A Formative Memory
This cub story contains light watersports.

Uncle,
If I called it my first memory, I'd be lying, but not entirely. It's the sole memory that comes knocking, upon anyone's mention of their own first—which I overhear more often than you might think. It loses, technically, to vague glimpses of my paws covered in the vibrant pigments of Holi, of constructing nothing in particular out of Lego in the basement with the neighbor cubs, and of learning that the doctor used to put a thermometer in my behind but didn't anymore. Nevertheless, it's the one that always surfaces, and that I've spent so much of my life making sense of, bit by bit.
It begins at the urinal, my first time ever using one. Mom would always bring me into the ladies' room with her when we had errands to run, you see, and this one time you were there with us, and you offered to take me to the men's with you when I said I had to go. The room I followed you into was so different from any restroom I'd ever seen before. I felt like I must've gotten an arcane glimpse into the hidden world of manhood merely by entering, but when you stopped in your tracks and I stumbled into your leg, I figured you must have been just as startled as I was.
We found ourselves in an isolated pocket of another reality, divorced from the sights, scents, sounds, and commercial temptations of the mall outside. Any description would be inadequate to someone whose mind's eye holds a firm "standard" concept of a public restroom, with a rank-and-file row of stalls and modestly spaced urinals. But I bet you still remember this one, even if only vaguely. The whole room was smaller than average. Two sit-down stalls dug alcoves out of opposite corners of the room. A high ceiling accommodated two tall, revealing windows with no curtains or blinds. A round sink basin occupied a rectangular island of countertop in the middle of everything, facing a wall that bore nothing but a single paper towel dispenser, which I would not have been able to reach on my own. Two urinals stood next to one another at equal height along the wall opposite the entrance, with no divider between them, and I was determined to stand up to one proudly.
As we approached, I realized that the very bottom of the urinal looked closer to my chin than to my waist. I caught a strange new aroma wafting from the pink puck resting within it, sweet but not at all appetizing. Silently I panicked, glaring at the pale green tiles lining the edge of the room, one hand concealing my pouting muzzle and the other grabbing the crotch of my cargo shorts, damming my rushing river.
You stepped around me, Uncle, and took your place at the urinal to my right, towering over me. You looked down and, as you unzipped your khaki trousers and reached in to reveal a sliver of white brief, you reassured me that one day I'd be tall enough to use a urinal just like you. There was no shame in using one of the stalls. I hesitated, but then I took your advice. For a matter of seconds, only.
Another idiosyncrasy of restroom architecture made itself apparent as I closed the stall door behind me and found myself in dim grayness. Light bled in from the center of the room, around the corner and through the gaps of the stall door, but there was no lamp overhead. I left the stall without a second thought, and I froze for a moment as I gazed at the cock in your hand. We exchanged glances, and with two words I managed to articulate my discomfort: "It's dark."
Your cock twitched, at my presence. I remember. I could swear it grew a bit. I had seen Dad's a few times, even brushed against it in the bath, but I had never seen one do that. You took a moment, then casually leaned toward the stall as if to examine it, and you agreed that it didn't have its own light, and that was weird. "I wouldn't want to aim at a toilet bowl in a spot like that, either," you said. But you suggested simply leaving the stall door open. I already had a better idea.
I began to climb. It was a small room, you understand, and that sink island smack dab in the middle presented the perfect solution to my problem. You turned toward me hastily to prevent me from hurting myself, your cock still hanging out of your fly, your fiery eyes wide and cautious, a low growl rising within you but not threatening me. But balance is in my nature, just as much as yours. In no time I stood proudly atop the counter, my eye level above yours, and you assumed a protective posture around my lower body. You eased up, and I unzipped. I was going to piss into that urinal no matter if it was farther away than I was tall, and the height of the countertop worked in my favor. I remember your bashful glance away, and your eventual sly grin of approval.
Oh, it was indeed precarious and inappropriate. My bare footpaws didn't find much purchase, only a corner of level laminate surface. All my toes curled over the edge of it, and my right heel hung unsupported over the basin of the sink. Around my left stood a bottle of hand soap, a loose roll of paper towel, and a squeeze bottle of what smelled like cleaner, further confining my feet to this little space. My body heat left my paw pads where they made contact with what little surface they could. You stood next to me, looking me up and down as if judging whether I was ready to try this, and perhaps anticipating what I'd do next.
