It’s comfortable, almost like home. Its worn gray walls, a shield from the casual observer, in reality hides little from the determined voyeur willing to gawk through the gaps. A glance at the mirror opposite the stall reveals the number of extra feet under the blind without bending to look. Usually it’s two, but sometimes four. The smooth steel acts as a soundboard for the sounds of gagging and thighs slapping within. However, amplification is not required to hear my moans of pleasure.
I must hurry with tonight’s number five because my husband waits for me outside the bar.