Blue Eyes at the Glory Hole

It Was Meant To Be Faceless

My cravings didn’t always come from below the belt.

There were nights when I visited that restroom not for the thrill, but for the quiet promise that someone on the other side might make me feel wanted, even if it was just for a few minutes.

The glory hole had been there for as long as I could remember. A crude cutout in a wall that had probably seen more action than most bedrooms. It wasn’t just about getting off. It was about being noticed, even by a faceless stranger with good hands and better instincts.

I didn’t go every week, but often enough to recognize the regulars by the way they walked into the stall. That shuffling kind of confidence. Or desperation.

Then there was him.

Dark-haired. Muscular. Early to mid-twenties. The kind of guy who looked like he’d just stepped off a football pitch. Black shorts, hoodie, cap pulled low. Not the usual type that frequented these places. Too straight-looking. And confident. Far too clean-cut.

I had seen him twice before. Once just walking in, scoping the setup like he was pretending to be disgusted. Second time, he stayed longer. But this was the first time he picked my stall.

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