Gotta pee

At the forty minute mark, Aaron decided to get up to go to the bathroom. Not because he had to jerk off but because he genuinely needed to piss. He tapped Iman on the thigh and told her as much. She was too infatuated by Zatanna to care.

The theatre was empty and he half-jogged to the nearby restroom. Chosen One or not, he had to his urges. Luckily, no one was around and he could piss in peace. He selected the middle urinal, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, and exposed a portion of his black boxers. As expected, they had a remarkably prominent and large bulge, almost as if he had stuffed it with a pineapple. Obviously, that wasn't the case. He was just ridiculously well-hung.

He pulled on the waistband and his limp cock flopped out and slapped his thigh, the thwap echoing through the washroom. Aaron winced. There was a reason why he never used public bathrooms. Being hung like a horse was a curse. Having to put on pants was an ordeal in itself. He needed time and space to be able to pee.

'I must have drank too much coffee in the morning…or maybe Wayne Manor uses expired beans.'

He was pressed to the urinal, minding his own business, when someone else entered. No biggie. It was a public area. Except said male decided to break the sacred bro code and slipped directly next to Aaron.

'What the fuck is he doing? There are literally seven other urinals? Are you blind?'

The disruptive smell of cigarette wafted through his nose. Aaron nearly blanched. It was almost as bad as intentionally ignoring every open urinal to use the one to his right. Almost. Hearing the man unbuckle his belt was grating. Fuck, he just wanted to leave. Unfortunately, he couldn't. His bladder hadn't emptied yet.

Then, against all odds, all of what Aaron desired, the man decided to break rule number two of bathroom etiquette and spoke gingerly. "Nice meetin' you 'ere. You 'ere for the Zatanna show?"

Why was he speaking!? Did British people not have bathroom etiquette? Was it not a universal rule? It didn't make sense, they were using the fucking urinals! Why!?

"...yeah." Aaron's response was curt and unfriendly. He did not wish to participate in a conversation and he hoped he made his intentions clear.

The man with the strong English accent paused. Did he get the message? Hopefully. Middle-aged men tended to flap their mouths unnecessarily but would shut up if the opposing party seemed uncomfortable. That was not the case this time and the man flapped his mouth anyway.

"Bloody 'ell," the blonde male exclaimed, his eyes widening in astonishment as he laid eyes on the gargantuan monstrosity dangling from Aaron. The swagger that had been enveloping him was momentarily replaced by genuine shock. "That's a right massive bugger, innit? Didn't expect a pecker to ever be that bleedin' huge."

Aaron cringed. 'Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up…'

On the outside, he was as cool as a cucumber. He didn't look, he didn't respond, he didn't twitch. He merely glanced at the other male's face.

Blonde and rugged, he ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. While Aaron needed both hands to guide his penis, the rough looking stranger needed one. "'Ere I was thinkin' I'd seen it all, and now I'm standin' next to a proper behemoth. Just goes to show mother nature never ceases to amaze."

"Sure…" Curiosity got the better of him and Aaron decided to peek at the man's package. He didn't want to be mean but he was fucking tiny. Flaccid was no excuse.

'So what the fuck is up the excess confidence? The rough exterior? The badass coat?' The scruffy blonde British man had a two inch long penis, accompanied by a pouch smaller than a single testicle of Aaron's. The contrast was asinine. They were the same height too yet the difference in manhood was staggering. Even Aaron's stream of yellow piss was ten times stronger.

"Ya know, as fuckin' massive as that thing is, I bet it's never been inside of Zatanna Zatara." The man didn't seem deterred as he continued the conversation. "Jealous? I know I would be."

His penis didn't even hang over his balls. Aaron was literally four times bigger than him. To add insult to injury, Aaron was rich, good-looking, had family and friends, and was the esteemed Chosen One of the omniverse. Aaron might not have been a bragger but he was a realist. He was as jealous as Superman was to Lex Luthor.

'Zatanna got fucked by you? Jesus, dude, you better be a grower. The girl deserves something to match her tits and ass. Something nice and big to come home to.' A sharp inhale through his nose. He was growing agitated and rightfully so. Much to his annoyance, his stream of piss refused to stop. His bladder wasn't empty yet. He shook down his penis and his agitation. 'No offence.'

He could not ignore the English side-eye, the pestering accent, and the silent encouragement to reply. The discussion was practically **** on him. "Boyfriend?" Aaron asked.

