Glory Hole Incest Story

Glory Hole Incest Story

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Last Saturday, I finally had a coveted brunch with my new queer friend group, who I have fondly dubbed as the “Five Fabulous Faggots.” Squished up against a window stall at Sconehenge Bakery & Cafe, our conversations quickly devolved into revelations of our darkest kinks and most sinful sexual activities.
“Clock it, there was this one gay couple that would prep for anal by douching with urine. Like, he would straight up piss in his boyfriend’s ass,” one person said, absently pushing around the mound of gloppy pinto beans left over from his huevos revueltos. “Then he would throat-fuck his boyfriend until he vomited. He’d use the bile and mucous to lube up his cock and have his way with that freshly pee-douched butthole.”
My immediate follow-up was: “Holy shit. Would the stomach acid make his ass tingle, though?”
Many view interest in non-conformist desires as a negative reflection of an individual. Society thinks bad people have “sick” desires or vice versa. Those who act on desires of pedophilia or vorarephilia demonstrate those fears to the extreme extent: some unconventional sexual obsessions can become incredibly dangerous to others and oneself.
But not all sexual desires are rooted in something twisted or unorthodox, nor are they completely unexplainable. Just like Cleopatra and the fake legend of her bee-filled gourd vibrator, exploring interest in these unconventional fetishes can also contribute positively to our psyches, both sexually and in our everyday lives.
I remember when I stumbled upon what is notoriously known as “the most disgusting story on the internet.” I was in my early teens, and I devoured the blog of “ Blowfly girl ”, a woman who described her obscure, “filthy” fetishes: she would dumpster dive for maggots, seek out roadkill and rotting garbage, and use them to stimulate her erogenous zones.
When I first read her stories in my early teens, I was completely repulsed and persevered in my readings simply to demonstrate that I was strong enough to digest “disgusting” content such as this. Years later, after a reread in my adulthood, I realized that my distaste transformed into curiosity — as someone who struggled with self-hatred and self-harm, I was interested in why Blowfly girl continued her dangerous lifestyle.
Initially, her body too was repelled by the trash she inserted into her body. As I read more, I understood that when Blowfly girl finally allowed herself act on her desires, she acted on a self-hatred: she saw herself as “dirty” and believed she deserved to be polluted.
When I revisited her page nearly a decade later, rather than focusing on her visceral stories, which were already seared into my mind, I examined her profile description. She’s from Illinois, is currently working as a transcriptionist , and has a public email. Being able to find the accessible humanity within these otherwise taboo tales allows us to examine our preconceived notions of what is “normal” and what is not.
Until the 1980s, homosexuality was classified as a sociopathic personality disturbance in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) by the American Psychiatric Association (APA)
While the aforementioned brunch time recollection of cis-dick on cis-dick with friends wasn’t particularly surprising to me, the addition of unpleasant bodily fluids easily pushed the casual conversation from gossip to controversy.
Though the idea of homosexuality has been normalized in our collective consciousness, adding descriptions of sexual deviancy which are still controversial and little known continues to repel many. This layering is seen as grotesque, resulting in a general disconnect with sexual minorities. But when speaking with my friends and normalizing this ludicrousness, even for a few seconds, I was able to understand the complexities and dark sides to human sexuality.
Especially in Berkeley, it’s hard to realize that outside of our little bubble, people are still fundamentally disgusted by gay people and others outside of the heterosexual norm. This holds us back from examining further controversial sexual topics.
While I’m not trying to say that every paraphilic desire needs to be vindicated or rationalized, the fact that being gay was associated with sexual assault a mere 40 years ago highlights the idea that behaviors which were once classified as taboo can become part of our everyday consciousness. Even now, some classify those involved in the BDSM as having a mental disorder.
As shown by the evolving perspectives of being a glorious fag, we are slowly getting close to normalizing it as an everyday behavior. Nevertheless, we should not stop there. Accepting homosexuality isn’t necessarily where we end our progression and understanding of sexual deviancy. It is infinitely valuable to delve into topics we don’t understand and may initially make us recoil in disgust. Frequently, after thoughtful examination, finding the relevancy to these seemingly irreconcilable ideas helps us think critically and subvert an oppressive status quo.
I’ve found that my interests in these sexual topics have made me more interested in the unconventional in general. Not only am I more open to negotiating with sexual taboos and how they interact with our everyday lives, but I am also more open to understanding commentary that initially make me feel vulnerable and attacked. I’m constantly fascinated by creepy-crawlies, as well as the mechanics behind why horror stories grip us the way they do.
As Thanksgiving rolls around, I am thankful for all the grotesque kinks I have encountered in my life so far, and I am thankful for how they have made me into a more curious, adventurous person in all facets of my life.
Michelle Zheng writes the Tuesday column on sex. Contact her at sex@dailycal.org and follow her on Twitter at @thezhenger .

