by Oliver Jennings


I’ve known Simon since we were little kids. We were in the same class at school until we were fourteen, at which point his parents divorced and his mum took him off to live in Burnham-on-Sea with her and her new boyfriend.

We stayed in contact – Burnham isn’t a million miles from where I live – and regularly stayed over at each other’s houses. He came along to Switzerland with my family and I when I was sixteen and would regularly come over to stay overnight at our house. In fact, he stayed in our spare room for almost the entire summer break from school when we were seventeen and both got holiday jobs in my local Burger King.

But this story isn’t going to descend into trite descriptions of “how we stayed good friends despite the difficulties imposed upon us” or some such crap: I don’t go in for all the saccharine sweet heart-warming stuff. This is the story of how the two of us became a lot more than good friends when we were nineteen, and continue to be so.

I didn’t know it back then – maybe Simon didn’t himself – but Simon is gay. I’d noticed, as many other lads in our school were eager to point out, that he always seemed shy around girls; but lots of other guys showed exactly the same trait and it didn’t necessarily make them all gay. Simon also – it was frequently mentioned – didn’t like football or rugby; but neither does my older brother Tom and he definitely isn’t gay.

Simon just seemed quiet. He helped design costumes for the school drama society. He read books about Morrissey. He got excited when he heard they were making a new ‘Carry On’ film. Other lads seemed to enjoy piecing stuff like that together to portray the guy as a 100%, definite, absolutely-certain screaming queen, but I didn’t think any of it told you anything about his sexuality.

But, as it happened, perhaps it did because they turned out to be right.

Anyway, we went off to separate Universities but would keep meeting up fairly regularly during breaks and vacations. Usually he’d come down to mine and stay in our spare room, but if his mother and stepfather were away somewhere, I’d go up to Burnham to stay with him.

And it was up in Burnham that I started noticing things about Simon that I’d refused to let the Morrissey books and costume design tell me.

When I went up there, we had to share a bed because, after the divorce, his mum could only afford a two- bedroom house. That wasn’t a problem; he had a fairly large bedroom with a double bed in it. We’d usually go out to a couple of pubs in the middle of Burnham and then pick up some cans and a takeaway on the way back to his place. Then we’d lie on his bed eating it and swigging down the cans, watching a movie on the television he had at the foot of it.

It was all pretty harmless stuff and for a while I noticed nothing. Like I said, Simon was a shy lad and it must have taken him ages to pluck up the nerve to make anything approaching a first move.

The first thing I think I noticed was how long it took him to put his underwear on in the morning after he’d taken a shower. Sometimes he’d try on two or three pairs in succession, muttering about each one being ‘not quite right’ and perhaps implicitly seeking my opinions on them. Since they all looked like bog-standard white boxer briefs to me, I didn’t feel it necessary to venture an opinion.

Then he began spending longer and longer tucking himself into them. He’d pull them up one way and then another, and then take a couple of minutes to fondle with his package, adjusting it so that his cock was over the top of his balls, and then again so that it went off to one side, all the time glancing over at me to see if I was watching.

Once I joked, “Come on, Simon. Your knob’s not that big, mate. It can’t take you that long to pack it in…”

He looked up at me, hurt, and my smile quickly faded.

He snapped up his briefs and muttered, “I just like to get comfortable. No need to make a big thing about it, Ollie.”

“Hey sorry. I was just joking, mate.”

But he went off in a mood for an hour or so; silent and sullen.

After that there was this thing about morning woodies. At first it wasn’t an issue – it’s something all guys get – but it became a little too regular and he sustained them for far too long for me to be convinced that that’s all they were.

The first time it happened, he got out of bed with his boxers bulging outwards in a thick, rigid, seven inch rod. I glanced over at it and then took a double take. It wasn’t that I was surprised he had an erection: it was that he wasn’t hiding it or attempting to adjust himself so that it was less obvious. He actually proudly walked around, flaunting it and almost certainly directing it towards me whenever he could.

I laughed, “Sweet dreams, huh?”

He smiled over at me and then looked down at himself like he was surprised to find that he had a hard-on. He laughed, “Oh yeah… not so small now, is it?”

I smiled at him and then got up to take a shower. I noticed he glanced at my crotch and that his face betrayed a little disappointment when the bulge in my briefs turned out not to be a similar state to his own.

