Words by: Anonymous
Art by: Anonymous

His profile popped up on Sniffies, an app for finding nearby hookup and cruising spots for the gays. He had pinned a cruising spot near the National Gallery of Victoria. No chat, no banter. I just said hi. He replied with “Gloryhole now? Anon suck.”

I’d never done anything like this before. The idea of some anonymous guy waiting behind a wall, in a public toilet on one of Melbourne’s busiest streets? It sounded seedy, but also sounded kind of hot.

I got there in ten minutes. The place was as grimy as you’d expect — cracked tiles, strong smell of piss and stains on the wall. Appropriate, I thought. And there it was: the hole. A perfectly round hole, cut into the door of the cubicle, bold as anything, like it had always been there waiting for me to notice. 

I peeped through the hole quickly, making sure he was there, and he was. My heart raced — part nerves, part something harder to name.

I slid it in. He started right away. No words. No face. Just a mouth on skin, the hum of tradies walking outside.

It was weirdly… normal. “Can I take a pic?” I asked, barely above a whisper. “Mmhmm,” came his voice. So I took a quick photo. It wasn’t even a good one. But it felt like proof. 

About thirty seconds in, I realised I wasn’t actually feeling it. Not grossed out. Not scared. Just off. Like the scene had been hotter in my head. Like I’d chased the idea of danger, but the reality felt flat. 

So I pulled back, zipped up, and left. No eye contact. No goodbye.

Cruising’s never a sure thing. Sometimes it’s a rush. Sometimes it’s a bust. Sometimes you just show up, take your shot, and that’s that. I never messaged him again. But now and then, when I walk past that spot, I think about all the other guys who came cruising for that special bruising and left with nothing but a story.