"Former boyfriend. Ha! Now there's a bloody story, mate." The British male sighed, his voice tinged with a mix of fondness and regret. "We were like fire and ice, passion and sorcery intertwined. She had that spark, that magic that could mesmerize anyone who crossed her path. But in the end, it was our differences that tore us apart."

Aaron shook down the last bits of his piss before tucking his schlong away. Fuck this conversation and fuck this guy. He just wanted to be left alone. Unfortunately, the stranger's bladder hadn't been as full as his and he finished at the same time as Aaron. Their actions were almost mirrored, except Aaron took longer due to his significantly larger cock. Again, having dick and balls four times bigger than the other guy and silently comparing the experience of their respective endowments was amusing and comical. But it wasn't that amusing. Aaron would much rather be left alone.

He wasn't.

"Oh, but it wasn't the old tudger that was wrong. Seriously, it may look tiny to you, but this baby works like a charm. It ain't about the size of the ship but the motion of the ocean if you get my drift." The two of them washed their hands together. Aaron nearly sighed as he listened to the ramblings of the middle-aged British man. "Zatanna, she's all about the light, the grand illusions, and saving the world with her flashy magic tricks. Me, well, I'm more comfortable in the shadows, dancing with demons and embracing the darkness. We clashed, you see, like bloody hellfire and holy water."

"Okay…"

Aaron dried his hands with the hand dryer. The gust of artificial wind would have felt pleasant if not for the rough voice assaulting his ears.

"We had some wild times, no doubt about that. The sparks between us could set the Thames ablaze. But deep down, we knew we were destined for different paths. I couldn't give up my reckless ways, my penchant for delving into the forbidden and the dangerous. And she couldn't let go of her unwavering commitment to being a hero, to continuing her magician act." A wistful smile crossed his face as he reminisced. "But make no mistake, mate, there'll always be a part of me that carries her with me, like an old spell gone awry. She's a **** of nature, that one. And although our paths diverged, I'll always have a soft spot for that bloody magician."

"Wow, I see. That's good for you." Aaron tried to escape him by leaving the bathroom. He followed like a puppy.

"The name's John Constantine, by the way. Been scouring the town for a strong source of magic in this city. Have you seen it? Lotta strange shite happens in Gotham. Could be magic. Ya never know."

Weirdly enough, he sensed the truth in his words. His accent and chosen words were picked with a touch of arrogance, sarcasm, and wit, but one thing remained clear amongst the Chosen One's senses: John Constantine was not an ordinary man. His presence radiated an intensity that demanded attention, a **** that stirred the very fabric of reality.

"No."

Except Aaron gave no shits about John Constantine or his alleged stories. He wanted to see Zatanna. He wanted that leotard in his face, not the stinky breath of a decrepit guy from England.

"Drat."

John Constantine casually reached into the pocket of his worn trench coat, his fingers deftly retrieving a crumpled pack of cigarettes. With a nonchalant flick of his wrist, he extracted a single stick and placed it between his lips, the end dangling slightly. Aaron watched him, bewildered.

"Smoking isn't allowed here," Aaron stated.

"Says who?" John asked.

"The sign." He pointed at the sign directly behind him. John turned, then laughed.

"Well, I'll be damned. Can't believe even the theatre would betray me." He took one long puff, dropped the cigar, and then stomped it beneath his feet. Aaron pretended he wasn't cringing. The red carpet was definitely going to be fucked up and an unfortunate janitor would be responsible for cleaning it up.

"Say…" John began, his voice filled with a charm that could bewitch even the most **** souls. "You wouldn't happen to have a spare couch or a cozy corner in your humble abode, would ya?"

Aaron looked taken aback, gobsmacked at the audacity of the request. "... I'm sorry, but I don't think I can just let a stranger crash at my place."

'Was this what the conversation was for!? Getting a place to stay!?' Aaron was blank. He offered no emotions to this John Constantine. No sympathy whatsoever. Whether Zatanna was his boyfriend or not, whether the city was suddenly engulfed in magic, it didn't matter.

John shrugged, an impish grin playing on his lips. "Fair enough, mate. Just thought I'd give it a shot. Can't blame a bloke for trying, right? But if you ever change your mind or find yourself in need of a magical adventure, you know where to find me–on the streets of this American shithole."

John walked off to the exit and without looking back raised a waving arm, as if they were friends that had known each other for decades and were bidding a heartfelt goodbye. They weren't. This was the first time Aaron had met the man and it was at a fucking urinal.

The absurdity of the situation actually caused him to crack up. 'Alright, maybe I was taking him too seriously. He was funny even though he broke the dude code. Whatever.'