by Jason Kason
"You said in your last journal entry," Philip was already saying before I'd even got myself sat down, "that your step dad was getting suspicious of where your interests lay. What made you think that?"
"Did you like the entry, though?" I asked him, parking my butt on the cheap padded chair in front of his desk.
"I think you were right when you said that the 'filth versus feelings' ratio was way too skewed for my liking," Philip remarked. "And the part about the great cock up in the sky was obviously aimed at getting what you'd call a psychobabble reaction from me. On the whole, though, I think Helena was right to ask you to write about what happened after that the incident in the school toilet."
I shrugged. "It was more about getting a reaction from her. She never seems to understand what I'm on about."
"Sexual dysfunction isn't her speciality," Philip said. "She works more on the addiction side of things."
"She had to ask me if I'm gay. I mean... you know... what the fuck?"
Philip smiled. "She probably didn't like to assume."
"It says right at the top of my record – pretty much stamped there in bright red ink – 'PATHOLOGICAL PENIS OBSESSIVE'. I don't think the assumption would have been that unreasonable."
Philip just smiled and pretended to look down at whatever bullshit notes Helena had left scrawled in her baby-style writing for him.
After I'd asked him if his course had been useful, which he said it had, I told him about how my step-dad got wind of my cock worshipping exploits. And that's what he said this journal entry should be about.
"Except I'd like to read far more about what was going on emotionally for you."
He was trying not to use the word 'feelings' after I took the piss out of him about it.
He added, "I don't really want to read endless descriptions of gay sex."
Like I'd ever write endless descriptions of gay sex.
"The thing is," I said, "it's kind of difficult to write about having sex with two blokes in a caravan site shower room without... well... writing about having sex with two blokes in a caravan site shower room."
"So I set a boundary and you're going to immediately step right over it?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.
He's always going on about boundaries and where I am in relation to them.
A few sessions earlier I told him about how the cop who arrested me was stupid enough to put me in a cell with another fella. Some Irish lad who was kalide drunk and getting aggressive; I guess the cop thought he might teach me a lesson.
When the cop came back to collect me, though, he found us sitting in front of each other on the bench like best buddies. I think it took him a few double-takes to figure out what we were doing: that the two of us had our jeans yanked down and I was whacking away at both our stiff pricks and that the piss-head had his hand down under my bollocks and his stubby thumb plugged up my arsehole.
So much for me being taught a lesson.
What did he expect, though? He'd just caught me in a toilet stall getting spunk flung over me by four other blokes. What the hell made him think I was going to play nice with the drunk; a lad who wasted no time lobbing his big Irish knob out once I told him what I was in for?
So I'd ended up with two extra offences added to my charge sheet.
"Two?" Philip had asked. "Surely he didn't count the masturbation as a separate offence from the anal fingering?"
"No, that was all counted as one," I explained. "The second offence was me offering to blow the cop off when I thought he was enjoying watching us."
Philip smiled and rolled his eyes back. "You really are a piece of work, Jason."
"He looked like he was the type to have a nice dick," I said in my defence.
"You think every guy you meet is the type to have a nice dick," he laughed. And then, forgetting himself, added, "No doubt you think I have."
"You wanna prove me wrong? Or even better, right?"
His face immediately became serious and he said, "Remember what we talked about regarding boundaries, Jason."
So, yeah, he's very big on his boundaries is our Philip. He mentions them at least once every session. I suppose he wouldn't if I didn't push against them so much, but then that wouldn't be half as much fun.
Anyway, onto the story which takes place the very next summer when we were, as you might have already guessed, back at the run-down caravan park on the edge of an industrial estate in sunny South Shields.
As I've told you before, I was by now absolutely loving our holidays there. The shower room had proven to be a deeply spiritual place in which to worship cocks and by now I was smart enough to figure out which guys were also checking me out, so I was no longer limited to just looking at all the lovely choppers and then disappearing off into a toilet stall to beat myself off.
I was starting to have loads more fun in there, and not just in the changing rooms and toilets. I was following blokes round the back of the shower block to get on my knees and pay homage to whatever offerings they had, and even sneaking back to their caravans with them when their wives or girlfriends were out.
One afternoon I was taking my third shower of the day, disappointed that I was the only one in there as everyone else was seemingly enjoying a rare break in the endless rain. After a while though, this nice-looking dark-haired lad came in to join me, standing alongside me using the next shower and looking maybe two or three years older than me.
