Gay Erotica Confessions from the Other Side
Gay Erotica and the Secret Life Behind the Hole
My first sexual encounters weren’t on an app. There were no discreet taps or swipes, no emojis to hint that you might be into more than conversation. Unless you count that foot tapping under a bathroom stall partition as a tap. My version of “gay erotica” began long before algorithms started pairing horny strangers by postcode. It started in the men’s room of a park that smelled of piss, disinfectant and fear.
That’s where I first discovered the glory hole.
It looked like someone had attacked the wall with a screwdriver and hope. Just a crude circle in the concrete between two cubicles. Something that you simply can’t ignore because it’s obvious what it’s there for. And so naturally, I didn’t ignore it.
Back then there wasn’t a word for what I was feeling. Curiosity maybe. Hunger probably. A horny teenager who discovered the quiet thrill of doing something that was clearly wrong. You didn’t have to be brave, you just had to be tired of jerking off to fantasies in your head.
The Hole Truth
They call it a glory hole. It’s the kind of phrase that makes half the world blush and the other half roll its eyes, but for some of us it was the first honest place we ever stood (or sat). Our hands on hips, or holding the wall as if in prayer. It wasn’t just faceless sex. That anonymity was part of the deal, sure, but what mattered was the connection, two people sharing the same desire.
I still remember that first moment, standing there, heart racing, the sound of my pulse louder than the dripping out by the sinks. It was ridiculous and holy at the same time. A kind of sacrament with worse, flickering lighting.
And when it finally happened, when the wall between fear and pleasure dissolved, I understood something.
It wasn’t deep or philosophical. It was physical, it was sweat and breath and the sudden realisation that someone else’s hand on me felt better than any fantasy I’d ever had. There was shame in it, sure, but also a kind of freedom, the conflicting, guilty kind that leaves you shaking, quietly satisfied because you’ve just crossed a line you can never uncross.
That was the night I learned what it meant to feel. Not love or romance, just raw, unfiltered connection, skin, sound, heartbeat. And it was beautiful and terrible at the same time.
History Lessons Nobody Asked For
If you type “gloryhole history” into Google, you’ll find clinical articles written by people who probably never had the courage to walk into one. They call them “anonymous male bonding rituals,” which is adorable. What they forget is that these places existed because we weren’t allowed to exist anywhere else. A time before gay marriage and Pride.
They were the original social networks, built from desperation and hope, where connection didn’t depend on filters or profiles. Your signal strength was measured in heartbeats and the algorithm was luck.
I’m sure some historian will one day write about how these dark little corners were acts of rebellion disguised as lust. I’d read that. Hell, I lived it. I even wrote a book about it. The Hole in the Door isn’t about my personal experience, though that’s interwoven throughout. It’s about a time when sex was attainable, in a dangerous, forbidden place. And it was glorious.
The Foxo Twist
When I started writing gay erotica years later, I realised I’d already done half the research in my youth. The yearning, the risks I took, the quiet ache of wanting something the world said you shouldn’t… that’s what drives every story I write. It’s why I write a lot of themes around first time, glory holes, sex in parks and shame, because all too often, shame was paired with these adventures.
People think erotica is about sex. It’s not. It’s about humanity. About the space between shame and pleasure, and the laugh you let out when you realise they’re the same damn thing.
I still write those stories now, just with better lighting and fewer splinters. The only difference is that the confession happens on a page instead of through a wall.
Half my stories are memories, but sold as fiction.
The Aftertaste
Maybe I’m nostalgic, but I miss that time before the apps. Before everything became a menu. There was anticipation back then, and danger, and a kind of wild honesty. When a trembling breath through a hole could change your night or your life.
There was no profile to curate, no photo to retouch, no follower count to measure your worth. Just a wall, a heartbeat, and the hope that someone on the other side might be more than just a hole.
And if you’re wondering what happened that first night, let’s just say I left with shaking legs and a new understanding of the universe. But not all stories are meant for the free side of the wall.
That part comes later, behind the members’ section, where I can finally tell it unfiltered. For now, the unfiltered stories live on ReamStories, Substack, SubscribestarAdult and Patreon. But they’ll find their way home here soon, where no one can censor them and no one can tell me what’s too much.
Coming soon
Pornhub. Yep, you read that right. Allegedly, audio stories are popular on Pornhub, so I’m about to move my podcasts there and I’m in the process of setting up the very complex process of profile creation there. You can already hear them on my Substack.
The full, uncensored version of Confessions from the Other Side will live behind my members’ area here on FoxEmerson.com. Join me here now if you want to read it before the pearl clutchers find a new reason to faint.