by Jason Kason
Yeah, well there's been a change of plan.
When Philip read my first journal entry he said I shouldn't go on to write about my first time sucking a lad off like I'd planned to, but should instead describe the times I used to look at blokes' dicks in the washrooms at the caravan site where we used to go on holiday.
He reckons my whole sex compulsion thing as he calls it (it's me who uses the term cock worshipper) stems from back then. It's all to do with what he says is my need to gratify other males as part of a father fixation. Or at least that's his theory and I suppose it's as good as anyone else's.
That's the trouble with having to go through all this bullshit. Everyone has a theory about why I'm like I am and everyone thinks they know best.
But when you get caught with your trousers and pants down by the cops too many times, and when you've been filmed on CCTV taking cocks from every which way like a total bum-whore, these are the sort of hoops they make you jump through. Systemic therapy: that's the new buzzword. It looks better on their records than putting me through the courts. It must tick the rehabilitation box on whatever forms they have to hand into head office.
So, yeah, the campsite. This maybe should have been part one. Typical of me to balls my journal up before I even got properly started.
Now I've already admitted to Philip that I've tried to do this loads of times before: write down what happened that first time I went into the men's showers at the campsite. It's like the moment is tattooed on my memory in full and clear detail and yet I've never been able to coherently put it down in words what I saw and what I felt.
Philip reckons it's all to do with 'imprinting': the experience is so important to my sexuality and has embedded itself so deeply in my psyche that it's difficult for me to be able to handle it.
I told him I don't know about any shite like that. It's pretty clear to me that the reason is that when I think about how to write it down I always end up getting horny and need to wank off, and after blowing my nut I can't be arsed to start writing it all down.
So here's another attempt from me to get it down on paper. I'm typing this up in the learning centre so, even though I'll have a hard-on that'll end up aching in my pants, there's no way I'm going to be able to so much as touch my dick with all these people around.
Okay, so first a bit of backstory.
The reason we ended up going to the campsite every summer is because after my dad walked out on us, he wouldn't give my mam the money she would have needed to take us somewhere better. I mean, he used to piss off to Egypt and places with his new wife and twat-faced step-daughters, but there was never enough dosh around for holidays with me. And let's face it, my mother's new bloke wasn't going to do anything in the way of earning money as that would have meant him getting up off his fat, lazy arse.
The place was a total shit-hole, if I'm honest. There was a chemical works right next to the campsite where a headless body had been found in one of the huge silos a few years earlier. It was the notorious 'torso in the tank' case which my mam used to go on and on about, giving me many a nightmare about a headless zombie coming to get me in my caravan bed.
And there must have been a sewage outlet next to the little quay because the stinking water was always full of condoms. There were signs about jellyfish which for years I thought the floating things were until I started using condoms myself and then the following summer thought, "Oh, Jesus fucking Christ."
Anyway, enough of the sob story.
The important point is that until that first holiday at the campsite, my mam had always taken me into changing rooms with her. Whether we were at the swimming baths, the sports centre or the shared washrooms in the cheap B&B's we went to in Blackpool, I always went in with her and so was used to being surrounded by women in varying states of undress. My dad would have considered helping a kid to get changed as totally demeaning, so while he was around the male changing rooms were an absolute no-go.
When my step-dad came onto the scene, he might not have cared a jot about helping me get changed, but he said he thought it was wrong for a boy my age to be going into the women's changing rooms and seeing all these things a young lad shouldn't.
Knowing him, he was probably just jealous of the eyeful he thought I was getting.
So what had never been an issue until then, suddenly became something which was strictly not allowed. I was told that I had to go into the fellas changing rooms on my own and I was genuinely terrified at the thought of being around all these big, naked blokes and having to get my kit off too.
The next summer holiday saw me nervously walking towards the shower door with the male symbol on it, clutching my little washbag of soap and shampoo and quaking at how loud all the men inside seemed. To me it was like they were mocking me with their laughing and jeering, the tiled walls and floor amplifying their voices.
Once I'd pushed into the room, my apprehension turned to something totally different – I didn't yet understand what – and I froze in the doorway, my eyes bulging out of my head and my mouth gaping wide. The room was full of steam and there among its swirls and eddies were flashes of something totally new to me. Men's bodies: naked and wet; some wonderfully muscular, some intriguingly flabby, and almost all with hair sprouting from places I hadn't known possible. Fellas' bums, squat and firm and for some reason quite intriguing. And even better, there out front, they were parading the most amazing and fascinating things I'd ever seen until then.