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Published March 5, 2017 12:30AM (EST)

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The first time I used a men’s room, I was 17 years old. I looked about 14, probably, with my hair freshly cut short, my head still feeling light and buoyant after getting rid of the ponytail I’d carried through most of high school.
That bathroom was nothing special. In fact, I didn’t see most of it as I walked in, head down and turned slightly away from the line of urinals. I made a beeline for the stalls, which were the same as the stalls in every women’s room I’d ever used in my first 17 years of life.
I peed. I can’t remember if I washed my hands or not. Probably not.
I do remember that there were other men in the room. Two of them. Both at the urinals, and so their backs were toward me when I entered. And maybe they were washing their hands when I was leaving, and that’s why I’m thinking I probably didn’t wash my hands.
The first time I used a men’s room with friends — friends who’d known me from before, friends who’d known me my whole life — I was a few weeks shy of my eighteenth birthday. I’d been living as a guy for about a year. Home for the summer from boarding school, that awkward and potent summer between high school and college, I was working as a dishwasher. I’d been back in my hometown for a week or so, and a bunch of us decided to go to the movies together.
Such trips were always a challenge. First, because we all worked odd jobs with odd hours. Second, because none of us owned a car and the nearest movie theater was 40 minutes from our rural Maine town. And, for me, because though I had known these boys since preschool, I had gone away every September for the last four years to a prep school. And also because now at 17 I was, for the first time in my life, a boy.
We went to the movies, five of us crammed into someone’s mom’s sedan. Afterwards, debating Denny’s versus Friendly’s, we veered down the hallway toward the movie theater’s bathrooms. My short hair hadn’t been mentioned — I’d had it short third grade through seventh grade, after all, only growing it out at my mom’s insistence. They’d been calling me Al for years, so I didn’t have to tell them that I’d changed my name from Alice to Alex. And I wore the same t-shirts and jeans and flannel shirts and sneakers that I always wore.
Down that hallway, I thought, which one? Easy enough to just go in the women’s room, give people a dirty look when they scowled at me. It was the mid-’90s. Grunge and androgyny were reasonably widespread, even in the sticks of Maine. But I hated using the women’s room and not just because of being a boy. I hated it because of what was said to me: G et out! Was the nicest version. Other variations included dyke, queer, butch, bitch, creep , once (oddly) faggot and other, unprintable, words.
So I said to my friends, "Do you mind if I use the men’s room with you? Or would that be weird?"
And my best friend Bryan said, "Of course not. It would only be weird if you used the urinal."
I didn’t. In subsequent years, I would think about that — using the urinal. Devices were sold, tricks bandied about in trans groups I went to. Medicine spoons and surgical tubing. The plastic lid to a coffee can (clear plastic is best), trimmed of its edges, could be stowed in the back pocket, lifted out in one’s palm, curled into a funnel and used with care at a urinal. So long as you peed slowly and no one peeked. I practiced a few of these tricks. I got more than one pair of jeans thoroughly piss-soaked. I gave up practicing.
Lately, the news has me thinking back to that first men’s room, 21 years ago , and what drove me to go inside. I never would have entered if I thought I would have been detected, confronted, kicked out.
In fact, I’ll tell you what stands out to me even more than that first men’s room: It's the last time I went into a women’s room. I had come out as transgender to my parents just a few days before. It had gone somewhere in the range of “not a total disaster but not great.” We were out for a meal at my parents’ favorite seafood restaurant. It had not gone well already — the waitress had asked me, “What can I get you, young man?” and an argument had ensued when my parents tried to correct her and I tried to get them to shut up.
Needing to pee, or perhaps just wanting to escape the table, I went over the restrooms. I imagined what would happen if my father happened to also feel the urge at this moment, and what sort of scene might follow if he found me in the men’s room. So I went into the women’s room. At the sinks stood an older woman, who looked at me in the mirror as I entered, her eyebrows shooting up. “This is the ladies!” she said, thoroughly scandalized.
I thought about saying, “I know,” which had been my usual response during those years when I had short hair and people thought I was a boy. But this time, for the last time, I said, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m in the wrong place.”
Alex Myers lives in New Hampshire with his wife and two cats. He is a teacher who speaks often at schools across the country about transgender identity. He is also a writer; "Revolutionary," was published by Simon & Schuster in January 2014. It tells the story of his ancestor, Deborah Samson, who in 1782 ran away from home, disguised herself as a man, and fought in the Revolutionary War.

