Hard-hitting journalism
I Stuck My Dong In A Gloryhole To See What Would Happen
The things we do for our craft
I was driving home from a lovely country retreat dodging the endless roadworks and fucknuts in their trucks.
And I was god damn determined not to eat junk food since I got paranoid that processed food was turning me into a Nazi spy. But as always, the food in the countryside matched the mentality of the slow-talking National Party voting population.
I considered the whiter than white Anus Glue sandwich with a delicate layer of cheap margarine called Carcinolex, Monsanto marinated iceberg lettuce, mentally tortured sow stall ham still screaming on the sandwich and nasty low-fat mayonnaise that looked like Greasy Henry the wrestler just blew his greasy load on your butty.
There were also pies with pastry as thick as your stepmother’s nipples and a sign that said Voted Australia’s Best Pies. I’ve never trusted those signs. Then there were sausage rolls made with minced cow perineum and enough cornflour to bread a small rodent. They seemed like the most travel-friendly option.
“I’ll take the breaded rodent, thanks,” I said.
An hour up the road, I felt pain in my stomach like I’d swallowed Tyrion Lannister.
The pain lasted ten minutes before morphing into a desire to do a tremendous shit. It was the kind of shit that makes veins pop out the side of your head. I hadn’t felt it this bad since I went on Dragon’s Den.
“Hey Siri”, I said. No answer.
“Hey, SIRI”. No answer.
“FUCK YOU, SIRI, I need you right now.”
Finally, I got the cold bleep.
“Tell me where the nearest public toilet is, please”. I always TRY to be polite to Siri in case one day she is an advanced AI robot who remembers everything.
“The nearest public toilet is on Adam’s Street Oval in Keysborough,” she said.
“Thanks, Siri”
It took all my determination to get there without shitting my pants.
Finally, I pulled into the gravel car park and ran into the toilet, slamming the door closed, and whipping down my pants. At first, it felt good, but I soon realised this shit was too big for my arsehole. It was like giving birth to a god damn humpback whale, and the stunning creature tore me open like a bag of Doritos for a good thirty seconds before plopping into the toilet ocean.
I bathed in the afterglow of my environmental work while padding my bleeding anus with cheap toilet tissue, and I noticed a hole in the wall that said,
TRY ME
Was this some kind of perverted Alice in Wonderland thing? I bent forward and peered into the hole. It was like staring into the cosmos — pitch black and expansive. I sniffed the air in there too. It smelt like a god damn farm stable for some reason. I finished wiping and stood up, concluding that it must be just somebody’s idea of a joke. But then it dawned on me that I am supposed to be a writer seeking experiences, like Louis Theroux, not a pussy who runs away from the extraordinary.
So I unzipped my fly again and stuck my cock into the cosmos.
It was breezy in there like a wind tunnel and it felt pleasantly cool on my hot pecker.
As I stood there for a minute, basking in my journalistic courage, I realised I was turned on enough by the act of using a glory hole. It didn’t even matter if anyone —
— I felt lips on the end of my cock and then an intense, warm, wet sucking action that was unmistakably a mouth. I couldn’t believe it. The sucking got harder until it was almost industrial level. This person knew what they were doing. But who were they? Was it a man or a woman or — well, I realised it could be anyone, and that disturbed me for a moment. It would be regrettable if my Uncle Ted turned out to be a glory hole slut in Keysborough. I decided the chances were far too slim to consider and besides I was having too much of a good time.
The sucking got too much, and I knew I was about to ejaculate
I’d seen videos about this stuff online where the suckee knocks on the wall to let the sucker know they are going to blow. So I knocked, but for some stupid reason, I did one of those ka — ka ka ka rhythmic knocks as if I were arriving at my University Professor’s house for dinner with him and his wife.
The sucking stopped immediately, and I expected the usual wanking finish, but it never came. I waited longer but there was no wanking. My cock had been abandoned on the precipice of bliss.
“Hello,” I said. Nothing.
“Hello?” Nothing. It was like talking to Siri.