There between their legs was an incredible variety of cocks I could never even have dreamed was possible. Long ones, fat ones, wrinkly ones, curved ones. Some had big pink heads that were always popped out, some had long skins that made a funny mouth shape on the end. Some dangled right down and slapped between their thighs while others stood out a bit when their owners walked around, like the blokes were feeling a bit sexy even though they probably weren't.
If I had to draw a thought bubble to show what was going on in my young head at that moment, it'd say simply: "Oh... my... fucking... god..."
When I too got undressed and went for my shower, I have no doubt at all that my little prick was totally stiff. As it would be, pretty much every time I went to the men's shower room from then on that summer. Some of the men would look shocked when they saw my little chub-on, others would smile or even make jokes, but to me it seemed like the right and proper thing for me to do: I was showing them mine in all its limited glory just they were showing me how magnificent theirs were.
Only some kind soul must have told my step-dad that his kid was forever hanging around the fellas' shower room with a full-on donger on him that never went down.
I heard him and my mam talking about it on the bed which folded out from the dinner table when they thought I was asleep. He said he thought it wasn't natural, "a young lad getting hi'self worked up like that in front of all of those blokes walkin' 'round in the stark-nuddies."
My mother, bless her heart, was quick to jump to my defence.
"Of course it's natural for him to be curious," she snapped. "He's never seen stuff like that – his father would never let him anywhere near the men's changing rooms – so it would be strange if he wasn't interested in stuff like that."
"But getting himself all... you know... agitated...?"
For all his roughness, my step-father could never bring himself to use what he saw as crude language. Even the word 'mating' said without warning on a David Attenborough programme could make him blush.
"Oh for God's sake, Pete," my mam whispered harshly. "It's a reflex action! He's in a place he's never been before, feeling as tense as you like and thinking everyone's looking at him. Of course he's going to get... well... 'agitated' as you put it."
I liked that explanation and if I'd needed any justification to continue my twice-daily loiterings in the shower-room (which I didn't), my mother's defence of me would certainly have provided it.
As would my Biology teacher's advice, given some years later, when I was by now spending months looking forward to the summer fortnight at the campsite and had, for personal reasons, boosted my two daily showers when on holiday to four.
Mrs Gren had told us that it was all good and proper for us to be interested in the changes that happen during puberty, even when it's our own gender that we're looking at.
"So it's normal for lads to want to look at older fella's dicks?" some wise-arsed lad in the class had asked, much to the hilarity of his mates.
"For sure it is!" our naive teacher had proclaimed once the commotion had settled. "Boys normally find the changes that happen – the growth of pubic hair, the enlargement of the penis to name but two – quite enthralling. As do girls with the female equivalents."
I'd smiled at that, feeling pleased that my step-father had, for the second time, been proven wrong. Not that I'd for a moment doubted myself: like I said in my last journal entry, my view had always been that if something felt good, it was to be done as often as possible without further analysis.
And it felt good for me to look at naked men. It felt so good I needed to bash away at my dick in one of the toilet cubicles straight after, a wodge of loo paper at the ready as all the fellas' big schlongs I'd seen ran as a slideshow in my head. My mam had called it natural curiosity and my teacher had said it was a normal part of growing up: what two better endorsements could I have asked for?
The following summer, after all those months of waiting, there was a young couple with a little fat daughter in the caravan next to ours. I didn't really like the girl because she was way too young for me to make friends with, but I liked her dad and I remember he was called Mr Barrass.
Not the most common of names and I could probably look him up if I wanted to, but even if I did, what would I say to him after what happened?
My mother loved the little girl who used to eat whatever was put in front of her and who I took to calling Humpty Dumpty, because she really did look like the fat, vacant little doll from 'Play School'. My mam would invite her into our caravan continually and would dote on her and keep feeding her, which ended up making me think – as a result of something my step-dad had said – that she might have preferred it if she'd had a girl rather than me.
You know, I can't even remember the kid's name. Theresa springs to mind, but that's not really the right sort of name for a kid younger than me, is it?
Anyway, my mam said I should start going with Mr Barrass to the shower room on the campsite. I've never figured out why. Maybe she wanted him to act as the stand-in father figure that my step-dad had never been willing to fill, or maybe she was worried that I was spending way too long in there and had at the back of her mind the 'not natural' warning whispered at her across the table-cum-bed so many years earlier.
If it was the 'not natural' thing that'd make it quite funny in a way, because she would have been setting in place something that my step-father would have seen as the embodiment of all that was unnatural.
