Instead, I count. I don’t want to be in the bathroom too long, looking like those sad older men who have dropped all discretion at cruising sites. Doing their unashamed laps, lingering in the bathroom for twenty minutes at a time. I count down from a hundred, and this time I’ll leave when I reach zero.

Cruising can be a game of luck. You don’t know who will walk in. There’s danger to it as well. But the majority of the time nothing happens. Tonight is one of those nights. I get down to zero and start from a hundred again.

There’s writing on the cubicle wall that I read while I wait. It’s old; there are dates and times from years ago. The ghosts of cruising’s past. Phone numbers are scrawled in chicken-scratch handwriting. I’ve never understood those that leave numbers; surely they’ve got a second phone or the numbers are fake.

Some of the comments are wild. Drawings of comically large genitals with a pointed arrow saying ‘you’ next to a crude mouth labeled ‘me.’ Swearing. Vulgar confessions. People writing that they need their virgin ass pounded, like a toilet block is the best place for that. The irony is not lost on me that I’m sitting here in judgement of others while waiting to do the same thing.

I hear footsteps approach, and I straighten up. Waiting in anticipation. There’s a loud creak. A click and a snap shut as those same footsteps walk away. I’m confused, so I stay in my stall. I’m flaccid now as my mind races between shame and fear.

The gate in front of the bathroom is locked shut. A heavy chain and padlock keep it all in place. Do I scream out and, in doing so, admit why I am here, or should I sit back and accept my punishment?

It’s already so dark and cold out; I can barely see one side of the bathroom from the other. As my eyesight takes time to adjust, the warm and lingering stench of piss envelops me.

I give in. I grab the metal bars of the door and shout. I rattle its metal frame and shout into the night. If anyone hears me, then they’re ignoring my pleas. If my phone worked, none of this would be a problem. I can’t even tell what time it is, let alone call for help.

A scrape and a deep groan echo across the bathroom. The darkness makes it worse. I hear another groan and retreat back to the cubicle.

There’s more noise as the lights flick back on, and I’m relieved. The old electrics are playing with my already frazzled mind. With the light on it will be easier to relax and find a way out of here. I spot writing on the wall that I haven’t seen before.

‘Nowhere to go. Might as well have some fun’.

A pale blue eye flashes in the glory hole, and I jump. I fall off the toilet and onto the floor. I scramble out of the cubicle. It is only for a second, but I’m certain of what I saw. I try the main door again. Still locked.

Above me, ten feet in the air, are windows. No glass but covered by bars. I circle the space, looking for any means of escape or an ‘in case of emergency’ button. Nothing. Nobody else is here either. That eye must have been my imagination.

I sit down against the wall opposite the bathroom sinks. The cold concrete seeps up through my body immediately.

I shut my eyes, not because I’m tired, but because I want the night to be over with. Without my phone, it’s impossible to tell how much time has passed when I open them again.

The door to the other cubicle opens and shuts. I watch in disbelief as the lock turns over. The sound of feet shuffling and tapping, and yet I see nothing under the stall. Like they’re trying to get the attention of the person in the next stall over. They don’t stop. Shuffle, shuffle. Tap, tap, tap.

Taps turn on and off. Water gushes out of the urinals. I jump out of the way as the hand dryer above me blasts hot air onto me. Without thinking, I run back to my cubicle and lock the door.

There’s new writing there. Taking the place of the words before.

‘Pretty boy, no point hiding from us.’

I fumble with the lock, but it won’t budge. The eye is back in the glory hole, not shying away once I see it. The skin around it is pale and wrinkled. So lifelike. A long finger pokes through to beckon me as I keep trying to force the door open. There’s a cold shiver around my ankles as I’m briefly shoved against the cubicle wall.

Hands reach for me under the stall. Not just two but an indecipherable amount. Different ages, different races, all blurring together, all pushing me forward. I shout, but it doesn’t deter them. The arms reach out further. I climb on top of the toilet seat. I can see the tops of heads peeking down at me from about the stall.

If I stay here, I’m going to die.

I use the toilet roll holder to help me step up and climb over. As I look over, the other cubicle is empty. Like they’d disappear once they’ve been confronted.

I try my best to lower myself down on the other side, but instead I fall, landing hard on my backside. I don’t notice the pain right away as I scramble backwards towards the door.

My rational mind tells me that they aren’t real. But I felt pulled into the wall; I’m certain of that. If they can grab me, then they can hurt me.

I try to think of places in the bathroom where I can wait out the night. Urinals are out, same with the cubicles. Anywhere with a history of high foot traffic is dangerous.

A section of the wall close to the door is my only option. It’s visible to the outside so people won’t loiter there. I crawl over to it.

I feel eyes staring at me but can’t see anyone.

I sit down and rest my back against the wall, and after five or ten minutes go by without incident, I know I’ll be safe for the night.

The night has properly set in now, and I hug my knees to my chest to try and stay warm. As my heart rate lowers, the cold begins to set in. I can’t walk around to warm up; I’m too scared of another attack.

The hours drag. I don’t know if I will fall asleep or I will just be hours away in my delusional state. I do see the sun start to rise and hope someone comes by any second to unlock the doors.

The lock rattles, and my eyes shoot open.

A man in his forties opens the gate, looking at me on the ground. I stand, preparing myself for a reprimanding, but he smiles and steps aside.

I don’t wait and I don’t say thank you. I start running.

‘Hope they gave you a good time.’ He shouts behind me.