I assured you that I could pee far, and I knew that I could because I'd done it in the woods before. You asked me how my aim was, though. Would I be able to hit the porcelain of the left urinal, not just the wall and floor beneath it? When I froze up at this thought, you reassured me, not to worry, you would show me how. If I let my trunk out first.
I lowered my shorts, exposing my behind a little, and pulled my penis and balls out from the fly of my briefs, their fabric pridefully tiger-striped in blue and white. We remained side by side, both an unusual distance from our targets. You looked down at my "trunk," which was anxious to let loose, and took a deep breath. You explained that if we both aimed upward, our streams would travel farther before they splashed down. I stared down at yours. You certainly looked like you didn't need any help aiming up.
You gripped your stiff cock anyway. It was bigger now than I would ever have imagined, veins bulging beneath rich brown skin that darkened and wrinkled toward its very tip. It looked firm and strong as iron. My belly began to flutter as I noticed my little pink shaft had stiffened, just like yours. I took deep breaths too. That was your advice, and it helped. My lungs filled with mostly familiar scents, actually cleaner than what I was accustomed to in restrooms. The only truly new notes were the let's-just-call-it pink scent of urinal cake and a comforting savoriness that originated between your legs.
The next thing you showed me nearly floored me, which was a dangerous risk to a balancing act like mine. Lightly, you slid your fingers down your shaft, toward yourself, and the floppy, puckered skin at your tip rolled back along with them. From beneath your delicate, thin skin appeared a big, bulbous, glistening bell shape, the deep purple of plum. I had never seen anything like it before, and I couldn't take my eyes off of your manhood—now distinctly unhooded. You could have convinced me that you were turning yourself inside-out, for all I knew. Thank you for …not trying that.
Reflexively, I attempted to do the same to myself. I had a floppy, puckered bit at the tip of my penis too, of course, but I had never once thought that something could be hiding underneath it. My attempt to uncover it sent a shivering shock through my whole body. Unable to pull the skin back, I lost my balance. I felt your strong, striped left forearm brace against my upper legs, and your soft hand supporting my little behind and my lower back. You rushed your right hand to my front, and with two big fingers and the utmost care, you gently held my tiny intact boyhood. My dam was ready to break.
No doubt reminded of your own youthful misadventures, you briefly explained what my foreskin was, and how in time I would be able to pull it all the way back without any pain. For now, it was able to retract a little more on one side than the other, revealing just a bit of sensitive plum rose, and the pee hole at my very tip. You told me as long as I could see that hole, I'd be able to aim it wherever I pleased.
You let your skin cover most of your cockhead again, about the same amount as mine, with your pee hole still exposed. You said we'd be like twins that way. I could spot some differences, but I liked that. Your large left paw remained braced against my butt. You squeezed.
And so I took two more deep breaths, and then I let loose. My tiny dick and I both stood perfectly erect, but I paid more attention to myself than I did to my target. I was in awe at the steady stream shooting out of the darkness of my pee hole, more forceful than the aimless spray I was used to that would normally flow out of my puckered foreskin. Of course it all splashed on the floor anyway. I'm sure you expected that. You wanted a little show, didn't you? I corrected myself, though, and just as I finally hit my target, your flood gates opened too.
You were not free of fault in this situation. A river rushed forcefully from the head of your cock, and it quickly split in two, one half of which marked the wall below your urinal. Each of us gazed longingly at the power the other was exhibiting. We made brief eye contact before returning to correct our aims again.
My stream faltered soon enough, splashing down on the floor again before it finally ran out. You kept holding my butt, still, and each time you squeezed me a little bit, your cock would throb and your stream would rise. Your liquid gold sprayed for what felt like minutes longer. Your fanged grin betrayed your utter delight in sharing this moment with me, and in showing off too.
My right paw gripped my tiny, dripping boner, which twitched a lot like yours did. My left paw rested on yours, which still braced my lower body. Your stream ended too, hitting the floor before making three final shots straight at the porcelain.
Following your lead, I let my long foreskin gather at the tip of my penis once more. You squeezed your overhang, then shook it, letting yellow droplets fly, then looked expectantly at me. When I didn't do the same, you took the liberty of squeezing and shaking my boyhood yourself with your index and middle fingers. It was for cleanliness, you said, as I shuddered from the sensation and you added my last few droplets to the puddle beneath us.