Because it turned out that Mr Barrass, for all his cutesy giggly wife and barrel-shaped daughter, had a bit of thing for me. Maybe he's still got a thing for young lads whose mams encourage him to go to shower rooms with; maybe that's something I could ask him if I bother to look him up one of these days.
But no. That would be way too nasty. That makes it sound like I regret what happened or blame him for it. It's not like that at all. I was the one who set him up, truth be told. I was the one who played him like a fiddle.
I can be a devious little bastard sometimes, you see. That's part of this thing what's wrong with me. It's what Philip calls my inner demons and it's the thing he's trying to rid me of. The first stage of that, though, is that he's got to convince me that I want to be rid of them. And that's where he and I are having a few disagreements at the minute.
Anyway, poor old Mr Barrass. The bloke who probably wanted a civil partnership and a couple of cats but back then, in the eighties, had to settle with a shit-for-brains wife and a kid so fat he couldn't bear to be look at her.
He had a fascinating cock and a nice plump set of balls; I can clearly remember that much about him. Isn't it awful that I can remember what his junk looked like clearer than I can remember his face?
When we used to shower – and it quickly became a twice-daily routine for the two of us – I used to like to see him in the nuddie with his lovely pubic bush and his little arse that looked so squat and cute and kind of tasty in a way.
I used to always pull my foreskin back when I was with him because I thought his dick looked so great with its head out on show all the time.
One day when we were showering he said, "Jason, do you like doing that to your willy?" He called my dick a willy, like I was fucking three or something.
"Doing what?" I asked. "And it's my cock, not a willy."
Mine was just as hairy as his and had a proper manly shape, it was just still a bit smaller than his.
He'd smiled and then asked, "Do you like continually pulling your skin back? On your cock, I mean?"
There weren't any other fellas in the showers that day. I probably should have said that earlier.
I didn't know how to reply to him, so I said, "Well... Mr Barrass... I dunno... it's just... How do you get your skin to stay back like that all the time? It looks kind of cool."
He'd laughed at that and I could tell from the way his lovely-looking dick grew a bit that he loved me calling it 'kind of cool'.
"I'm circumcised, Jason," he told me. "I had an operation to take part of my foreskin away. So my willy... my cock... always looks like this."
"I want mine to look like yours!" I announced and he laughed again and ruffled my wet hair.
Now that write this I wonder if maybe all he needed was a son. A little boy to tell him how great he was. Maybe that's what was missing from his life.
Jesus, now I'm starting to sound like Philip. Next, I'll be saying Mr Barrass should have tried harder to keep his responses me-focussed.
He rambled on about what circumcision was and why he'd had it done but I didn't really listen, so the next interesting bit that happened was when we in the changing rooms after we'd finished showering. Like I said, it was a quiet day and me and Mr Barrass were the only ones drying ourselves off.
I had my underkeks half pulled up when he said, "Do you want me to check you dried properly, Jason?"
"Just... you know... what you said about me being circumcised," he blurted out, suddenly sounding a little bit nervous.
"What I said about what?"
He smiled at me, regaining his normal tone. "I hadn't realised you were so clueless about stuff like that, Jason. I thought that maybe it would be helpful if I should you how to dry off properly."
"You mean, my cock?" I asked.
He laughed and glanced over towards the door, "Of course not! I mean underneath it. Where it joins with your balls. Where fungal infections are most likely to occur."
"Fungal infections? What are those?"
"Itchy, scratchy things," he told me, with a wince. "Like eczema or warts. You wouldn't want either of those under there, would you?"
"No I wouldn't," I answered truthfully.
"So it's best if I show you how to check you've dried properly."
"Okay," I said brightly and dropped my towel to let him do what he needed to do with my cock and bollocks. I know at that point I wasn't hard because of what happened next.
He knelt down in front of me and put his hands up to my genitals. His hands were shaking: I distinctly remember noticing that and also the first thought that came into my head: "Whatever's going on here, it's a big deal for him."
He lifted my dick up – that's how I know it was definitely limp – and made out like he was inspecting what was going on between my cock and balls.
His hand felt lovely on my prick. His fingers were so warm and soft and the way he was holding the shaft and squeezing it a little made my innards feel like they were moving around.
He said, "It seems okay, Jason. But I think I should show you how to dry off down here."
He lifted his towel and rubbed gently and sensually under my knob, smoothly caressing that sensitive part between the base of it and the top of my wrinkly nut-sack.
It felt really nice. Too nice.
