Hayle
by Oliver Jennings

 

Part 1

If I had to be specific, if you were to force me to express a preference, I guess I’d have to say that when it comes to women, I’m probably a tit man. But it’d be a pretty close run thing – the whole package is pretty nice.

As far as my attraction to other men is concerned, though, I’m definitely an arse man. Nothing else even registers on the dial when it’s competing against the firm, round, tight buttcheeks of another guy. Maybe it’s because guys’ arses look a little like girls’ tits – I don’t know – but I do know that, from a fairly early age, I’ve been fascinated by them.

There’s something really satisfying about lying chest-to-chest with another man, staring into his eyes and running your fingers through his hair. There’s something wonderfully elegant about the sweep of his back; a raw, masculine beauty in the muscles of his forearms and thighs. I love the feel of his cock, poking into me insistently; and of his balls, slamming against me while he pleasures himself inside my body.

But all those fade into insignificance in comparison to the pleasure of turning him over to find he has a good, solid arse ripe for exploration. All those are just window dressings.

The seduction of another man’s arse has to be one of life’s most exquisite pleasures. Running your fingers up and down his crack, enjoying the tickle of his wiry cleft hair. Then finding his most precious spot and hearing him gasp at that first touch. Feeling the slight wetness to it; puckered and opening; slick and inviting. Smelling him; licking him; tasting him. Being so intimate to such a personal area of him and hearing him whimper in pleasure. Then, slowly so as not to alarm him, climbing onto him; pressing your aching, swollen cock into him and feeling him tighten around it. The two of you sweating as you writhe and buck; his arse slurping on your cock like it was a lollipop. It’s pretty much as good as it gets!

I find my mind wandering into areas like that, areas which perhaps it shouldn’t, in the most mundane of places. My girlfriend’s brother turns and bends to pick up a dropped napkin at a family meal and I’m wondering what it would be like to rip those tight black trousers down, yank his briefs down to the tops of his thighs and fuck him over the table. Whether he’d scream and call out my name like his sister does; whether he’d cum before me. Or my mate from work stands in front of me in the bus queue in the late afternoon drizzle and I’m checking out his buttcheeks bulging pertly in the seat of his chinos; imagining my tongue snaking between them through the leg of his baggy boxers, tasting his hot, wet hole, pungeant and sweaty from his day sitting in front of his computer.

I guess it shouldn’t happen but it does. And when it does – boy – is it enjoyable!

I think it all goes back to my days going down to Hayle for the rugby. Not the games themselves – although there are plenty of opportunities for ones mind to wander during some of those scrums when guys’ arses are pointing at you from all directions – but more the nights I had staying over at the Youth Hostel there when we’d driven down to watch a match.

We must have started staying there when I was really young – five or six, maybe – and, of course, I don’t think guys’ arses did a lot for me in those days. I was interested in them, I guess, just like every kid stares over at naked people, but I don’t think I really focused on arses as being anything special and definitely not ones belonging to other males.

I think my first awakening must have happened when I was about thirteen. I was staying in the Youth Hostel with my dad, my brother Charlie and a cousin of mine from Bristol called Martin. Martin was a couple of years older than me and we didn’t really get on that well. Aside from the age difference, which seemed like an impassable gulf back then, there was the fact that he had this thing about being from the city while I was a country lad. He regarded me as an inbred yokel; I regarded him as an arrogant tosser.

So it wasn’t the most promising of starts. And, in fact, nothing really happened.

What did happen took place early one morning when everyone was waking up and starting to get ready to head off to a rugby game. As the hostel started to slowly come to life, I was sitting on the toilet in one of the bathrooms on the middle floor. Like I said, not the most promising of starts.

Martin walked in, grunted something incomprehensible over at me sitting on the toilet, then pulled off his teeshirt and shorts and stood waiting for the shower to warm up. There was nothing odd about that – the hostel only had two bathrooms and so on rugby match days when there’s only guys staying there and everyone’s in a rush to get ready at the same time, there’s a kind of open-house atmosphere about the place.

I just sat on the loo watching him – funny how you’ve so little self-consciousness about that kind of stuff when you’re young – and noticed, while he stood there, that his cock stood upwards from between his legs. He had what looked like a pretty full-on erection.

Again, there was nothing odd about that – when you’re staying over at youth hostels with groups of other guys, you’re going to get used to seeing morning woodies pretty soon – but I was kind of impressed by how large he was down there and I guess I must have stared over at him. His cock seemed so much bigger than mine – it must have been six or maybe even seven inches long. Even with two years head-start it seemed quite a remarkable organ.

He gradually became more uncomfortable as he waited for the water to become warm and scowled over at me. I just sat on the loo and stared back.

He made like he was acting busy, rinsing the base of the shower cubicle and then grabbing his soap and stuff, with that swollen cock swinging around between his legs like a branch in the wind as he did so. It was beginning to lose some of its stiffness but none of its impressive size.

When I kept staring, he turned to me and snapped, “Stop looking my arse, weirdo! D’you wanna bum me or something?”

I didn’t know what he meant so I shrugged. “What do you mean?”

He laughed scornfully. “Don’t you even know what that means? Bain’t they be doin’ that down thar in Devon?” His mock country accent grated on me.

But I just shrugged again.

He sneered. “It means you’re looking at my arse because you want to stick your dick up it…”

I was confused. “Why?”

His grin became broader and more triumphant. “Because you want to fuck me.”

He emphasized the words ‘fuck me’, intending to shock.

I was still pretty confused but starting to understand. “Your arse?”

“Yeah. You want to fuck my arse. That’s why you were staring at it. You’re a gay…”

Now I understood. I shook my head. I considered telling him that I had actually been staring at his dick but I thought that might be a bad move.

So I just stood up, wiped myself and flushed the toilet.

As he got into the shower, I said, “I wasn’t looking at your arse, Martin. I wasn’t looking at anything…”

He grunted, “Yeah, right.” And closed the cubicle door.

I walked over to the sink and got on with brushing my teeth. Martin began washing himself in the shower, his back turned toward me through the glass door. I looked over at him through the mirror above the sink and saw that, after he’d quickly washed his body and rinsed himself, his elbow began moving rhythmically alongside his right hip. He was attending to his erection under the spray of the water.

I wasn’t much interested in that – I’d kind of expected him to wank himself off under the shower just as I probably would have done if I’d awoken in a similar state – but my eyes were drawn back to his arse time and again, despite my attempts to ignore it.

What he’d said simultaneously fascinated and disgusted me: the idea that I might want to have sex with his bum was revolting in that it was such a taboo and dirty place, and yet surprisingly attractive for exactly the same reason. A guy’s arse couldn’t really be used in a sexual way, could it? My eyes were drawn back to his again and again as if the answer would somehow be revealed by it.

