I was 16 when saw my first glory hole -- or, rather, saw my first filled glory hole. It was in Harrogate, North Yorkshire, a public-spirited, snobbish spa town well-served by shiny Victorian lavatories. The throbbing, fleshy wall fitting in my tiled cubicle was quite a sight. Glorious, even. Truly an impressive, proud piece of polished plumbing.
Cottaging, or cruising for sex in public lavatories and parks, was once a mainstay of the gay demi-monde. It's easy to see why. When any and all sex between men was still illegal, as it was in the UK before the (partial) decriminalization of 1967, anonymous sex was often the only kind available. It was probably the only sensible kind too, since the more your partner knew about you, the more you left yourself open to blackmail. Thanks to British municipal pride, toilets were everywhere -- and also nowhere: a kind of wordless no man's land where anything might happen. Much like homosexuality.