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I needed to stop at the service station next to the Chepstow Severn Bridge earlier as a rather explosive s t couldn't wait til I got home. However I couldn't help but notice there is what appears to be a "Glory-Hole" into the next cubicle........ What were they thinking?, surely it would be better having this entering into the ladies toilets.....
Surely there are better places for it? Service stations are for explosive s tting and then pressing on. If you want sweet loving you need a nice rural bog where everyone has time for each other.
Speaking of odd experiences at petrol stations. There used to be a girl working at a petrol station in Melksham who when it was a bit quiet used to reach for a top shelf magazine and then ask me, and presumably other men, 'Would you like to look through this magazine with me'.
You’re not going to get much glory through there are you, it’s tiny.
Speaking of odd experiences at petrol stations. There used to be a girl working at a petrol station in Melksham who when it was a bit quiet used to reach for a top shelf magazine and then ask me, and presumably other men, 'Would you like to look through this magazine with me'.
Speaking of odd experiences at petrol stations. There used to be a girl working at a petrol station in Melksham who when it was a bit quiet used to reach for a top shelf magazine and then ask me, and presumably other men, 'Would you like to look through this magazine with me'.
I didn't know what a "glory hole" was. I think I do now.....
Thanks to this thread I have just had one of those awakening moments you sometimes get as adult. I used to travel a lot with my dad when I was little, From the age of about 7 or 8 I would go all over the country with him when it was the holidays. Whenever we stopped at a toilet or service station he would always go and check the cubicle before I was allowed in to do my business, I asked once what he was looking for and he said "make sure there is toilet paper" but as of a minute or so ago I now strongly suspect he was making sure junior me was not peeped at or worse.
Thanks to this thread I have just had one of those awakening moments you sometimes get as adult. I used to travel a lot with my dad when I was little, From the age of about 7 or 8 I would go all over the country with him when it was the holidays. Whenever we stopped at a toilet or service station he would always go and check the cubicle before I was allowed in to do my business, I asked once what he was looking for and he said "make sure there is toilet paper" but as of a minute or so ago I now strongly suspect he was making sure junior me was not peeped at or worse.
Speaking of odd experiences at petrol stations. There used to be a girl working at a petrol station in Melksham who when it was a bit quiet used to reach for a top shelf magazine and then ask me, and presumably other men, 'Would you like to look through this magazine with me'.
Thanks to this thread I have just had one of those awakening moments you sometimes get as adult. I used to travel a lot with my dad when I was little, From the age of about 7 or 8 I would go all over the country with him when it was the holidays. Whenever we stopped at a toilet or service station he would always go and check the cubicle before I was allowed in to do my business, I asked once what he was looking for and he said "make sure there is toilet paper" but as of a minute or so ago I now strongly suspect he was making sure junior me was not peeped at or worse.
I needed to stop at the service station next to the Chepstow Severn Bridge earlier as a rather explosive s t couldn't wait til I got home. However I couldn't help but notice there is what appears to be a "Glory-Hole" into the next cubicle........ What were they thinking?, surely it would be better having this entering into the ladies toilets.....
I never even considered it until I started working on the motorways and frequenting the services far too often and took 'an interest' especially at Lymm services/Aka truckers paradise on the M6 in Cheshire. Had to do a full bog and cubicle inspection before ever using it, cubicles nowadays seem to have gone from standard size melamine to floor to ceiling steel lined cells due to pervy barstewards and also in other locations now like supermarket bogs. Anyway I learnt one valuable lesson in life which I carry to this day ALWAYS check for bogroll before anything
That’s not a glory hole....this is a glory hole
Anyway I learnt one valuable lesson in life which I carry to this day ALWAYS check for bogroll before anything
You’re not going to get much glory through there are you, it’s tiny.
Speaking of odd experiences at petrol stations. There used to be a girl working at a petrol station in Melksham who when it was a bit quiet used to reach for a top shelf magazine and then ask me, and presumably other men, 'Would you like to look through this magazine with me'.
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All my preparations and quivering anticipation was to have ended in bliss, the kind only my father could give me… I was my father’s lover and he was mine. Everything was perfect.
I didn’t cry. It was
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