In the shower I thought about what he’d done and decided to put it down to the fact I’d tactlessly said his cock wasn’t very big a few weeks earlier when I’d made a joke about him tucking himself in. He was just trying to prove to me that it was actually quite impressive once it got going. I didn’t understand why, exactly, he felt he had to prove that to me. Maybe I’d slighted his sense of manhood and he was trying to reassert himself; maybe it was a male virility thing, or something.

But the “morning woodies” continued thereafter. Whenever I stayed over at his place, he’d make a little display of showing it off when we awoke and sometimes when he stayed at mine he’d come into my bedroom in the morning making no attempt to conceal the fact that he was at full-mast.

Once, at his place, when he climbed over me on the bed to find his watch (though why he couldn’t walk around the bed, I don’t know) and his erection woke me up by almost poking me in the face, I called out angrily, “For fuck’s sake, Simon. Most guys start with, ‘Good morning’…”

He kept it right in front of me, straining inside the tight confines of his boxer briefs, and said, “You must get them too, Ollie. It’s not a big deal… you don’t have to hide it…”

I stared at it, throbbing gently in front of my face, and noticed a little damp patch at the tip of it.

I said, “I wouldn’t hide it. I just wouldn’t make a cabaret performance of it like you do…”

He grabbed his watch and returned to his own side of the bed, his face looking hurt again.

I smiled, trying to cheer the mood a little. “Okay, I’m sorry. It’s just it was right in my face…”

He looked embarrassed but tried to shrug it off. “I was just getting my watch on the floor next to you. I can’t help getting hard-ons in the morning.”

I smiled more warmly. “Come on, Simon – it’s no big deal. To be honest, I’m still at half-throttle myself.”

He brightened up, and looked expectantly over at the duvet covering my crotch, as if hoping to see it bulging upwards. “Yeah?”

He seemed a little too eager. I was slightly thrown. “Er… yeah…”

Then he surprised me further by gently rubbing the mound in the front of his shorts. It seemed even larger than it had when it was in front of my face. The damp patch at the tip of it was spreading into a broad circle.

He said, “You know why I’m always stiff in the morning, don’t you?”

I was even more thrown. I shook my head.

He smiled. “Usually, on a morning when I wake up, I… you know…”

I kept shaking my head.

He went on, his smile becoming coy and conspiratorial. “You know… sort myself out…”

“Oh right.”

We sat in silence for a few seconds. He kept gently rubbing his now enormous-looking rod. I just stared at him.

Eventually, he asked, “Do you?”

“Er… no. I’m kind of a night time guy as far as that’s concerned…”

Again, silence.

He looked a little desperate. After about ten seconds, he tried, “Well, do you fancy one now? I mean, since you’re… er… at half-throttle, or whatever?”

I thought, “Oh Christ. He wants to have a wank with me…”

Now, let me point out that I’m no prude when it comes to pulling my pud with other guys, nor am I averse to taking things a little further when the mood takes me. I’ve wanked off, at some time or other, with most of the male members of my family, and rugby matches involving stopovers just wouldn’t be the same without the odd circle jerk and group tug. I’d even heard Simon attending to himself when we’d shared a room in Switzerland and in Burnham, and I’m sure, at least a couple of times, he’d lay there listening to me.

But all those situations had happened naturally: the result of sharing a room together and talking dirty in the small hours; getting pissed together; watching porno films together or looking at girlie mags; or plain old joining in when the first guy’s fist starts thumping.

This seemed different: it was like being given a formal invitation.

I got out of bed and Simon looked at the front of my briefs. My former semi-erection had completely subsided leaving me with a bulge that looked a little sad and pathetic in comparison with Simon’s pulsating and copiously leaking pole.

I said, “Look, I’m going for a shower. If you wanna sort yourself while I’m in there, feel free…”

Again he looked hurt. Then embarrassment flushed across his face and no amount of shrugging could shift it this time.

He muttered, “Hey… sorry…”

I grabbed my towel. “Forget it…”

Then I turned to face him. “It’s not you… it’s just the way you asked. It’s a bit weird, that’s all. Like you had it planned or something…”

Then he went scarlet and I felt like a shit for being so direct. The rod between his legs was shrinking like it was deflating.

I went for a shower.

We didn’t mention what had happened again for a couple of weeks. The “morning woodies” stopped abruptly after that morning and all reference to our cocks or to masturbation was way out of bounds.