He was really fit and had a few tattoos on his big solid biceps, which weren't half as common back then as they are these days.
We were both working our shower gel into a lather, looking each other up and down – first discreetly and then both making it obvious – and he pulled his foreskin back to show me his bell-end and so I did the same for him.
He looked blow-your-mind amazing, all wet and hunky and covered in soap suds with his pink helmet poking out, and he chuckled as he saw my cock starting to get bigger, not only because of the sight of his but by how much I was rubbing the frothy lather into myself. I grinned back to show him that I wasn't embarrassed to be getting a boner in front of another bloke and he gently jerked his cock a few times in the universal sign for saying, 'I'm up for it if you are'.
I reached forwards and wrapped my fingers around his shaft. It grew harder in my hand, swelling to show its appreciation.
He smiled at me and said, "Aye, I thowt ya might be one o' them."
He had a strong Geordie accent; fancy living in Newcastle and holidaying in South Shields. You could catch the bus there any day of the week. You could probably walk it if you had a couple of hours spare.
I grabbed his cock more firmly and pumped his foreskin up and down, feeling it getting rapidly longer and thicker as it revealed its full size.
"Yer good at that," he said. "D'ya like doin' stuff wi' other lads?"
I replied that I did and he said, "What sorta stuff d'ya like doin' then?"
"I like sucking cocks," I told him.
He beamed at me. "That's good that is, 'cause a like havin' mine sucked. What else?"
I said, "I like licking bollocks and getting jizz on my face."
He chuckled but ignored the idea. "Owt else?"
"I like taking it up me."
He laughed at that. "Aye, now yer talkin'! That's me favourite that is. I love gettin' me knob up a nice tight arse!"
"I like getting mine up an arse too," I added, hoping we could take turns on each other.
"Naah, I can't 'elp ya there, mate," he said without hesitation. "I don't bend ower for no fucker me."
His tastes were clearly similar to Hutchy's, except that he liked having his knob sucked. Many guys are like that in my experience: they like a suck and then a fuck, but won't give a lot back. I'm not too bothered as long as their cocks are being appeased.
"I'll bot you up yours, though," he generously suggested. "Nice and rough, wi' me cock right up deep inside ya!"
I'd never had a guy offer to 'bot' me. I figured it must be a Newcastle term.
I kept wanking him until his organ had grown to full size and was looking spectacular, arching upwards with a really pronounced curve and with the head looking strikingly cone-shaped: narrow at the tip and then steadily widening to its base. It looked perfect for wedging itself between a pair of sturdy bum-cheeks and then being able to cleave a tightly-clenched hole open so the shaft could slide up after it.
Philip is always impressed at how I never forget a cock. That's just how my brain seems to work for some reason. It's pretty useless information to store away up there, granted, but I could describe to you in vivid detail the shape, size, smell and taste of every single cock I've ever worshipped. And how much spunk they produced: that's deeply ingrained on my memory too.
Anyway, he said, "Haway, then, bonnie lad, get yer chops around me knob."
"What, here? Like this?"
He shrugged. "There's anly us two in 'ere."
"But someone might come in and catch us."
"It's anly nat'ral, lads 'elpin' each other out."
"Okay," I nodded, unconvinced but still happy to duck down in front of him.
I gave him the full works, the way I was getting really good at by now. I used my lips and tongue on him, even nibbled him gently with my teeth, until his knob-end was throbbing really hard against the top of my mouth and I was having to swallow to keep up with the flow of juice he was making.
"Aye, that's it!" he said, holding my head firm so he could more rapidly fuck my face. His big heavy nut-sack slapped against my chin, his balls feeling bloated and heavy with his jizz.
"Suck uz nice an' 'ard!" he commanded, sweeping his large manhood in and out of my eager mouth. "Use yer fuckin' throat on me."
He knew all the tricks that a well-practised mouth could use on his cock.
I worked my tonsils against his pounding cock head like I was saying the letter 'r' in French – it's nice that that came in useful one day – and opened and closed my throat against him. He gasped with delight. For him, his big tapering bell-end was definitely the spot to focus on.
I wanted to be able to learn how to control that pink dangly thing that hung down in my throat. I'd seen on a TV programme that some people can wiggle it to make weird sounds with their throats, and I wanted to be able to use mine to sweep back and forth against a fella's swollen cock-end when I was sucking him off.