I realised that I must have been brushing my teeth for three or four minutes, staring hypnotically at his bumcheeks repeatedly visualising and then dismissing the image of working my cock in between them, when Martin turned around to glower at me over his shoulder. His hand was working at full whack against his cock and he obviously wasn’t too pleased that I was hanging around a little longer than necessary.

He snapped, his voice breathless from his exertions, “Quit looking at my arse, pervert!”

I hurriedly spat into the sink and picked up my towel. “I wasn’t…”

He glanced down at my crotch and saw that my cock was now fully erect and arching upward in front of me.

He sneered. “You really do wanna bum me…”

“Fuck off! Everyone gets a morning hard-on… it doesn’t mean anything…”

He turned back around to return to working his own, muttering, “Yeah, whatever… like I’m so convinced…”

I flushed scarlet because he was right. I had been imagining what it might be like to have sex with his arse and I had developed an erection thinking about it. That wasn’t such a good sign, was it?

I think I must have blushed every time I saw Martin sneering over at me that day. I think, actually, I was pretty hung up about what had happened that morning at Hayle for a couple of years afterward.

It was only when I came to accept that I happen to have – how shall I put it – an appreciation for certain aspects of other males’ bodies, which in no way undermines or challenges my heterosexual attractions, that I managed to look Martin in the eye again. It took a few more years for me to realise that his harsh comments in the bathroom that day had inadvertently awoken a side of me that I might otherwise have never have experienced, and from then on I could sneer back at him.

But to get that far meant wading through a lot of guilt, and much of that guilt was felt in the dorm rooms at Hayle in the months and years following Martin’s confrontation.

From then on visits to the youth hostel became sources of endless opportunity followed by relentless self-reproach. I’d find myself looking desperately forward to trips down to Hayle and at first I’d try to convince myself that it was because of the anticipation of seeing a rugby game. After a few visits, though, I had to acknowledge that the main enticement was the possibility that might get a glimpse of a couple of guys’ arses. I’d feel dirty about myself for wanting that but I’d want it anyway: I’d know I wasn’t supposed to think of other males in a sexual way, but I was unable and ultimately unwilling to stop myself.

I must have checked out a succession of thirty or forty naked men over the following couple of years. I’d chat to them while they were undressing at night in our dorm, while they were showering the next morning and while they were pulling on their underwear, all the time peering over at their arses and becoming more and more fascinated by the differences and similarities between them.

There was this guy Darren from Walsall who had a firm, round arse that almost drove me crazy. He spent ages between showering and dressing, checking out his muscles and obsessing over the scar of a tattoo he’d had removed, and I just lay in my bed staring over at him, gently rubbing at the wet tip of my engorged cock beneath my duvet as my eyes feasted on his amazing backside every time he turned it towards me.

There was this Italian guy called Dianno from North London who seemed reluctant to get dressed. He had an animated conversation with my brother Charlie, standing with his back towards me and his legs wide open, while I lay in my bed and gazed in awe at his incredible muscular arse and his cock and balls dangling between his thighs beneath it. When Charlie stood up from his bed, Dianno took a step backward to give him space and those magnificent bumcheeks were literally inches from my face. I could actually smell the soap he’d washed himself with when he’d showered a few minutes earlier. My cock was pounding against the tight grip of my fist.

Then there was this guy called Ian from Reigate who had one of the roundest arses I’ve ever seen. He made small-talk with my mates and I while we all undressed to turn in for the night and, when he pulled off his jeans to reveal the paired spherical mounds of his straining cheeks inside his tight dark red briefs, I became mesmerised. Thank God I wasn’t involved in the conversation at that moment: I’d have been totally lost for words. Then, when he peeled off his briefs, unfurling them down those tight, round buttocks chatting away obliviously, I was reduced to grunting something like, “I need the loo…” and slunk out.

By the time I’d finished my rapid and silent bout of masturbation, he’d got into bed. I’ve always been pissed off with myself that I slept through his alarm the next morning and that by the time I’d awoken he was already dressed.

Throughout the time these brief encounters were happening at Hayle, I was dating girls and working my way through first and second base just like all the other lads in my year. I wasn’t gay – I still don’t think I am – I just had this fascination for guys’ behinds that didn’t seem to fit with any of the other, more traditional, attractions I was developing.

During some of my many moments of anxiety about what I was feeling, I’d visit the town library and leaf through encyclopoedias and medical textbooks to see if this was one of those “normal part of growing up” things. I quickly realised that none of them said anything that was relevant to me. This wasn’t a phase I was going through – it had been going on for three years now. Nor was it a teenage crush – how can someone have a crush on a part of the every other guy’s body?

I even tried making tentative, joking references to “bumming” or to the shape of other lads’ backsides to my mates, but they seemed to lack my interest and would just throw me odd, uneasy glances.

So I figured I must be pretty unique in this and, at sixteen or seventeen, decided that it might be time to stop worrying about it or trying to justify it: why not just see what it would be like to enjoy it?

 

Part 2

One of the defining moments that eased my guilt happened during a trip to Hayle with my dad. It was just him and I that weekend: I think Charlie was away on some hiking expedition with the scouts and my older brother Tom was at University.

The hostel was pretty full, as it always is before a rugby match, and my dad and I had to share a three-bunk room with four other men. He offered to take the top bunk of our bed, which was fine by me as it meant I got a better view of what was going on at waist-level among the other guys in the room.

I don’t remember much about three of the men we were sharing a room with – I don’t think my dad or I really spoke to any of them – but I do remember that all six of us turned in together at about half past eleven when the hostel bar had closed. It must have been pissing down with rain outside or something, because normally most of the men would head off into town to wander around the pubs, but for some reason everyone seemed to hang around indoors that night.

I got undressed quickly while the others were still coming upstairs, my erection already making a wigwam of the front of my boxers in anticipation of the strip show I was about to get. I got into bed and positioned myself like was just idly reading a magazine, giving myself the broadest view of the room that I could. My cock was literally throbbing beneath my duvet.

The first three guys undressed uneventfully, wandering in and out of the room making trips to the bathroom and gradually stripping down to their underwear. I lay there squeezing my cock underneath my magazine as they slowly revealed the curves and contours of their brief- or boxer-clad arses. Standard fare and, like I said, not terribly memorable.

Then my dad came in and hurriedly stripped down to his briefs, making occasional glances towards my magazine, as though he knew what was going on beneath it. I just pretended to be immersed in an article about The Eels and tried to ignore him.

While the other three guys got into their beds, dad said something like, “Is that the magazine with Martin Clunes on the cover?”