My first time with a urinal was coming to its end, but I couldn't be more excited for my next. The both of us covered back up. Your cock still bulged a bit toward your waistband. Mine was still stiff as a nail, but I'm sure it wasn't nearly as noticeable.
I was still king of the island. I twirled myself around and planted my footpaws on either side of the sink, then squatted down at it to wash my hands. Responsible adult that you are, you grabbed the cleaner and paper towel from the counter and began wiping the mess we'd caused toward the drain in the floor. Our scents dissipated, but we had made our marks. That drain was the one thing in that damn room that made any sense, placed directly between the sink and the urinals.
You suggested, and I agreed, that we keep the details to ourselves, but I could proudly share that my big strong uncle helped me through my first time at a urinal, and we went together. It only seemed right to me, with the mess we had to cover up. You sly devil, you. That's the one thing that's always made sense, even to this day: our privacy.
~
Funny enough, after this I was so excited to use a urinal again, but I rarely had the opportunity. Mom was adamant that I don't use a men's room on my own for a few years more. Gotta wonder what she was afraid of, huh?
It took me so long to connect the dots, to understand that anyone could be fearful of the tenderness you showed me. Of course not every pervert at the public toilets would behave the way you did, but I want to reassure you that you are not them. From our first experience together in that bathroom to the comp sci tutoring sessions to the dinner you treated me to after I graduated high school, I never once felt out of my depth or disrespected or endangered.
You raised so many questions within me, and then you helped me answer them.
The way you eased me into everything, the passion of your kisses, the adoration you showed my developing mind and body, the patience with which you trained my virgin ass—of course. You introduced me early to a world of absolute wonder and self discovery, and you did it with kindness. No regrets.
But how can I even risk sending you this, Uncle Raj? For both our safety, I may not. Now or ever. I can rest assured, at least, that what I choose to do with this letter will be a decision borne of my deepest love for you. I have so much to tell you, whether on paper or in person someday. I'm sure it'll happen, when we have the privacy that we used to.
There is someone I have told. Not in such depth, but he knows. You may remember him, a certain black lab, from my wedding. It took me a few years into our marriage, actually, but I risked telling him about my earliest sexual experience. It took no time at all to uncover his feelings. His cock started throbbing the moment I mentioned that I was four or five at the time, before I even told him what happened. He didn't hide it. He just grinned. I hadn't felt so secure since my youth, with you.
~
So, recently, Liam and I did something reckless together. It was weird going back to that same restroom, but why wouldn't it be? It makes more sense as an adult, though. The building's a renovated factory, converted into a nearly dead mall that livens up at dinner time. Clearly the construction company was working with whatever plumbing was already there when they were installing that stupid sink island in its dead center. There's actually a mirror in there, hung high enough for an adult to brush up at, by the exit, so maybe I just didn't notice one when I was little. They redid the flooring, and the side of the counter that would normally be up against a wall is adorned with the same tan stone tiles as the floor. Weird, but respectable.
When we brought our nephew there, well, that's what inspired me to start writing this. I know you'd love our little puppydog Kyler. He's just as afraid of the dark as I was—those corner stalls are still unlit—but he's precocious in many ways, and my husband and I agree that he's the perfect age to start pissing in urinals. He'll turn five next month! He may not have the balance of a tiger like me, but with a hand from each of us to support him, he showed us both what his youthful, well hydrated spirit can do.
I cannot overstate the feeling of togetherness we shared in this moment, our three stiff intact cocks pissing long-distance like it's a team sport—one that we all may need more practice with, admittedly. It was a privilege to pass this torch to a younger generation. For a few minutes that day, I was you.
Tell me. Did you light this fire, Uncle Raj? Did it ignite spontaneously when we first shared that restroom together? Or was there someone in your youth who passed the torch to you? Did you ever get burned when it guided you? Did they? You told me little about what led you to love me the way you did. Someday, I hope I can learn more.
Still, without your guidance and your love, I fear I would not be the same man I am today. I've found a family, however small, in whose stewardship your torch burns brighter in the forest of the night than any lonesome tiger could. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, Uncle.
Forever yours,
Malik

By Kyler age 7