Blokes would love that, I was sure: I could imagine them whimpering and being unable to stop themselves from cumming, so I'd have to figure out how to swallow quickly while I was doing it too.
I'd even been to the town library to find out how to do it (remember we didn't have the internet, or nothing like it is now, back then in the eighties). All I could glean was that it was called a 'uvula' but none of the books had anything in them about how you could learn to control it and certainly didn't mention anything about its usefulness in giving head to a man's knob-end.
The Geordie lad pulled back and grinned down at me with his big cock at full mast. I love seeing a bloke's rod when it's fully turned-on, with the shaft all thick and veiny and the head a polished, glistening purple. I love it even more when it's me that's done it to him: when it's my passionate deference that's made it rise up in all its pure and perfect splendour.
Geordie boy wouldn't have seen it that way: I totally get that. It's the cock that I honour, even if to the fella attached to it it's just 'me fuckin' big chub-on'.
He chuckled, "Ya know 'ow to suck a lad off, I'll give ya that!"
I grinned back up at him, hoping to venerate my divinity further.
"D'ya come in 'ere a lot, then?" he asked. "Getting' yer gob around all the fellas' porkers?"
"Not all of them," I replied. I didn't want to sound like a huzzie.
"Haway then," he laughed. "Stand up and torn 'round. Let's see if yer as good wi' yer dirtbox as ya are wi' yer mouth."
I stood up with my own boner looking like a mere shadow of his great man-sized stonker. And I've already told you I'm pretty average, so god knows how big his was.
"What, in here?" I asked again.
He grabbed my shoulder and yanked me around. "Aye, it'll be al-reet, there's nee-one gonna come in!"
He squirted some of his shower gel between my arse-cheeks, obviously having no idea how much it would sting inside me, and then worked his cock steadily up my hole. As I'd expected, the wedge-shaped head of it really helped it to push up inside me.
"Aw, yer pretty loose!" he said with some disappointment. What did he expect? I'd hardly tried to pass myself off as a blushing virgin.
I winced at the pain of soap up my bumhole but was more than happy to bear it for the sake of his cock.
"How many fella's 'ave yer taken up 'ere?" he asked.
"I dunno," grunted, struggling to take his apparently endless organ as he pushed it further and deeper up into my bowels. "Not that many. Maybe ten...?"
I settled on ten because it was a nice round number and didn't, in my mind, sound like too many. I knew the actual number was probably closer to twenty by now – I really had got into the holiday spirit at the campsite that summer – but ten sounded far more modest.
He laughed at my answer though. "Yer a right fuckin' bot-boy aren't ya? Ten big fellas' jimmies up ya...? That's fuckin' well scuzzy that is!"
He pushed my back down so I had to put both hands out against the white tiled wall, the showers we were under having long since petered out to a mere dribble from neither of us continuing to press the push-button taps in.
He held my hips and started working his cock in and out of me. Finding the position awkward, he kicked my feet further apart with his own, and then told me to squat down a bit with him so that my rectum was at the right angle for him.
"Do you really think ten's too many?" I gasped, gently coaxing my own cock back to life now that his rhythm had started up proper.
He laughed again. "Not too many, just a bit slutty for a lad as young as you. But if ya like it, why shouldn't ya? It's not like yer's gonna get pregnant!"
My cock was getting much harder now, enjoying the sensation of its big brother right behind it enjoying itself up my bum.
"Mind ya love it, don't ya?" the Geordie lad went on, reaching under me to briefly feel how hard my dick was throbbing. "'Avin' fellas shaggin' yer turd tunnel... get's ya well horny, doesn't it...?"
"It does, yeah," I gasped, although the answer probably wasn't really necessary.
We got up a nice, steady rhythm together with the Geordie panting away behind me. For a big, laddish bloke who probably spent most weekends trying to get his leg over pissed-up girls in Newcastle, he sure liked the feel of another lad's arse clamped around his knob. Perhaps it was the position he liked, doing it standing up with his bollocks thumping against the backs of a guy's legs; or perhaps it made him feel more manly to be able to be able to get a fellow male gasping and wanking off from having his cock slamming away deep inside him.
Another shower switched on and I turned in shock to look at who had just joined us.
It was an older bloke, probably in his late thirties, and he was looking across at us, at our two writhing bodies joined together butt-to-bush, with a combination of fascination and horror. His eyes were wide like he was morbidly inspecting the mangled pieces of a car crash or some train wreckage.