I could feel I was getting hard in his hand and I got all embarrassed and said I was sorry for it.
"It's not a problem," he replied smiling up at me. "All of us get turned-on when we feel a different hand on our cocks. It's perfectly natural."
That's where what I'd said to my former mate Edgy came from. The stuff that Mr Barrass told me.
"Can I do the same on yours?" I asked him.
"How do you mean?" he said back.
"Can I make sure I get all the stuff you've told me by drying you off just like you did with me?"
He glanced around the shower room as if maybe some other guys had managed to sneak in without him noticing. Finding that it was still empty he smiled nervously and answered back, "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea, Jason."
He pulled his towel down like I had and I saw once again how amazing his skin-pulled-back dick looked and how nice and full his bollocks were hanging down. He smiled at my reaction and put one foot up on the bench to give me better access to what he was offering me.
"Your dick's so great, Mr Barrass," I told him.
He smiled and said, "You're a nice lad for sayin' that, Jason. And you've got a lovely bonny face."
He looked around again to check that we were still alone, and kept doing the same thing over and over, the whole time that I was fondling him.
I put my hands on his cock, which felt so big and thick compared to my own, and then lifted it upwards so I could see where it joined with his balls. It was nice looking at him under here, a place that was so secret and private, and I felt my own boner swell up and stand fully upwards, as if peering up at what I was doing with Mr Barrass' bits.
"What am I looking for, Mr Barrass?" I asked him, trying to see if the wrinkled skin showed any signs that it was inflamed or even reddened between where his dick and balls joined up.
"If you... er.... keep holding my willy up just like you are, and maybe squeezing it a bit, the redness underneath might... you know... become obvious if it's there."
Oh yeah, I thought. Like I don't know what that's all about.
Nevertheless I did what he'd told me to, and when it started getting bigger and firmer I couldn't believe how thrilling it felt.
I looked up at him and grinned. "Yours is getting bigger now!"
He smiled down at me, "I said it was a natural reaction when someone's touching you down there. It happens to everyone."
"It feels really cool!" I told him, squeezing it more firmly. I bet his boring wife had never said anything like that about his knob as it got stiff.
I said, "The skin's not going red or anything, but maybe it will if I rub it a b?" Like I said, I could be a devious sod when I wanted to be.
I began rubbing his shaft gently, trying to look all innocent as if I didn't know that I was basically starting to wank this older guy off. His knob swelled between my fingers and kept growing bigger and harder against my skin, a sensation which I find unendingly fascinating to this day.
He muttered, "Yeah, that's it, Jason. You've really got the idea..."
And I kept rubbing him like that, quite slowly and sensually, watching his cock growing to become massive and upright in front of my face, with the slit on the end of it starting to ooze with clear liquid which made the head of glisten and take on a beautiful purple sheen.
I said, "It looks lovely when it's all big," and reached down with my other hand to squeeze my own. Mine was straining in how excited it felt: I'd never let it swell so hard without relieving it by beating it off.
I was just about to say, "I better rub mine the same way, Mr Barrass. See how it compares," when some old bloke came huffing and puffing into the shower room and Mr Barrass quickly pushed me away.
"Okay, Jason, that's... er... how you tell if you've got eczema..."
He turned around to hide his erection from the old fella and bent down to pull his stripy pair of briefs on. He called across to me, "Pull your pants up, Jason. Tuck yourself away, now."
I wasn't going to let him leave it like that. I'd had this nice, young bloke's rock hard cock between my fingers and I wasn't going to let it go without a fight.
"Would you show me again in your caravan, Mr Barrass? I don't think I really get it from all the stuff you've said."
He looked across at me, his eyes quite fearful. He clearly knew what he was getting himself into but he wasn't so uncomfortable about it that he could bring himself to say a flat 'no'.
I went on, trying to sound like just a curious young lad who was so eager to learn, "I mean, your wife's with my mam in South Shields today. And Humpty's with them too so it's not like we're gonna be disturbed."
I'm sure I didn't call his little girl Humpty. I no doubt said her real name but I can't remember what the fuck it was.
He nodded slowly, grabbing his shirt from the hanger.
"I dunno, Jason. It seemed like maybe you understood it well enough..."
He needed me to convince him. He was a bit nervous about acting on the attraction he obviously had for me and he needed it to be me who would lead him on.
Good job he'd come to a pro on that score.
"The whole eczema and warts thing's got me really nervous, Mr Barrass. Maybe, instead of coming back to your caravan, I should talk to my mam about it..."