I pulled my cock out of the hole, sat down and finished the job myself
Afterwards, I muttered “Thank you” into the hole and stood up to leave. But from the other side of the hole came a neighing sound like a horse.
“Excuse me?” I said. “Did you say something?”
“NEEIGHHH”.
NO, it was a horse. Fuck. I bent down to the hole again and tried to look in.
“Are you a horse?” I asked, panicking. No answer. For fuck’s sake. I needed answers.
“Are you a fucking horse? Please tell me”. I asked again. I was distraught. I took off out to the car park, and paced up and down.
Finally, I got back in my car and called Lifeline
“Welcome to Lifeline. This is Graham. How can I help?”
“Yes, Graham. I think I just got sucked off by a horse.”
There was a long pause then Graham piped up.
“Look, this is a serious line, Mate. Real people need someone to speak to, so this just isn’t funny.”
“Do I look like I’m laughing, Graham? I am a real person, and this is serious. I think I just got sucked off by a horse. I’m one of those animal sex maniacs like George Orwell. I’m a Beastiality freak. Tell me what to do, for God’s sake.”
Graham made the long sigh of someone whose rules prevented him from hanging up the phone.
“Okay, well, why don’t you tell me what happened?” he said.
I explained the situation by prefacing the whole story with the fact that I am a journalist like Louis Theroux, and glory holes are not something I engage in recreationally.
“Sure,” Graham said in a sombre tone. “Well, if you ask me, it’s pretty unlikely that an actual horse has taken up residence in the cleaning cupboard of a men’s toilet in Keysborough. I mean, I’m no expert on horses, but aren’t they usually busy winning races, eating grass, that type of thing?”
Damn, he was good. What was I thinking? Indeed a horse wouldn’t have the capacity to pull off such a project. I felt relieved.
“And I would say that perhaps you should go and knock on the door and find out if it’s true,” Graham said.
Thank God for Lifeline. I thanked Graham, got out of my car and walked round to the cleaner’s cupboard between the male and female toilets.
“Right, you fucker”, I said, kicking the door open like a perverted SWAT team leader. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I was astonished by the scene.
A horse was cowering on a bucket, surrounded by hay. But it wasn’t an ordinary horse. It was a pantomime horse — one of those costumes but with only the front part occupied and the back legs hanging down in the hay.
“What the hell is this?” I asked. The man held up a small tape recorder and pressed play.
“NEIIIIGGHHHH’.” It was the fucking horse sound.
‘“Give me that,” I yelled, grabbing the device from his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “My name is Lee. I’m trying to become a porn influencer. It’s a very particular niche called ‘Equine Glory Holes’. I have a channel on XHamster.”
I nodded because I’d heard of XHamster. The poor bastard looked terrified.
“Look, it’s fine,” I told him, feeling terrible. “How’s it all going? The channel, I mean?”
“Well, not very well. That’s why I’m here. Im sorta trying to take it to the next level.” He told me about how his wife passed away and left him with three children and how he does the night shift at a service station while he builds his porn business.
“Well, you know Lee,” I said. “I’m no lawyer, but you might have to get everyone you suck off to sign a release of some kind. Excuse the pun. Anyway, I’m happy for you to use my footage.”
“Oh,” he said. “Thanks so much.” Then he started crying. I’ve never seen a pantomime horse cry real tears before. It was awkward. I passed him some hay in the absence of tissue.
I felt he needed good digital marketing help.
I inquired if he’d heard of Neil Patel, but he hadn’t. I told him that’s a good thing and that he would need some real help. I gave him Smillew Rahcuef’s number instead and said that Smillew is an expert in SEO and sucking off horses so he can probably really help. I shook Lee’s hoof and wished him good luck. I didn’t know what else I could do for him.
“Before I go,” I said. “I hope this isn’t an awkward question Lee, but why did you stop when I knocked on the wall?” I just had to know.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said. “I thought someone was at the door.”
Hmm. The poor bastard. I’d blown the video for him with my stupid knock. So much for professional journalism. Louis would never do that.