Geordie didn't miss a beat but kept on banging away behind me. If anything his knob swelled harder and his pubes pushed a bit more roughly against my bum-cheeks at the fact of us being watched.
He called over to the older guy, "Never seen two lads bummin' before, or sommit?"
"I think it's disgustin'," the bloke said, still peering at us and looking like he'd forgotten how to blink. "You shouldn't be doin' stuff like that in here. Kids could be running in or owld fellas wi' heart conditions."
"Aye, but they're not, though, are they? There's just us three so it's al-reet."
"It's not alright," the bloke said, finally averting his eyes to squeeze some soap onto his hand. "It's abhorrent. That's what it is."
"Aw, fuck off," snapped Geordie lad without a diddly squat of concern. "And keep some soap back to wash your fuckin' halo."
He could easily take the older guy if things got nasty: his arms were bulging with his well-pumped muscles. Since gyms and working out weren't so popular back then, I would guess he was labourer or had some other job which was very physical and involved a lot of lifting.
We stood together, side on to him, but both peering across at him as he washed himself and returned our gaze. He kept tutting and muttering stuff about how we should be ashamed of ourselves, all the time unable to stop himself from watching this big stud's shaft driving in and out of my cheeks as he butt-fucked me right there under the bright strip-lighting.
I glanced behind me and saw Geordie lad grinning over at him so I smirked at him too, the two of us joined not only in body but in solidarity. I started yanking at my swollen cock and he peered at that too, his eyes appalled, so I grinned more broadly, jerking my foreskin hard and fast. I felt like our amusement was saying to him, "Yeah, we're two lads gaying it right up! What the fuck are you going to do about it?"
Geordie lad pushed me lower and grabbed me by the shoulders, then he started really spearing with his long, thick cock shaft, sweeping his hips in rapid lunges back and forth. His hips started making wet slapping noises against my butt cheeks and his knackers swung low between his hairy legs with each powerful thrust.
The older guy kept on staring at us, completely transfixed. His face was going red, his mouth half-open. Likely he'd never seen two males having full-on bum sex; no doubt he hadn't realised how amazing it would look. He probably hadn't even realised the lad being bummed would have a stalk-on, never mind be whacking himself off while his arsehole was roughly shafted.
I was gasping by now with the Geordie lad grunting and puffing away behind me, when suddenly he sort of brayed with laughter and then called over to the older guy: "Like what you see then, do you? Makin' your little dickie get all 'ard and tingly, is it?"
I looked at the man's cock: it was indeed getting a bit bigger and starting to stand up.
Unlike the Geordie's dick, it wasn't that long or thick, but it was still a beautiful and manly piece of meat and one which I could quickly tell would make a very worthy subject of my adoration.
"It's disgustin', that's what it is," the bloke managed to stammer, his face going a deeper red in his fluster. "Makin' good decent folk look at stuff like that... getting' them all worked up..."
"You should get over 'ere, let 'im suck yer knob while I bot 'im! He's fuckin' well good at it."
The bloke licked around his lips which must have gone dry and muttered, "It's an abomination... that's what it is... havin' lads doin' stuff that would make even husbands and wives blush..."
But his cock continued to have very different ideas. It was pointing fully upwards now and his foreskin was pulling right back so that his bulbous-looking helmet eased out from it and pushed forwards looking like an over-ripe cherry.
"Gan on, ya dirty sod!" Geordie boy laughed, still banging away at my rump. "Let 'im suck yer stiff little pecker off!"
I noticed I wasn't being asked whether I wanted this self-conscious man's knob in my face. Not that I was complaining, of course, and I suppose in fairness I hadn't really given the impression I'd refuse.
The bloke let his shower switch itself off, grabbed his soap and I thought he was going to walk out. Instead, though, he came over to the shower next to mine, switched it on and started like he was still washing himself even though he'd already rinsed himself off and was clean. His cock, I noticed, was poking pointedly upwards in my direction.
"It's a disgrace," he kept saying, his voice becoming more unsteady and his breathing more rapid. His face was now an even deeper shade of scarlet. "Havin' lads comin' on to good honest blokes... wantin' to suck their willies..."
I took the hint and craned forwards to get my mouth around the end of it.
"Nice married blokes..." he gasped, as I started nibbling at, swirling my tongue around his bloated silky smooth head and working my lips around the little ridge at the base of it, where his foreskin was pulled right back.
He made out like he was washing his dick, sort of rubbing his hand around his stalk and his pubes, but soon he couldn't stop himself wanking his foreskin back and forth and made small, fast jerks as I suckled away at his cock head.