What a manipulative little shit-face I was back then!
(I guess that's pretty much the same as now, except I'm not so little.)
"No, I don't want you to do that, Jason!" he said quickly. "I mean, you shouldn't really tell your mam any of this..."
"Well I just thought if you could show me again on me... and then I'll try it again on you... I won't need to tell anybody, will I?"
"Okay," he conceded, glancing at the old fella who was wheezing and snorting as he slowly got undressed. "Yeah, we'll go back to my caravan and I'll... er... go through it again."
So we did.
His caravan stunk of toast. I quite vividly remember that. Maybe Humpty kept demanding toast with jam and honey and cream on it and stuff, or maybe the parents lived on toast while the daughter ate everything else they had.
Glancing around at how their caravan was different to ours, I pulled my trousers and pants down and presented him with my cock. He held it and rubbed it the way that I had with his.
"Yeah, rubbing it lets you see any signs of infection, Jason. It stretches the skin and makes any problems look bigger."
He really thought I didn't know about wanking! It was kind of cute, I suppose, and showed that he mustn't have started pulling his pud until he was just about leaving college!
"Can I see yours while you do me?" I asked him. "So I can compare?"
He flushed red. "I'm afraid I'm... well... a bit aroused, Jason. Having you come back like this, and telling me that you're wanting me to –"
"I don't care about that, Mr Barrass," I laughed. "Like you said, this is all natural so it doesn't bother me if you've got a woodie."
He nodded gratefully and pulled his trousers and pants down. His dick sprang up like it was on a coiled spring and his bollocks pressed outwards as if his spunk factories had been working overdrive at the prospect of an upcoming jazz-off.
I reached forwards and lifted his cock so it was vertical as if inspecting its underside. It felt lovely in my hand – warm and hard and sort of pounding with his blood – and I liked how when I gripped it a dribble of clear liquid oozed from his piss-slit.
"Okay, so nothing under yours, Mr Barrass," I told him with a smile.
He tried to smile back at me and yet in his eyes I could see that he knew my game; knew I wasn't as innocent as I was trying to let on. But it was important to him to pretend that this whole thing really was just educational; that he was doing me a favour as a kindly father-substitute and that there was nothing sexual in it, nothing at all.
That was what he must have been telling himself to try and ignore how excited he couldn't stop himself from feeling.
"I'm sure there's nothing under yours too, Jason," he said, swallowing with a dry-sounding gulp, "but it'll be best to make sure."
He started rubbing my foreskin up and down, gently and sensually starting to beat me off. It felt so good to have another hand doing it for me, moving in unpredictable ways and with a coarseness to his skin that was totally unlike my own fingers, and I groaned in my appreciation.
"Does that feel good?" he asked.
"Yeah," I giggled. "Is it supposed to?"
"Of course. Things that are good for you normally feel good, don't they?"
I chuckled back at him. "If you say so, Mr Barrass."
"Call me Ted," he said.
Isn't that strange that I couldn't have told you his name was Ted until I got to that part? This not wanking off while you're thinking through your memories kind of pays off, doesn't it?
So Ted Barrass or Edward Barrass: that's the name I'll have to look up on Facebook if I can be bothered. He'll likely be friends with a younger female Barrass – possibly Theresa – whose big multi-chinned face would no doubt fill up her whole profile pic. If I can find someone like that, that'll be him.
He said I should move around so I was standing in front of him with my back to him while he "examined my cock". I think the angle must have work better for him. Fellas like me can wank a cock off from any angle and in any position within a one metre radius – even upside down – but poor old Ted Barrass wasn't so proficient. He needed me in the same position he was used to when he was jerking himself off.
I stood in front of him, my back against his chest and belly, and he started jerking me off a lot more confidently. His technique was rough and a bit quicker than I would have liked, but it was still nice to feel someone else's hand on me and even better that it moved in all sorts of ways that mine never would.
"The trouble is with doing it this way, Ted," I said, "is that I can't see your cock to compare with mine. I reckon it should be right in my face so I can see really closely what's going on."
He laughed at that: by now I think he was getting the message. He'd taken on a cock worshipper; there was only one way this was going to end.
He got up and moved around so that his nice big donger was bobbing in front of my face and I could sniff how great it smelled with his fat, hairy bollocks swinging around underneath it.
I suppose I could have sucked it if the thought had occurred to me. The trouble was, it didn't. It was only when I was with my mate Edgy a few weeks later that that idea had presented itself. Typical that Edgy hadn't gone for it, whereas Mr Barrass almost certainly would have.