But then one evening, in the commercial break in the film we were watching at my place, Simon said, “Ollie… do you remember that morning when I asked if you fancied a wank…?”

I waited for him to continue but he didn’t so I said, “Yeah.”

I mean, like I would have forgotten.

He went on, “Well, you were right. I’d planned it.”

I quickly said, “It’s no big deal.” Hoping that would be an end to it.

But he had more to say. “What I mean is… I’ve wanted us to do it together for ages. But now I know you’re not interested, I won’t mention it again…”

I didn’t look at him. I just stared forwards at the soundless adverts which were playing on the television. “Okay.”

Then he said, “You know I’m gay, don’t you?”

And that really threw me. I turned to him and stared. “What?”

He gave a weak half-smile. “Sorry, mate, but I’m gay…”

I just continued staring at him, surprised at what he’d said. You might be thinking, “Well of course he’s fucking gay… wasn’t that obvious?” But it hadn’t really occurred to me. I put the morning woody game down to him wanting to show his big cock off; getting off on being an exhibitionist. I’d regarded his invitation to join him for a wank a result of him feeling horny when he woke up and, in a totally Simon-like way, turning something that could have been natural and unremarkable – like me waking up to find him pulling himself off in the bed next to me – into something forced and clumsy.

Anyway, he’d always said he fancied Catherine Zeta-Jones.

He interpreted my continued stunned silence as disgust. He said, “I suppose you’ll want me to go back to Burnham now.”


Again that half-smile. “I’ve freaked you out…”

I laughed. “‘Course you fuckin’ haven’t. I’m just a bit surprised.”

He went on, “Like I said, now I know you’re not interested, I won’t try it on again…”

I reached forwards and squeezed his shoulder. “Simon, mate. Why did you wait so fucking long to tell me? I don’t care that you’re gay but I care that it took you ’til now – after all these years – to tell me…”

“Yeah… I know… but, to be honest, I only just got my own head around it… I met this guy at Uni… you know…”

It turned out that Simon had met a guy through the theatre group at his university and the two of them had become friends. A couple of weeks later, much to Simon’s own surprise, after a couple of bottles of wine and a night in watching ‘Muriel’s Wedding’, their friendship had ascended into a brief burst of silent, painful sex on Simon’s bed. Similar encounters had continued over the next couple of weeks and then the guy had moved onto other things. Or other guys, to be more precise.

Simon had been upset by the way he’d been used and then discarded but, as he said himself, at least the experience had let him know “which side he batted for.”

I smiled warmly and affectionately at him. “We bat for the same side, mate. You’re gay, I’m straight. But we’re on the same side…”

And he looked so pleased by what I’d said, I was afraid he might cry. I’m never good in those kinds of situations so I quickly said, “Hey, look, we’re missing the film…” and turned the volume back up.

Simon and I had continued pretty much as usual after his admission: he’d been to stay over at mine a couple of times; I’d been to stay with him, sleeping next to him in his bed just as I always had. The only significant thing that was different was that he had, after a few awkward muttered attempts, started talking about guys he fancied in a similar, though far more self-deprecating, way as I would talk about girls. We discussed people at school he’d found attractive, even though at the time he’d told himself it was in an entirely non-sexual way, and the kind of things he found interesting in other men.

I guess it was two or three months later, at Josh Weldon’s party, that things began to develop further.

Simon and I had gone along, with a few of our mates, to Josh’s parents’ house in which everyone was meeting as a kind of “end of summer holidays” event. We were all about to head back to our different colleges and universities and this would be the last time many of us would see each other until Christmas.

The house had been crammed full of people and I’d been pleased to see that Sarah Cox, a girl who I’d fancied since the third form at school, was there and looking as magnificent as ever.

Unfortunately, to cut a long story short, things didn’t work out between Sarah and I that night primarily because I ended up, along with the vast majority of the other people in the house, getting extremely pissed and arsing around like a five-year-old. Some guy found Josh’s dad’s hose and a group of girls were given an impromptu wet tee-shirt contest the back garden. Then the hose was turned on the guys and we ended up having a wet briefs and boxer-shorts contest. Pulling moonies at the neighbours also featured heavily, as did seeing how much lager Josh’s hamster could knock back.

I remember all that with varying degrees of clarity, but I don’t remember what happened afterward. I only have Simon’s word for that but I must say it sounds believable.