I tried to take more of it inside me – it wouldn't have been difficult to consume him fully from the size of the thing – but he didn't seem to like that. He was a man who apparently only wanted his bell-end to be sucked and preferred to tug away at his shaft while its purple head was slurped at and nibbled.
Different strokes for different blokes, I suppose. But that's what makes the infinite universe of cocks so fascinating: you're never sure exactly what each particular star among the endless galaxies is going to be like.
"This position you'd got yourself in," Philip asked. "Does it have a name?"
"I think it's called a 'spit roast'," I said. "With me being the roast."
"Oh, I see," he nodded. "That's quite apt. I can imagine it being one of your favourites, pleasuring a guy from behind while paying – I suppose you could say – lip-service out front..."
He allowed himself a small smirk.
"Yeah, and me right there in the middle of the two of them. A sort of holy trinity of cock worship," I concluded.
The Geordie lad loved to watch me giving the older bloke head, such as I was able to, while he was rutting away at my arse. He really went for it behind me, slamming in and out of me, telling me to suck the other bloke off as hard I could, as if I really needed any encouragement.
Then he fell onto my back and grabbed me around the front of my shoulders, using my body to roughly lever himself against as he rattled breathlessly down his home straight. All too soon, with a few short grunts and a disappointingly brief release of spunk up inside me, he was finishing off with his chest heaving against my back.
He pulled out of me and laughed loutishly as if someone had said something about tits. Then he said to the fella whose jeb-end I was busily sucking off: "If ya've nowt against sloppy seconds, mate, there's a nicely broken-in hole back here for ya to shoot ya muck up."
He laughed again and switched his shower on to start washing himself off, especially his cock which was already softening and starting to droop down in front of him.
The bloke I was sucking kept muttering about the filth of it all and then, when I pulled off his cock to see if he wanted to use my bum, he muttered, his voice still unsteady and breathless, "You should be ashamed... bendin' ower for fellas... fellas wi' kids... so they end up doin' it up yer bum..."
Again, catching his drift, I swivelled around and presented him with my well-stretched hole, the Geordie lad's spunk still dribbling out of it.
He pushed his hips forwards a little, still chastising me about forcing myself onto 'good and proper' men, but it was mainly up to me to work myself back against his knob so it could ease it through my swollen ring and slide myself down it until it was as far as it could get inside me.
I must say it was kind of like an aircraft hangar being vacated by an Airbus 380 and having a little hostess trolley get wheeled in in its place. You've heard the jokes about little peckers not really managing to touch the sides of the holes they're trying to fuck, but in this case, with this bloke's cute little peepee trying to follow-up on the great massive shlong that had gone before it, it was pretty much true.
Even so, it was a cock and therefore to be treated with utmost respect. Each cock has its own wonderful and unique gifts to bestow on those who offer their praise, but even I've got to admit that this one wasn't really ideally suited to pleasuring bums, since with two pert butt-cheeks to push past before it had even started, its shortcomings in length were all the more obvious.
Not that he did anything to make up for his limitations in size. He just stood there, gasping and panting about filthy boys like me chasing after well-brought-up fellas like him, while I did all the work, pounding my arse back and forth against his stubby erection, pumping and squeezing it as well as I could with my over-loosened muscles.
When he came, after maybe half a minute or so, he did so calling out across the shower room, "You need horse-whippin', ya little bugger! Horse-whippin'!" and then pumped what felt like buckets of spunk into my bowels. It was relentless the way he was spurting it into me and felt like it was filling me up in hot, gooey surges.
He said he had kids; I imagine there were a good few of them.
"What's all this got to do with your step-dad and his suspicions?" Philip asked. "That was the subject I asked you about."
"I'm getting there," I said, gesturing for him to be patient. "This is all backstory... it's all relevant."
When I got back to our caravan, my mam must have been out shopping or gossiping somewhere, so Pete, my step-dad was in there alone. He was slumped out on the fold-away couch watching some mindless show on telly and, thinking back, he must have been waiting a while, maybe a few days, for the opportunity to catch me all on my own.
With me still clutching my towel and washbag and without looking up, he said, "You spend a lot of time in them showers, Jason."
I looked over at him and he picked up the remote to turn down the telly and then looked over at me. His eyes were intense which was odd: they were usually bleary and half-closed like his brain.