I shrugged. “I dunno.”

He said, “Let’s have a look…” and snatched the magazine away from me.

I grabbed it back almost immediately, replacing it over the bulge in the duvet. He smiled at me knowingly.

I muttered, “You can have a look when I’ve finished this article…”

He chuckled, “I’ve seen enough, Ollie…” He looked back down at my crotch. “I kind of got an eyeful…”

I went a little pink but shrugged it off. I thought, “Jesus – can’t a guy even lie in bed with a hard-on these days?”

Then our fourth roommate came into the room and started stripping. Dad turned to face him, making a few bland pleasantries, with his brief-clad arse in front of my face.

I expected dad to climb up onto his bunk as the guy took off his shoes and socks, but instead he just stood there with his back to me, eclipsing my view almost completely with his arse. The other guy began asking about how often the two of us had stayed in the hostel and dad made idle chit-chat in reply.

I kept trying to peer round the side of dad’s arse to see what was going on – the fourth guy was already hitching down his jeans – but every time I changed position, dad would move across to block my view again. I’d shuffle around a little as if trying to my myself more comfortable, and dad would take a step in the same direction. I’d pretend to yawn and move over to the other side of my pillow and dad would follow me.

I was thinking, “Oh come on, dad – give me a break! He’s pulling off his teeshirt!” But my dad’s arse would remain firmly in front of my face.

That’s not to say my dad’s arse wasn’t pleasant to look at – for a guy his age, he had a pretty athletic pair of buttocks which filled the back of his white briefs pretty well – but I guess the fact it belonged to my dad made me a little uncomfortable about staring too hard at it. Interest in that direction would have seemed a bit too weird even for me!

When the fourth guy had stripped down to all but his briefs, dad finally stepped to one side to let me see what I’d been waiting for. It was worth the wait! The man was a builder or something and had a muscular, well-built body with a chiselled pair of buttcheeks at the back of him that looked like they would be strong enough to crack nuts. His briefs were white and so tight that they rode up into his crack, and when he turned around to face us, his cock and balls were so clearly defined inside the taut material that they looked like they must be painful to wear.

Dad coughed gently and I looked up at his face. He was looking down at me, smiling knowingly again.

I blushed for a second time and his grin broadened.

I wondered whether he was smiling at the fact he’d playing a game by pushing his arse in front of me or whether he realised I’d been trying to spy on the other guy. Before I could work him out, dad turned and said to the guy, “Jesus, mate. Looks like you could have done with a bigger size…”

The man laughed. “Yeah… my wife always buys them like this. Two sizes too small. She kind of… er… likes them like that…!”

Dad chuckled. “Not too comfortable for you, though…”

The guy smiled. “A permanent wedgie is a small price to pay to keep her happy…”

“Yeah? Must be true love…”

The guy laughed again and said, “Nice to get them off though…” And he quickly yanked them down. I think he’d been pleased that someone had given him the opportunity to take them off so that he didn’t have to risk looking weird by being the only one to sleep in the nude. His cock and balls burst out from them like they were relieved to get a some air after their day of captivity. I noticed that the guy’s pubes were trimmed, emphasizing the length of his cock and the drop of his balls. Obviously another preference of his girlfriend’s…

Then he turned to stuff his briefs into his rucksack, revealing his spectacular arse in all its naked glory. Apart from the pink lines where the hems of his briefs had dug into him, his buttocks were perfect: full, firm and as round as melons.

I glanced back up at my dad and found that he was staring at the others guy’s arse as intently as I had been. Then, when the guy bent low to pick up a couple of things that had fallen out from his bag, I was even more surprised to look up and find my dad subtly craning forward to get a better view of the man’s parting arse cheeks.

My dad looked back over at me and smiled again. I guess I must have just looked confused. He nodded over at the guy’s arse and his grin broadened. I looked over to see what he was gesturing at. The man’s small pink hole was clearly visible between his muscular buttocks; it looked like a tiny rosebud nestling in swirls of wispy dark hair.

I looked back up at my dad’s face and he nodded, still grinning. I smiled back tentatively.

Were we both thinking the same thoughts? Did he, like me, find what we were looking at interesting and attractive; or did he just think it was amusing to see another guy’s arsehole? Could this part of a game or a test of my sexuality?

My dad said something like, “Yeah… I think I’ll follow suit…” and to my surprise he pulled down his own briefs. Sleeping naked in hostels just wasn’t normally done in our family.

He threw his underwear onto his bag and then climbed the ladder at the side of our bunks to get onto his own bed. As he did so I noticed that his cock was not exactly what you’d call limp. It was obviously a long way from being fully erect but it stood outwards from his balls, as straight as a rod, and looked swollen and thick. I’d seen enough of my dad in the nude over the years to know that his cock just didn’t normally look like that.

I thought, “Shit! He really was getting off looking at that guy’s arse! I’m not the only one!”

I almost laughed out loud! All that time I’d spent looking for answers about what I was feeling, and here they were right in my own family. It was a bit bizarre, but it made sense: it was a family thing. Like father, like son – all that crap! Maybe it was genetic. The arse-loving Jennings gene!

While I lay in the dark with the other men going to sleep around me, I began to wonder if maybe it wasn’t only dad and I who had an interest in the rears of our own sex. Perhaps my younger brother Charlie would sometimes get a little interested in his mates’ arses; maybe even straight-as-a-die Tom would occasionally get off fantasizing about some guy’s crack.

But after a few minutes it began to seem too incredible; too far-fetched to be taken seriously. My dad had just thrown me a conspiratorial smirk about the fact we both had front-row seats to the view of the other man’s most private spot. He’d taken his briefs off because he likes to sleep naked at home and the fact the other guy had stripped off had made him feel less self-conscious about doing so himself.

It was as plain and simple as that.

The Jennings gene was just a case of wishful thinking.

But after five or ten minutes I began to feel the bunk bed vibrating gently and realised that my dad was discretely masturbating in the bed above me. At first I thought that maybe it was one of the other men in the other beds trying to have a quiet wank, but the occasional telltale slapping sounds were obviously coming from above me and dad’s breathing was definitely speeding up.

In all the time I’d slept in hostels, tents or hotel rooms with him, I’d never heard my dad masturbating and for those first couple of minutes I felt acutely embarrassed. I couldn’t believe that I was lying beneath him hearing his hand working away on himself and hearing his pleasure beginning to build. These were sounds I shouldn’t be listening to: this wasn’t exactly a traditional part of the father-son bond.

