Chapter 2: The Exhibitionist
Dale slid the van into park behind a cluster of dumpsters, far enough from the rest area’s main lights to be insignificant. The engine ticked as it cooled. His hands still tingled with the residual buzz from the man in the grey t-shirt—Arthur. That had been a good one, a classic. Pure, unadulterated vulnerability. He was about to key the ignition again when the sweep of high beams cut through the twilight, followed by the hydraulic sigh of a large vehicle braking.
A tour bus, painted with a fading mountain landscape, pulled into the lot. Doors hissed open, and a tide of people spilled out, stretching and chatting, a wave of noise breaking the evening’s quiet. Dale’s pulse, which had just begun to settle, kicked back into a swift, familiar rhythm. Opportunity rarely knocked twice so close together.
He waited a moment, then slipped out of the van, merging with the stream of travelers heading toward the brick building. He kept his head down, just another weary soul answering nature’s call. The men’s room was no longer a tomb; it was a cacophony. The air, previously stale, was now thick with the smell of sweat, cheap cologne, and the sharp tang of urine from overworked urinals. A line had already formed.
Dale avoided it, moving past the urinals toward the stalls. The one at the end, his stall from before, was occupied. But the one beside it was empty. He ducked inside, latching the flimsy door just as a boisterous group of young men shoved their way in.
“I’m telling you, man, I can hold it longer than that,” one voice bragged above the din.
“Bullshit, Billy. You were squirming the last hour.”
Billy. Dale’s attention sharpened. He pressed his eye to the familiar peephole in the partition. The view was partially obscured by the occupant of the next stall, an older man sitting on the toilet. But Dale’s focus was drawn to the urinals.
Billy was hard to miss. Early twenties, lean, with a practiced swagger. He claimed a urinal with theatrical ownership, nudging his friend aside. “Watch a master at work,” Billy said, his voice carrying a laugh. He made a show of unzipping, not even trying to conceal his actions from the others. He gripped himself, rolling back his foreskin with a deliberate, almost ceremonial flair, and began to piss with a forceful stream that echoed loudly against the porcelain.
But he didn’t stop when he was finished.
He lingered, his hand moving in a slow, rhythmic tug. A low groan escaped him. His friends were joking nearby, but Billy was in his own world, or perhaps performing for it. His hips gave a slight thrust. Dale’s breath caught. This was different from Arthur’s private relief. This was brazen, a display of crude exhibitionism that twisted the private act into something public and charged.
Dale watched, mesmerized by the audacity. The young man’s face was a mask of concentrated pleasure, his jaw slack. With a sharp intake of breath, Billy’s body stiffened, and a streak of white hit the tiles above the urinal. He jerked twice more, then sighed, slumping forward.
“Damn, Billy, you animal!” a friend called out, followed by raucous laughter.
Billy chuckled, tucking himself away with a satisfied grin. “Gotta drain the main vein, right?” He zipped up and swaggered toward the sinks, leaving the evidence on the wall.
Dale leaned back from the peephole, his heart hammering against his ribs. The vulgarity should have repulsed him, but it didn’t. It was a different flavor of the same power. Arthur had been unaware, which was sweet. Billy was complicit in his own exposure, which was spicy, dangerous. The risk was higher, the thrill more acute.
He waited until the bathroom began to empty, the noises receding as the travelers filed back to the bus. When he emerged, the room was almost empty again, save for the old man finally exiting the stall. Dale walked to the urinal Billy had used. He looked at the splatter on the tiles, a stark, drying testament to the boy’s performance. He didn't touch it. He just looked.
Then he turned and left, the image of Billy’s theatrical release burned into his mind. The bus was pulling away as he reached his van. He didn’t follow it. He sat for a long time in the driver’s seat, the memory of the two men—the oblivious and the ostentatious—playing off each other in his head. It was a good night’s work. A collection was growing. He started the engine, a slow smile spreading across his face as he headed toward the highway, wondering what the next stop might bring.