"You're in there four or five times a day, and sometimes you can be over an hour each time."
I shrugged and tried to look innocent, which isn't that easy to do when you've got two flavours of spunk trickling down the backs of your thighs.
"I know what goes on," he said quietly. "I hear stuff and I'm not stupid."
His expression didn't give much away about what he thought of it and I wondered if I might be in for trouble while my mam wasn't around.
But he didn't get up. He just stared at me and continued.
"I know you're not just showering in there. And I know you're not just takin' the odd peep at whatever it is that you like so much."
I kept staring at him, probably gawping like a startled goldfish, and he went on, "There's no point denying it, Jason. Fellas have seen you... doin' stuff... round the back of the toilet block and sneaking into other bloke's caravans."
I just stayed stood there, wide-eyed in front of him and in the brief silence that followed, managed to swallow the huge amount of spit that suddenly seemed to have filled my mouth.
"And I hear stuff at home too," he went on, rising to his subject. "You get seen all over the place, Jason, always wi' a certain kind o' lad, and you can't tell me that Donny Hutchinson's kid is only after friendship from you. Everyone knows what it is he wants, and what it is that you give him."
I didn't nod: I just stood there looking gormless and wishing I'd wiped my bum down a bit better before I left the shower block. The way I could feel the stuff running out of me, I'd be standing in a puddle of dirty spunk next and I could see how that wasn't going to help my case.
"I won't tell you to stop doin' it, because I know that's not how it works. And you needn't look at me like you've shit yourself: I'm not gonna thump you. What's bred in cannot be brayed out. I know that."
I've always been impressed with his 'shit yourself' comment. I mean, I know I hadn't actually done that – not strictly speaking – but he was pretty damn close.
He said, "I just want you to be careful, Jason. There's some horrible diseases around and the sort of stuff you're doin'... well... you know as well as I do that you could pick up somethin' that you'll never get rid of. Somethin' that'll kill you well before your time, and I wouldn't want to see your mam put through that."
He was being honourable, in a way. He was thinking of my mother – for all he was a lazy-arsed layabout, at least he wanted the best for her. And maybe the best for me, but I'm less convinced about that.
"You know that if I looked in that little washbag you're holding onto, I'd find the soap and shampoo that you go through like treacle, and your little tub of Vaseline that you carry everywhere... but not somethin' else that comes in packets of three that we both know is way more important."
Even in the middle of a conversation like this, he couldn't bring himself to say 'condoms'.
"Just promise me, Jason – for your mam's sake – that you'll be more careful in future. You know how I mean."
I nodded. "Okay." It was the only word I said to him throughout the entire conversation.
He nodded back and said, "Okay," too and I left my stuff and got the hell out of there to go down to the little harbour and think about what he'd said.
So Pete knew what I was up to but he wasn't going to try and stop me. He'd said he'd known he couldn't, which showed he had at least one brain cell more in his head than I would have given him credit for.
I worried for the rest of that afternoon how we would be together over tea with my mam there, but he pretended like the conversation had never happened. He clearly hadn't told my mam about it: she was just her usual self going on about everyone else's business on the caravan site. I actually started to wonder if maybe I'd misinterpreted what he'd said until I went for my last shower of the day and when I opened my washbag there was a pack of three condoms in there.
My first three were on him, or so it seemed.
Philip asked, "Did your opinion of him improve at all?"
I shrugged. "Not really. I just think he didn't really know how to handle it. I've told you before how he hated anything remotely smutty so finding out he was step-dad to this gay teenage cock-nympho was just way out of the ballpark for him. He had no idea what he should do."
"Didn't he tell your mam about it, like he did the previous year when you were just looking at other men?"
I shook my head. "I don't think he knew how to. It had got way past the sort of stuff he could maybe relate to, and I think he was trying to do the best he could for me – man-to-man, kind of – without wanting to actually ask me or wanting to even know what the hell I was up to. He was probably disgusted by me, if the truth were told, but he didn't want to show it because he'd promised my mam he'd help her care for me as best he could."
Philip nodded and glanced up at the clock behind me.
"This is all getting quite complex, Jason. I think we'll need to delve back into this subject next time."
"Do you want me to write another journal entry?" I asked him.
"Of course," he smiled. "I'm pleased you're finding them useful. But the subject of this one can be completely up to you. You have free reign: just write about whatever you like."
So that's what I'll do next time: just write up whatever comes into my head. I must admit I'm kind of looking forward to it!