I considered getting up and going to the bathroom while he finished himself off, but was stopped before I even got out of bed by the memory of something that happened a year or so earlier. Dad, Tom and I had been staying at Hayle, possibly in this room, and had been going to sleep pretty much like we were now, with the other beds filled by strangers. I’d been feeling horny – you can probably guess why – and had tried to attend to my cock beneath my duvet with as little noise and movement as I could. A couple of minutes in, as my forehead was beginning to sweat and the rhythm of my fingers was making my cock ooze precum, Dad whispered curtly over to me, “There’s a time and a place, Ollie… and it isn’t now…”

I’d stopped, my cock limp in my hand before he’d even completed the sentence and my sweat feeling like it was beginning to freeze on my face. I hadn’t replied; I’d just lain there as if dead, not even wanting to breathe. As though my silence right then would undo the sounds I’d been unknowingly making in the minutes earlier.

And now here was the same guy doing exactly the same thing he’d reproached me for.

So I lay back down and, for a couple more minutes, listened to my own father wanking in the bed above me, hearing him occasionally sighing gently as his pleasure built and his rhythm increased.

I cleared my throat to let him know I was still awake but it made no discernible impact. He knew his son was listening to him masturbating but he didn’t care.

I thought, “Jesus, you’d think at his age he’d be able to control himself a bit more…”

But then it occurred to me that he might be doing this to make a point: sort of saying, “Hey, Ollie… what we just saw there really turned me on…”

I thought again about the guy’s pink arsehole and my dad’s stiffening cock. If the two things were unrelated it was a very bizarre coincidence that they had occurred almost together. Perhaps my dad really had been aroused by the sight of another man’s arse. Perhaps he was thinking of it, gently opening to reveal its puckered secret, right now. Perhaps he was thinking about himself ‘bumming’ it.

At the thought of that my own cock began to reawaken and I held it in my hand, enjoying the sensation of it slowly lengthening.

I wondered if my dad might have been pleased to see me showing an interest in the other guy’s arse. Pleased that young Ollie was following in his old man’s footsteps. Whether he’d worked out that, like him, I thought about other guys’ backsides when I masturbated and whether he was, right now as he tugged at his own cock, wondering if I fantasized about sliding my own cock into one.

As though he’d been reading my thoughts, my dad’s movements became faster and the bed started rocking, the frame making rhythmic squeaking noises. The slight slapping sounds of his fist against his cock became louder and I realised he’d pushed back his duvet to masturbate in the open air.

Were any of the other men in the room aware of this? Were any of them thinking, “Christ – that guy’s wanking off in front of his son!”?

By now my own cock throbbed at full size. The fact that my dad was masturbating right above me still wasn’t, in itself, turning me on; it was the knowledge that we were both secretly attracted to the same forbidden fruit, and that we both knew we were.

I pushed back my own duvet and began masturbating myself to the same rhythm as my dad was using on himself. The extra movement made the sounds from the bed-frame intensify and the whole bunk swayed to our beat. Dad paused briefly, as if confirming to himself that I was joining in with him, and then got back to business as we both enjoyed pleasuring ourselves.

I wondered what the other guys, if any were still awake, were thinking now. That this was a bit of an unconventional father-son moment? How similar our techniques were in silhouette against the dim white wall behind us?

I don’t know what my dad was thinking about when he climaxed, but I clearly remember my own thoughts. I was imagining the two of us, my dad and me, sitting side-by-side on my bunk wanking our separate cocks and occasionally smiling at each other. In front of us were the four guys in the room, naked, with their backs to us and their arses firm and round. Sometimes they’d bend over to put things in their rucksacks, and their cheeks would open with their holes looking pink and shiny inside. Dad and I were watching them, enjoying noticing each man’s differences and similarities with the others, masturbating our cocks quickly and panting gently.

Occasionally my fantasies would run away with me, and I’d be unable to stop myself imagining my dad striding over and driving his cock into the arsehole of one of the men. I didn’t want to think about that – I didn’t want find myself getting aroused by that idea. So I’d stop that one in its tracks even though, right then on that first night, I was certain that it was something he had already done.

And sometimes my thoughts would veer off in the direction of me penetrating one of the men’s bums. My dad staring at me, smiling and nodding encouragingly. But, again, I cut that one short; the idea of me actually having sex with a guy’s arse was a road I wasn’t ready to go down right now.

So I orgasmed with the thought of me and my dad sitting alongside one another masturbating, both getting aroused by the sight of four men’s arses and the excitement of seeing their bumcheeks part as they bent forwards.

As my climax subsided and my cock stopped spurting semen over my chest, I realised that my dad had already come. The smell of us both was thick in the air; his juice smelled almost identical to mine and served only to intensify my already cloying odour.

While I lay there recovering my breath and felt my chest grow cold from the pools of semen splattered across it, dad climbed down from his bunk and fumbled in his rucksack. Another man coughed lightly, clearly wide awake: one person, at least, had witnessed our joint pleasure.

Then dad threw me one of his teeshirts to clean myself off. He climbed back up to his bunk with, I presume, his discarded briefs to wipe himself down.

Within minutes he was snoring, leaving me to worry about what the hell we’d just done.

Next morning he woke me with a poke and a grin. “Sweet dreams, Ol?”

Before I could croak a response he said, “When I was your age, I’d have wanted to stay in bed until everyone else was up… at least give all the other guys time to get dressed…”

I nodded, smiling slightly, and he grinned broadly at me.

Then he said, “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m going for a shower…”

And I chuckled, appreciating the verbal thumbs-up he’d just given me.

Clearly, my understanding of him had been right: he did enjoy the sight of other guys’ arses and he’d done so since he’d been at least my age.

Perhaps there really was something in the idea of a Jennings gene.

I don’t know which of the other men in the room had heard dad and I wanking the previous evening: I watched them all get ready with more than my usual interest, but none of them did so much as throw me an unusual glance. Maybe whoever it had been just assumed he’d had a surreal dream!

In the months afterward, dad and I never spoke again, directly or indirectly, of what had happened that night nor of our shared interest in guys’ arses. For me there was no need to: the anxiety that I might be the only person to feel attracted to girls but to fantasize about other guys’ arses had been lifted from me. There seemed to be no reason to compromise my relationship with my dad by bringing each other’s clandestine fantasies out into the open.

So I got on with dating girls, working my way to third and then fourth base, all the while having a recurrent idea presenting itself to me. It started out as an occasional, intermittent fantasy but it grew by the following summer into an almost overwhelming obsession. It got to the point at which every time I found myself looking at a guy’s arse – whether clothed, in underwear or naked – I began wondering what it might be like to push my cock into it.