God, imagine if I'd have known all the stuff I do now, with Mr Barrass in that little caravan of his. I mean, imagine if I really had leaned forwards to suck him off and then bobbed my head under his swollen nut-sack to stick my tongue up his cute, hairy arse! And then bent him over his fold-out table to fuck him while I jacked off that lovely cock of his.
Jesus, he'd have still been spunking up when his airhead wife and fat-girl got back from South Shields.
But I didn't; I didn't know about anything like that. I just knew that he had a lovely big cock that was so great to look at while his hand was whacking away at mine, and that as long as I pretended I knew diddly-squat about sex, it was likely that he'd keep going until I was squirting all over his concealed drawer units.
He kept beating me off, his huge cock throbbing upright in my face, and said, "Jason, does this feel nice?"
"It feels brilliant, yeah," I said. I wasn't sure how much longer I was going to hold out.
"It's something that men do," he told me. "Something that you'll probably start doing pretty regularly soon."
I really can't believe he was such a retard that he thought this was my first time at wanking. I was nearly as tall as he was.
I reached up and grabbed his own cock and stated jerking it as well as I could with no foreskin to guide me.
"Ooh, that's nice," he called out. "Yeah, Jason, keep doing it like that."
I gripped my palm more strongly around his dick and pumped up and down on his shaft, like I would on my own but on that the foreskin would be moving with me.
I wish I could remember why he said he'd been circumcised. Something about his hideous wife: maybe she found the whole foreskin thing a bit icky for her delicate tastes.
I dunno if that's true. It was probably a medical thing. I just like blaming stuff on straight guys' godawful wives.
We kept wanking each other until the inevitable end came. He started spurting first and the sight of all that lovely white cum squirting out of his swollen piss-slit had me shooting my own load, his hand still slamming back and forth long after I'd finished off.
When eventually he did let up, I cheerfully let myself out of his caravan while he hunched there with his trousers and pants around his ankles and his head in his hands.
When I told Philip the story for first time he said, "And that was your first sexual experience with another male?"
I'd nodded and he went on, "Surely you see the significance of it?"
"A fella wanked me off in his caravan. I enjoyed it. Fucking loved it, to be honest. So yeah, it was pretty significant."
"But it goes deeper than that, Jason. Your dad had abandoned you to take some other woman's kids on foreign holidays, your step-dad couldn't be bothered to spend time with you, so your reaction to that was to flirt with the first bloke who showed you some attention and then you ended up seducing him to fulfil your need for male affection."
"Or... maybe I just liked him wanking me off," I suggested with a grin.
Philip smiled. At first I couldn't tell if it was because he liked me cutting to the chase or because he was being indulgent.
He likes being indulgent.
During one session, a good while ago, he asked me if I fancied him. Asked me if I liked to imagine the two of us together and what he might look like naked.
I laughed and said, "Come on, Philip! It says in my record I'm a sex pest so of course I fucking do!"
And he laughed back, even though I could see he thought he'd maybe pushed me a bit far, and said, "Forgive me, Jason. I'm just being indulgent."
The next morning when I went out of our caravan to find Mr Barrass so we could head off for our shower as usual, his car and caravan were gone. There was just a big empty space where his caravan used to be, the grass all yellow and two brown hollows where the wheels had been.
I asked my mam what had happened and she shrugged and said vaguely that something must have cropped up. Maybe one of them had been ill, although wifey and Miss Dumpty had both been well enough in South Shields.
"Where were they from?" I asked her. "I mean, did you get their address or phone number or something?"
"They were from over Shildon way but I didn't get anything more than that. Why do you ask?"
I shrugged. "I just liked Mr Barrass. He was... er... fun..."
"Aw," she crooned. "You and him must have got on well, going for your showers every day."
"Yeah, but now he's just pissed off like every other bloke does."
"Hey, you! Don't swear!" she snapped. "You might be upset but there's no call for talk like that."
So that was the campsite story, as requested by Philip.
Coming up next – I promise – the very first blowjob I gave.
That time at the level crossing really was the first occasion I got a cock to worship good and proper. Bulmer might not have wanted me to caress it and kiss it and rub it across my face – let's face it, he was just a horny lad with a pork-on and wanted someone, anyone, to suck him off – but I managed to stall things enough to really savour the moment. And that established the pattern that I pretty much followed from then on: the cock is to be worshipped and praised even if its owner is too stupid to appreciate the needs of the divinity stashed away in the front of his trousers.