's.
Dr. Gay Boots is a fucking snack.
He's not meeting Ed's eyes, though, and like. Maybe Ed can understand why, kinda, but he needs him to know—fuck, he’s probably about to overstep seven different lines, but he needs him to know, see, that Ed is Making Choices.
Ed leans back against the shitty laminate counter and clears his throat, finally catches Dr. Gay Boots’s eyes. Attention secured, he licks a loooong greedy stripe up the side of his juuuuicy finger before sucking the whole thing past his lips. Swirls his tongue. Slurps.
Dr. Gay Boots gasps, turns bright-ass red, and—holy SHIT, dimple alert—fucking winks.
And like, Ed doesn’t fluster, truly, but he’s suddenly nigh unto speechless as he turns around to catch up with DGB, who’s already washing his hands. They reach for the single paper towel dispenser at the same time, each deferring to the other in an increasingly awkward nonverbal towel-centric tête-à-tête until DGB pulls a wad from the dispenser and hands half to Ed with a shaky flourish.
And then he’s walking towards the door, his gay boots clicking gayly on the shitty tile, and Ed turns to follow—ask for his number, ask for his fucking number, make a fucking CHOICE, TEACH—and he swings open the door, and—
“STEDE, OH MY GOD I SWEAR.” Lucius stands right in front of him next to a shorter fellow Stede doesn’t recognize, gray hair/goatee/sour expression. They’re blocking the door. A veritable line of bar patrons has queued up behind them, looking everything from amused to annoyed to murderous.
“Lucius! Er, I…”
“Iz?” asks Stede’s (inconceivably gorgeous) anonymous bathroom hookup.
“Quite finished, Ed?”
“Stede, congratulations but you owe me and now it’s our turn so you have to guard the door because I cannot do this in a stall thanks also wow,” Lucius says as he simultaneously gives Stede’s inconceivably gorgeous anonymous bathroom hookup a good eye-fucking and also drags the shorter gentleman (Iz?) into said bathroom. “Won’t be long!”
“Hey!” growls Iz as the door swings shut behind them.
“AWWW COME THE FUCK ON,” yells the line.
Stede bites his lip and risks a glance at his hookup—Ed, his name is Ed—standing shoulder to shoulder beside him, shaking his head and giggling.
Well.
Maybe Stede can write his own script, for this next part.
Ed turns to face Dr. Gay Boots. (Stede. Whatever.) He grins.
“Hi,” says Ed.
“Hello,” says Stede. His dimple kicks Ed right in the fucking ribs.
Ed holds out his palm, this time offering an actual handshake. “I’m Ed.”
“Nice to meet you, Ed. I’m Stede.”
Stede takes his hand and doesn’t let go.