My mate Harry would bend over during a Chemistry practical, picking up a dropped pair of tongs, and his arse – round and tight in his trousers – would be level with my crotch. Right away I’d be mentally fucking him, sliding my cock in out of his arse, and the two of us would be gasping and writhing, oblivious to the liquid boiling over from the beaker on our workbench. Or my mate Jonathon and I would be getting dressed after sport and he’d bend over in his underwear to pull on a sock. His bumcheeks would open a little, prizing apart the white cotton of his briefs, and straight away I’d be in there: yanking down his underpants, pushing his vest up to his shoulders and slamming my cock into his eager arsehole. We’d be fucking like animals right there in the changing room outside of the coach’s office.

I coped with this developing fixation in a way you might find rather vulgar. Anyone who went to a school like mine knows how bad the boys’ toilets can smell, especially at the end of the day. To put it crudely, you walk in and the smell of other lads’ shit overwhelms you.

Well, I guess it was that stench that helped me keep thoughts of me fucking other guys at bay (by now my mates were making jokes about lads fucking other lads; no-one of my age said ‘bumming’ any more). I’d say to myself, “That’s what guys’ arses smell like, Ollie… do you really find that attractive?” And the memory of that base, enveloping stench would drive all arousal away. The bulge in my school trousers or the rod in the front of my briefs would quickly wither away. Within a matter of seconds, I’d feel like my thoughts were my own again!

But then came Kai and Franziskus.

 

Part 3

Charlie and I were staying at Hayle and ended up sharing a room with Kai and Franziskus about six months after the incident with my dad. They were a couple of pretty rough-and-ready German lads with deep guttural voices and strong unaffected laughs. Unlike us, they weren’t at Hayle for the rugby – they confessed to knowing very little about the game – they were just passing through the town on a whistle-stop tour of England.

That evening before we all turned in, Charlie and I had a few pints of Cornish ale with them in the hostel bar. The conversation was lively and humourous, but a few comments they made struck me as a little odd.

First, Kai asked about which towns in the South West had good clubs. Nothing strange in that, but when Charlie asked what kind of stuff they were looking for – good DJs or live music, for example – Kai smiled and said, “Just places where guys in couples like us can hang out, you know?”

Charlie took that to mean groups of mates looking to pull. He suggested a couple of places in Exeter.

Franziskus asked if there we’d ever seen any “action” in any of the hostels we’d stayed in and which ones were best. This time Charlie looked confused so I shrugged and answered that generally things were pretty dull. They looked disappointed and the conversation moved on.

Then, just before we went up to bed, Kai made a joke about inviting the barman up with us and Franziskus pretended he was offended. My German isn’t too good but I’m sure Kai said something like, “Hey, you know I don’t mean it,” and Franziskus laughed and replied, “No – I meant he was already mine!”

I shared my observations with Charlie as we were undressing in the bedroom after the German lads had gone off to shower. Charlie dismissed my suspicions as conjecture and mistranslation. “Their English isn’t perfect,” he insisted. “And your German’s not exactly fluent… it’s not exactly a water-tight case…”

“Hey, I’m not wanting to put them on trial, mate. All I’m saying is that it’s kind of weird finding two guys so straight-acting turning out to be gay, that’s all…”

“But we don’t know that they are. And if they are… well, you know… who gives a fuck?”

I smiled, picked up my toothpaste and towel and went off to the bathroom.

To my surprise, Kai and Franziskus were showering together in there. I don’t just mean they were chatting while one of them showered and the other was waiting outside the cubicle: I mean they were in the shower together. There didn’t seem to be anything sexual in it – they were just messing around together, squirting water at each other and laughing in that loud natural way that they had – but it wasn’t the sort of thing straight guys, even very close straight guys, do together.

Maybe it was a German thing.

I smiled over at them and they said a couple of things in German together that I didn’t understand.

As I started brushing my teeth, Kai called over, “We won’t be long… if you two guys want to get in here…”

I looked towards him and saw that he was gesturing at the shower while blatantly checking out the package inside my boxers. I smiled again and shook my head. “You’re okay… take as long as you like…”

Then Franziskus joked, “Actually, there’s room for the four of us, if we all squeeze up together…” and Kai burst out laughing.

It now seemed pretty obvious that they were gay and that they assumed Charlie and I were too. I smiled and waited for their laughter to die down so I could point out that Charlie and I are so close because we’re brothers rather than lovers. But by the time it had I’d decided against that – it might make them embarrassed and self-conscious to have been so openly affectionate together in front of me. So I just said, “We’re pretty tired… it’s been a long day…”

Kai nodded and then Franziskus, standing behind him, goosed him and the two of them laughed explosively.

While I got in with brushing my teeth, I glanced at them through them mirror, recalling to myself the time I’d peered over at Martin in this same bathroom five or six years earlier.

I was fascinated, just as I always was, by their arses, but this time my interest was heightened by the fact I was almost certain they were gay. For the first time I was looking at arses that I were very likely to have been fucked. Maybe not both of them, but more probably Franziskus’s – he seemed to be the less forthright and assertive of the two of them and so would be the one, I assumed, who’d be more likely to receive the other guy’s cock during gay sex.

Every time Franziskus turned his arse towards me, I imagined Kai’s cock sliding into it right there as the two of them showered together. Franziskus’s cheeks were firm and round and it was easy to envisage Kai’s engorged organ pushing its way between them as Franziskus bent forwards to receive him. I could almost see Kai’s own muscular arse flexing as he pushed his cock into his friend’s; could almost hear the them whispering of their fondness for each other in German as they did so.

I realised that my own cock was starting to develop, in contrast to theirs which remained surprisingly unaffected by the fun they were having together, and I tried conjure up the stench of the school toilets. It seemed to be having some effect, although admittedly a much smaller one than usual, but then I glanced back into the mirror and saw Franziskus bending over to pick up the soap, giving me a pretty candid view of his puckered pink hole. My cock lurched upwards inside my boxers and there was no alternative but to quickly rinse my mouth and get out of there.

As I was leaving the bathroom, Kai called over to me, “Hey, Oliver… if you guys are so tired and we’re keeping you awake, let us know…”

I wasn’t sure what he was he was talking about but I smiled and nodded.

Franziskus added, “We’ll try to be quiet, but it’s been two weeks since we could be together in a bed…”

I grinned, “Oh, right… yeah, no problem…”

And I got the hell out of their before my boxers burst open in my excitement.

I couldn’t believe it – this was really it! I was finally going to get to see the thing I’d been obsessing about for nearly a year!

As I headed back to the bedroom, my mind was racing as to how I could stop Charlie saying anything to them when he visited to the bathroom which might let them know the two of us were brothers and would scupper the whole thing. They had to keep thinking we were a couple, otherwise my plans would be fucked. And Franziskus wouldn’t be…

But Charlie was already asleep. He’d obviously lay down on his bed in his briefs while he was waiting for me to return and had nodded off. I gently rolled him over and got him under the duvet. I didn’t even glance at his arse: right then, just like dad-butts, brother-butts were out-of-bounds.