According to Simon, I was far too drunk by the end of the evening to walk home and so we decided, like twenty or thirty other people, to stay over at Josh’s for the night. His parents, God help them, weren’t due back until the following evening, and so that would give everyone plenty of time to clean up and get out of there before they returned.

So we ended up sleeping among piles of people in one of the bedrooms of Josh’s house. I think the two of us were slumped in a corner with a sheet thrown over us, but only because that’s how we awoke next day.

Simon reckons I became maudlin at the end of the evening and started ranting drunkenly about the fact that Sarah Cox hadn’t shown any interest in my amorous advances. I must say, that part at least would be true to form.

Simon had settled me down next to him in a quiet corner and asked me, soothingly, what made her so attractive to me.

I’d muttered something about her mind, her body and the small fact of her being rumoured to give blowjobs that could make a guy whimper.

Simon had said, “I know someone who’s in training to be able to do that…”

And I’d said, “Well let them use me as a guinea pig. Bring them on!”

And we’d left it there until most of the other people in the room had settled down in varying states of discomfort for the night.

When all was quiet, Simon had apparently whispered, “Do you really want a blow job, Ollie?”

And I’d laughed. “Like you need to fuckin’ ask!”

So he’d whispered, “Even if it was me giving it?”

And I’d said, “A blow job’s a blow job, mate. If you wanna give it, I wanna take it.”

That bit doesn’t sound so much like me, but I’ll keep an open mind because I was extremely pissed.

And so he’d gone beneath the sheet, unzipped me and gently sucked on my cock while everyone else piled around the room were either sleeping, trying to sleep or making out with someone they’d picked up.

The part I do remember – although I think I vaguely recall the warm, wet sensation of his mouth around my cock – is hearing some guy shout, “Fuckin’ hell! Collins is sucking Ollie off! Jesus!”

Then, when someone put the light on and all eyes were on me, things become very clear. Simon’s head came out from under the sheet and I struggled to put away my stiff wet cock and zip myself up.

I’d laughed, “Jesus, you guys. Like that’s gonna happen!”

And someone had said, “Well what was he doing under there?”

Simon muttered, “Hey, I just fell asleep. I can’t help where my head goes when I’m unconscious.”

And I laughed again, hopefully convincingly, and said, “But if you wanna do what the guy says and sort me out while you’re down there, Simon, mate, feel free!”

Simon had laughed, “Fuck off! In your dreams, mate!”

And things had settled down again.

When the light was off and people seemed to be sleeping again, Simon whispered, “Do you want me to do it again?”

I said, “No. It’s too risky. Maybe some other time.”

He’d put his arms around me and we slept like that.

The next day, Simon told me what had happened – or, at least, the parts I couldn’t remember – and I think I believe his version of events. I really can’t see him doing anything to me without me giving him at least some encouragement; after all, I’ve slept around at his place loads of times, in the same bed as him, and he’s never so much as touched me. So I think he was telling me the truth.

After we’d talked about it and I’d admitted that I was, in all probability, equally to blame for us ending up getting a little over-familiar on the previous evening, Simon smirked and said, “So what about the ‘some other time’?”

“What about the what?”

He kept smiling cheekily. “You said we might continue ‘some other time’. I just wondered if we could narrow the timescale down a little?”

I laughed, then said nothing, and Simon took the hint and left it there.

In fact, the ‘some other time’ turned out to happen that October, when the two of us met up during half term from Uni.

My older brother Tom had bought a new car and said I could use his old one while he found a buyer for it. One evening, I drove up to Burnham to pick Simon up and we headed up towards Brean to make a change from the usual Burnham pubs and takeaways.

I parked the car at the quiet end of the beach and we sat in it, watching the sun dip beneath the horizon far out at sea and feeling the evening breeze growing suddenly chilly.

Simon was talking about some guy at University whom he thought might be gay but wasn’t sure.

I asked him what made him think the guy might be.

“Well, he’s had girlfriends and stuff but this guy from the theatre group reckons he slept with him one night after they met in one of the gay clubs.”

“I suppose he could swing both ways…”

Simon shook his head. “Most guys go one way or the other, don’t they? I mean, you couldn’t see yourself having sex with a guy, could you?”

I smiled back. I’d given this a lot of thought in the months since I’d been dimly aware of Simon’s mouth around my cock. I said, “I dunno… I suppose, on a purely physical level, I could enjoy sex with a guy. If there were no emotional complications to it…”

He turned to stare at me. “Have you ever done that?”