Then I switched off the light, opened the curtain slightly to allow a little of the white glow from the streetlamp into the room, and got into my own bed.

Kai and Franziskus took ages to reappear. By the time they did, I was starting to worry that they’d had second thoughts and had decided to lock the bathroom door and have sex together behind it.

But after fifteen minutes they emerged into the bedroom with their towels around them, dropped them to the floor as soon as the door was locked and embraced in a deep and passionate kiss right in the middle of the room.

Then they climbed onto Kai’s bed and hugged each other’s naked bodies, whispering and chuckling between long, tender kisses.

Although my cock was raging at the anticipation of what was to come, I must admit that I felt a little uncomfortable watching them engage in what should have been a private moment. I felt guilty to be witnessing them whispering their affections to one another, caressing each other’s bodies and masturbating each other’s cocks. This was their moment; not mine. I guess it’s odd that I felt like that, since I’d long-since had no reservations about spying on other men’s bums and peering at their most private spots as they bent down, but I did. Maybe it was the fact I wouldn’t have minded if some guy was getting off by checking out my arse, but I’d have been really pissed off someone was watching me making out with a girl.

There was a lot of cock rubbing between them, then they took turns sucking each other, and I saw it all pretty clearly thanks to the pale light coming in from the street outside. It didn’t really turn me on, I must say, but it didn’t repulse me either. It was curious to see two such well-built, apparently straight guys being sexual together right in front of me and a little odd to watch them being so tender and loving with one another’s bodies. But at the same time it was good to know that guys could be like together, that we didn’t always have to fight and compete with one another, and that sex between two men was as passionate and varied as the sex I was more familiar with.

When Kai got off the bed and fumbled around in his rucksack, my cock strained painfully in my hand at the realisation he was looking for a condom. It was oozing precum as it never had before; it felt like it was longer and thicker than it had ever been.

As he climbed back onto the bed and the two of them laughed at something Kai said, I was almost panting in anxious expectation.

The next minute or so was a little confused: their dimly-lit bodies scrabbled around as they squirted lube on cocks and into holes and adopted their preferred positions. It took me a that long to realise that it was Kai who was bending forwards on the bed, his face staring forward at the headboard, and Franziskus who was wearing the condom on his thick, arching cock behind him.

It took a couple of minutes for Franziskus to enter Kai: he’d push forwards but Kai would grunt and mutter something in German, and then Franziskus would withdraw, wait a few seconds and then try again. Perhaps this was the less usual position for them to be in; perhaps Kai was, as I’d surmised in the bathroom, more comfortable at being the dominant partner.

I wanted to be over there with them – to be kneeling next to their bed and watching Franziskus’s large cock try to work its way into Kai – but I knew that I was so excited that I’d probably climax at the sight of it before I was even halfway across the room.

Kai let out a small fart and Franziskus laughed. Kai chuckled too and said something in German like, “Why do you have to be so big? You make it so difficult…” And Franziskus laughed again.

I took my hand away from my aching cock: I knew I would come right now, without even playing with it, if I kept holding it. Even the sensation of my duvet touching the swollen, throbbing tip of it made me wince in almost uncontrollable pleasure so I had to hold the underside of the bedding high above its engorged stem, feeling the tip gently oozing precum onto my belly in a continuous dribbling stream.

When Franziskus had managed to penetrate Kai, they began fucking in earnest. Franziskus’s thrusts started off slow and gentle, but, at the encouragement of Kai who very quickly began to enjoy the attention his arse was receiving, Franziskus’s rhythm increased until the two of them were panting and gasping and the bed-frame thumped against the wall.

I just lay there, as though hypnotised: my eyes wide and staring and my heart thumping in my chest. My cock throbbed above my belly, untouched, but I was unable to stop my hips from gently bucking as though I were imagining myself in Franziskus’s place.

Franziskus was making long, rapid thrusts in and out of Kai’s arse. Every time he withdrew I could see his cock, slick and wet, emerge from his friend’s round cheeks only to be pushed back in with a guttural grunt from its owner. He grabbed onto Kai’s hips, holding the other man firmly in place, slamming his cock home harder and faster with every thrust he made.

I was unable to stall my orgasm any longer and it overwhelmed me right then. I could feel it building inside me but I found it impossible, no matter what repellent images I tried to summon, to quell. It rose to overtake me and all I could do was lie there and accept it: to try and stop myself from gasping as I felt my cock, still hanging untouched above my belly, squirting jets of hot semen against my teeshirt and skin.

After my cock had spent itself, I lay stunned and slightly bewildered by the intensity of my excitement and the force of my climax. I was dimly aware that Franziskus’s rhythm was reaching a crescendo but drowsiness was rapidly washing over me. My chest was sodden with my cum but, since I was unable to clean myself up, I gave up to my sudden exhaustion and closed my eyes. The last thing I heard was Kai begin to gasp as he reached his own point of no return.

I was awoken early the next morning by the familiar sensation of guilt gnawing at me like a rat.

Why had I been so excited by the anticipation of watching the two of them having sex? Why had I climaxed so forcefully when I saw Franziskus fucking Kai? Why had I been powerless to think of something to repulse me like I usually did?

I lay in bed, unable to get back to sleep, wondering how things could have gone so far without me being able to stop them. The room grew lighter, Charlie started becoming unsettled as he began to wake up, and the sounds of cars outside became more regular.

I kept thinking of that toilet stench; the smell of the school loos. That’s what guys’ arses smelled like, didn’t they? That what having sex with another guy meant having to push your cock into, didn’t it?

This time the faithful and trusted weapon hadn’t worked. The trigger seemed to have jammed or something. There’d been no stench when Franziskus had fucked Kai; there hadn’t even been a whiff of anything unpleasant.

Maybe I’d been wrong; maybe gay sex actually wasn’t that unpleasant. Maybe it was actually pretty good –

I cut that train of thought off before it could get a hold on me.

At that moment Charlie groaned as he stretched and then stumbled out of bed.

I looked over at the beds on the opposite wall; Kai and Franziskus’s beds. It seemed that, after having sex, Franziskus had gone over to sleep in his own bed. Kai was alone, sprawled out, in his own.

I saw Charlie glance over at me out of the corner of my eye and I pretended I was still sleeping. He pulled a couple of things out of his bag and headed off to the bathroom.