I laughed. “Ooh, let me see… there was this one night when a guy sucked me off under a sheet at a party…”

He laughed back. “But you were too drunk to know whether you enjoyed that or not…”

“Actually, I can remember how it felt. I mean, I can’t remember how we got into that situation in the first place, but I remember the warm, wet sensation of it…”

There was a short pause and then he said, “And did it feel good?”

I chuckled. “Of course it did. It was a blow job, wasn’t it?”

“Better than a blow job a girl would give you?”

I knew where this was leading and briefly considered my options. After a few seconds I decided to go down the path I’d mentally prepared myself for were this conversation ever to arise. “I dunno… different I guess. I can’t really remember anything about your technique. I’d need more experience of it before I could form an opinion…”

He hesitated again, clearly surprised by my implicit invitation. “Do you want me to have another try?”

I turned and smiled at him. “Yeah. As long as we both agree that we stay mates afterwards. And that if one of us decides it isn’t working – you or me – we stop and just forget it…”

He looked serious and nodded.

I smiled more broadly and nodded back. “Okay, then. If you’d be up for it…”

He smiled back, a little tentatively. His voice became almost a whisper. “Of course I would be, Ollie. You know that… Just don’t, like, hate me after this…”

“Come on, Simon. I could never hate you. You know that.”

I unzipped my jacket and gestured to him that he had access to my jeans and the contents of them. He leant over me immediately and clumsily unbuckled my belt. Then he unzipped my jeans and tried to pull them down a little. I bucked my hips upwards to help him, almost ramming my crotch into his face. He laughed, “Easy, tiger,” and kept on undressing my lower half.

My briefs were already tenting upwards with my cock making a six inch ridge in the light grey material.

He looked up at me and smiled. “You really want this…”

I shrugged. “It’s been a while…”

He slowly pulled down my briefs as if savouring a moment he’d fantasised about for a long time. My cock sprang upwards when released from them, and my balls flopped out into the crease between my thighs. He wrapped his fingers around my length and hesitantly withdrew my foreskin from the pale pink head. His fingers felt cold and his touch was apprehensive.

I whispered, “Don’t worry about hurting me. You can be as rough as you like with it…”

He looked up at me, a little uncertain, and then understood what I meant. “It’s not that I’m afraid of hurting you, Ollie. It’s just that I’m afraid of fucking this up…”

I smiled at him. “There aren’t any signs of that, so far…”

He smiled back, although his eyes showed only minimal signs of reassurance, and then returned to the matter of pulling my briefs down to my knees.

At first he just masturbated me, slowly and methodically; like he was following instructions from a manual. It felt quite pleasant but I knew I was starting to lose my erection because his fingers were so cold.

He asked, “How does that feel?”

I replied, “It’s okay, but I’d prefer something a bit warmer and wetter…”

He nodded and lowered his mouth to my cock. For about ten seconds, he just stared at it. In fact, he seemed so cautious about taking me into him that I wondered if maybe the actual prospect of my cock in front of him was not quite as appetising as he’d anticipated.

Then he looked up at me and said, “Look, if I accidentally bite it, tell me, okay?”

I shrugged. “What’s the problem?”

He said, “The last guy I was with – the guy who, basically, shagged me for couple of weeks – said I use my teeth too much.”

“Well, if you do, I’ll let you know. See me as a crash test dummy, mate. I’ll let you know what works and what doesn’t. Try whatever you want to…”

He smiled and then returned to my cock, licking the pink helmet at first and then gently taking as much of it as he could into his mouth.

I groaned, “Actually, that feels really good…”

Then he started sucking me in earnest, working his lips up and down my entire length and milking the head of it for precum with his tongue inside his mouth as he did so. Within just a couple of minutes, he’d developed a technique that made me gasp and squirm in a way that no girl has ever managed to achieve.

I panted, “Go for it, mate… fuckin’ hell, Sarah Cox couldn’t hold a flame to you…”

He laughed at that one, chuckling with my cock still sliding in and out of his mouth.

He started playing with my balls and tickling the hairy ridge between them and my arsehole as his mouth feasted on my engorged cock and I gasped for more.

When I came – and it didn’t take long – I tried to pull it out from him, but he resisted me and kept sucking at it, swallowing the gushers of semen as they erupted in hot pulses from the head.