The noise of Charlie getting up must have awoken Franziskus because he coughed a little and then climbed out of his bed. He walked over to Kai and shook him. Kai groaned and tried to turn over away from him. Franziskus chuckled and pulled away his duvet, saying something I couldn’t understand. Kai groaned more loudly, protesting at his sudden involuntary nudity, and croaked, “Please,” in German.

Then Franziskus picked up his things and went out of the room. Like Charlie, he threw me a glance but I maintained the pretence that I was soundly asleep.

Kai groaned again and turned over onto his stomach, clearly hoping to sleep on a little longer despite the lack of duvet, and his naked arse pointed invitingly upwards.

I peered over at it, fascinated by the knowledge that here was a freshly-fucked arse in all its glory, just a few feet away from me. Despite its exertions on the previous evening, my cock began to stiffen rapidly again at the prospect of getting a better look at it.

I got out of bed as quietly as I could, feeling my teeshirt snagging my skin where my dried cum was sticking the two together. After yanking my boxer shorts back up to cover my cock, I crept over to the bedroom door, which was half ajar, and listened to Charlie chatting with Franziskus in the bathroom along the corridor. They were far enough away for me to get a few seconds warning if one of them were to walk back towards the bedroom.

I pushed the door almost fully closed and walked over to Kai, trying hard to spread my weight so as not to make the floorboards creak.

He was breathing slowly and deeply, clearly soundly asleep again.

His arse looked even better up close: the cheeks were round and muscular and had parted just enough to reveal a little of his dark, slightly hairy crack. The lower half of that betrayed evidence of Franziskus’s exertions on the previous evening: slick trails of dried lube were sticking the wiry hairs to his skin in clumps; a few faint pale brown streaks stained his skin around the area of his arsehole.

I thought, “Jesus – this is well and truly freshly-fucked!”

My own cock rose up to full size as if hoping to follow its predecessor in.

Underneath his arse, between the backs of his parted thighs, Kai’s large balls looked heavy and swollen inside his loose scrotum.

I thought, “It’s not exactly going to be easy to convince myself I was imagining Kai to be a girl if there’s a guilty aftermath to this… not with a pair of nads like those swinging around between his legs…”

But I drove on just the same.

I bent over Kai, leaning down towards him and bringing my face up close to his arse. I think he must have felt my breath against his cheeks because he moaned and readjusted his position slightly, pushing his hips further upward so that his arse was closer to my face.

Horrified, I looked up towards his head which was turned sideways on his pillow, but found that his eyes were still closed and his breathing hadn’t altered.

Figuring that his movement must have been subconscious – he was, after all, a guy who seemed to enjoy having his arse receive a little attention – I turned back toward the part of him that fascinated me.

His full, firm cheeks were just inches from my face, spread open a little further now, and between them I could see his swollen red arsehole through the tangle of hair. I imagined Franziskus’s impressive cock sliding into the loose and puckered hole, as it had been last night, and felt my cock ooze a dribble of precum onto the material of my boxers at the prospect.

I was beginning to sweat.

Part of me was saying, “I can’t believe you’re doing this, Ollie… I can’t believe you’ve got your face right up against another guy’s arse. What about the smell? What about the school toilets?”

But another part replied that this wasn’t anything like that. This had nothing to do with that.

I pressed my face downward so that it was just an inch or so from Kai’s arse, my nostrils right above the sore-looking hole between his cheeks. Tentatively, I inhaled.

The smell was quite amazing: I wasn’t even remotely disgusted as I’d half expected – perhaps hoped – I would be. On the contrary, it was incredibly arousing; intensely inviting. I immediately wanted more.

I pressed my face a little closer, almost touching Kai’s strong cheeks with my nose. The smell absorbed me; consumed me. It was powerful and masculine: raw and potent. There was, as you would expect, a strong and undeniably anal component, but it also had musky and sexual undertones to it. The combination of the two was unexpectedly attractive and made the intermittent dribbles from my cock develop into a constant, weeping stream.

There was a faint after-scent of the rubber of the condom that had fucked him and hints of the lube and, perhaps, of Franziskus’s semen that had been splattered around his hole; but these paled into insignificance against the intense and uncompromising smell of Kai himself. It was thick and cloying while at the same time being sharp and sweaty: I felt my mouth watering and heart beginning to pound.

I stuck my nose between his cheeks, expecting Kai to wake up at my intrusion but unable to stop myself. I was starting to pant against his hole: wanting to savour the rare moment I was experiencing but too overwhelmed by my pleasure to be able to protract things.

I gulped in mouthfuls of the strong, pungeant air inside his cleft and then – without even thinking about it – pushed my dribbling tongue against the hot, swollen ring of his arsehole. I began lapping at it, licking around it, tasting Kai’s most intimate taste as I gasped for breath.

Kai moved a little, rolling slightly on his mattress, and I was brought to my senses. I pulled out, still panting, and saw that he still appeared to be asleep.

Charlie called out something down the corridor, making a joke with Franziskus, and – while I desperately wanted to push my face back to Kai’s arse and penetrate him fully with my tongue – I realised I had little time.

I released my cock from my precum-soaked boxers and masturbated quickly, staring at the wet patch I’d made around Kai’s arsehole and relishing the fading traces of his thick, manly scent in my mouth and nose.

I orgasmed after just half a dozen rapid yanks at it, gasping, “Shit, oh shit,” as the white spurts started to shoot from the tip of it. I had to quickly hitch the front of my boxers back up to catch as much semen as I could inside them.

Charlie walked back into the room almost immediately and I was unable to conceal the wet front of my boxers before he saw them.

He laughed, “Wet dream, Ollie…?”

I blushed. “Well…”

Kai called over, “Hey, looks like I had one too…”

He stood up from his bed, looking almost proud of the thick strings of cum which were hanging from his erect cock. A pool of white cum made a large wet patch on his mattress where he’d been lying.

Charlie looked a little confused but Kai just chuckled. “Must be something in that Cornish ale we both had…” He looked over at me, grinning at my scarlet face, and added, “… or maybe it’s just the affect of English hospitality…”

Charlie looked at me, clearly not understanding what was going on, and I managed to turn an even deeper shade of beetroot as I grabbed my shower gel, shampoo and towel.

Needless to say, after that morning, the school toilets routine didn’t work any more. I knew the smell of anal sex now, and I knew how much I liked it. For the next couple of months the mere thought of Kai’s arse was enough to get my cock twitching, no matter where I was, and the memory of the scent and taste of it proved to be a familiar friend during many masturbatory sessions.