After my orgasm had subsided, he looked up at me with my cum around his grinning mouth and I laughed.

I asked what I could do for him and he said, “Nothing”. That had been my treat. “Next time, Ollie, if you want to, we can do more. But this time, I didn’t want to freak you out again by showing you my cock…”

I wiped my wet bell-end, still gently oozing cum, with some tissue, and said, “I wasn’t freaked out by your cock that morning you asked me to wank with you. Jesus, mate, when you’ve spent as many nights away with as many rugby teams as I have, the sight of a guy with a hard-on stops being such an issue…”

He looked puzzled; a little hurt, maybe. He asked, “So why did you say no when I asked you to?”

I shrugged, pulling my briefs back up to cover my softening cock. “You made it sound too serious. Tonight was just the two of us messing about. That’s how it’s got to be. If I meet a girl tomorrow, or you meet a guy, and this comes to an end, we both have to know we’re not going to screw the other up. Does that kind of make sense?”

He nodded and I hitched up my jeans.

I smiled. “Anyway, next time we play around like this, we’ve got to think about how we’re going to sort out Mr Collins Junior down there, okay?”

He glanced down at his crotch, smiled and nodded gratefully.

Then he said, “Actually, I’d have been too stressed out to have done anything to Mr Collins Junior tonight.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll have to see if we can sort that out too…”

And so that’s how it was every evening over that October holiday. I’d pick Simon up at Burnham and then we’d drive up to Brean and play around in the car. Usually he’d suck me off and wank himself while he was doing it (often climaxing well before me as he did so) but once or twice I fucked him over the back seat of the car.

He wasn’t the first guy I fucked but I treated him like he was. I thought it best he didn’t know that I wasn’t quite the straight-as-a-die friend that he always assumed I was. I thought it less likely that he’d end up developing emotional attachments to me that I knew I wouldn’t be able to reciprocate.

At the end of the week he suggested coming to visit me the following weekend at Uni.

I said, “We never visit each other at Uni, Simon. We always meet at my place or in Burnham.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but I thought it might be nice.”

I shook my head. “No. We keep things as they’ve always been. That was the agreement.”

He nodded. “But, it’s really good between us right now. I’ll miss you…”

I felt like a bastard for being so cold with him, but I said, “Come on, Simon, mate. If you’re gonna get all lovey-dovey with me, it’s gonna screw us both up. I’m straight. You know that.”

He looked surprised, “Yeah, I know, but -”

I cut in, “No – Simon. We’ll meet up at Christmas. Next week, I’ll be asking girls out and you’ll hopefully be asking that guy out you think might swing both ways…”

He went quiet and looked upset.

I squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, mate. It’s got to be like this. You knew that from the start. We can have a bit of fun together but that’s all it can be… you’ve got to accept that or you’re gonna mess yourself up and scare the hell out of me…”

He kept looking upset, trying to think of something to say, but then his face softened and he smiled weakly. He said, “Okay… sorry, Ollie. I was just being stupid. It’s just that… well… I’ve enjoyed this week so much…”

“Yeah and I have too. And we’ll do it again at Christmas if you’re still up for it…”

He nodded. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. I’ve just got to keep telling myself you’re straight. That’s all…”

I nodded back.

And then we went our separate ways for a couple of months.

When Christmas came, Simon was still single but I had a girlfriend called Anna. Nevertheless, the two of us had more fun together, usually in his bedroom at Burnham, and I tried to explain to him the conclusion that I’d reached having mulled over and over what we’d done together in the car during that week in October. I told him – though I put it in terms rather more eloquent than this, of course – that my heart likes girls but my cock likes whatever’s on offer. By the end of that Christmas holiday, I think he was beginning to understand what I meant and to accept how things were between us.

We’ve been mates ever since; almost certainly far stronger friends than we would have been without the physical side of our relationship. I don’t see him as much these days as I used to as I’m living with a girl and he’s with a guy, but when we do meet up we still enjoy playing around a little together.

One of these days we’re going to have to draw and end to it and become conventional, bog-standard friends again. Meet up for picnics and barbecues with our partners, without sneaking off to have sex together at the first opportunity. Go round for dinner parties at each other’s houses without him rubbing my crotch with his foot underneath the table. Actually start fishing with the rods we bought rather than just pretending to our partners that it’s a Sunday afternoon hobby we both enjoy.

One of these days.

But not just yet.


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