And over the following couple of years, my interest in other guys’ arses became far more hands-on: just looking at them was simply not enough. I’d grab my mates discarded underwear while they were showering after a rugby game and take a few short sharp snorts from around the arsehole of them. I would inhale as much as I needed to get the unique smell of the owner’s backside in my memory, but not enough to make me hard. Three or four strong sniffs were usually enough. Then I’d carefully replace them and pile into the showers with the rest of them, content in the knowledge that I’d have something new to fantasize about later that evening.

I began taking a few liberties when my mates, usually drunk and insensible, stayed over with me. Stripping their shirts and jeans off became an act of gradually building tension and arousal rather than being a hurried chore, and the icing on the cake became that wonderful moment when they started snoring and I could turn them gently over and get to work exploring their widely varying arses with my nose and my tongue.

It took a couple of years for me to take that final, momentous step, though. And it seems very appropriate that it happened where it all began; in one of the shower rooms at Hayle Youth Hostel.

I was now at University and trips down to Hayle had kind of died a death, the way things do when you leave home. Apart from anything else, I was on the University rugby team and watching other amateur teams compete didn’t have the appeal it once did. My dad kept going down to see matches and Charlie would often accompany him as I once had, but I usually had other things planned.

Except that one, last, weekend.

 

Part 4

I was down at Hayle to watch a match involving a team from Southampton University. That year was an important one for my own team and Southampton was one of the teams that stood between us and a place in the national rugby league – we were due to play them in a fortnight. So I’d offered to go down to Hayle on a kind of scout mission. Just to get a feel for how the lads played and where their weaknesses might be.

And to check out what had been happening to the quality of the backsides in the Youth Hostel during my absence, of course.

Well – I learned a lot on both fronts!

I won’t bore you with the details of the rugby – suffice to say that Southampton had a weakness in their defence which we exploited to extraordinary success a fortnight later – as the stuff that happened in the Youth Hostel proved to be far more memorable. At least from a personal point of view.

I met a guy called Steven who was playing for the home team but who lived in Falmouth (hence him having to stay at the Youth Hostel the night before important matches). We chatted for a while as we put our bags in the room and speculated, like people who stay in hostels often do as a way of making small-talk, what the other two men who were sharing the room with might by like from the baggage they’d left on their beds.

I told Steven I was down at Hayle on my own for the rugby match and he suggested I tag along with him and his mates from the team when they went out into the town that night.

In the absence of anything else to do, I agreed.

It turned out to be a fairly standard rugby-lads-go-out-on-a-pissup night with the usual scenes of grown men singing vulgar songs, vomiting into gutters and accusing each other of being gay. I don’t really mind evenings like that – I’m pretty used to them from my years of being interested in the game – and it was a lot more entertaining than watching the telly in the youth hostel bar, as I’d assumed I’d be doing.

I noticed that Steven seemed quieter than most of the others on his team and we’d often find ourselves sitting to one side of everyone else in the pubs we visited, chatting together. The others would be shouting crude innuendos over at girls and having drinking competitions, while Steven and I would be talking about the Star Trek series, which had turned out to be a shared interest.

At one point one of his team-mates, eager to get going from one pub to stagger on to the next, called over to us as we sat in the corner debating the pros and cons of Janeway versus Picard, “Come on, guys – we’re going! Stop being such a pair of bum boys!”

His facetious taunt would prove to be surprisingly accurate.

I don’t think anything would have happened between us, though, if the group of us hadn’t have got into a flippant, drunken discussion about the advantages of being gay. It started up in one of the last pubs we visited, when a guy called Adam made a joke that he’d rather snog one of his team-mates than snog the said team-mate’s girlfriend. We were all pretty pissed and being overly (and loudly) talkative and I guess the conversation just snowballed from there.

One guy said that it would be a hell of a lot easier to get a guy into bed than a girl and everyone smiled and nodded. Someone – maybe the team captain – muttered, “Gay guys have it fuckin’ easy… men are always up for it…”

And someone else went on, “Yeah… you wouldn’t have to take another bloke out… no wining him or dining him or all that crap…”

“Yeah – it’s just, ‘Fancy a shag?’ And off you go…”

After a lot of jokes and laughter about that, the conversation moved on to the topic of which part of a man’s anatomy might be preferable, in a sexual sense, to the female equivalent.

Most guys said the mouth, meaning that a guy was supposedly more interesting in conversation (assuming he was interested in rugby), or the brain, in terms of his seemingly more logical way of thinking.

But then one of the guys said, “I reckon it’d be easier to give a blow job than to lick a girl out…”

There was a mixed response and Steven put in, “Yeah – I’d find a cock a hell of a lot easier to find my way round than a pussy…”

There was laughter – a lot of it derisive – but Steven just grinned and nodded.

He added, “Come on, guys – we’ve all got one. We all know how easy it is… you don’t exactly need an instruction manual…”

Another guy agreed, “He’s right, actually. I mean, with a girl… one fuckin’ wrong move and you get your head bitten off…!”

Some of the group made jokes about the two of them getting together, but I interrupted by chipping in, “Actually – I think guys’ arses are nicer than girls’. I’m not gay and I’d never tell my girlfriend that – but I just think the shape’s nicer.”

A few guys smiled and other shook their heads but no-one responded too scornfully as I’d half-expected. I got the feeling they were being polite with me because they didn’t know me: if I’d been a regular I’d have been mercilessly ridiculed. To be honest, I’d kind of hoped they’d make a few jokes about it: I’d actually said it just to enjoy the response it would elicit from them, knowing full well I’d be unlikely to ever meet any of them again. But they just made a few polite responses – except Steven who grinned over at me – and the conversation moved on to whether any of us could intimately kiss another guy.

For the next couple of hours I regretted that I’d been so open about my interest in men’s arses. I’d never been so candid with anyone else and this was hardly the venue to open my heart about it. Walking back to the hostel with Steven, I was wondering what the hell had made me say it: what had seemed, in my drunken state, funny and controversial, could easily come back to haunt me. Who was to say that I would never meet any of these guys again: if my team was promoted I could find myself playing a match with them within the next couple of months. Taunts of “arse-lover” and “bum-boy” would be almost inevitable on the pitch, and my mates on my team would no doubt be asking why.

But none of that happened and, even if it had, Steven’s response to my comment would have made it all worth it.

It had started while he was showering and I was standing chatting to him, waiting to get in after him. Our bedroom was in the hostel’s attic and we were using the tiny bathroom adjoining it. It was well after midnight and the other guys in our room had returned while we’d been out and were sleeping when we’d got in.

Steven was talking about his girlfriend Katherine and how he was thinking of proposing to her that Christmas while the two of them were in Paris. I was making all the right responses back and thinking about how transient and insignificant his seriousness had made my own relationship seem. I’d never have proposed to my girlfriend back then; not in a million years.

I noticed that he spent a lot of his time with his back to me. At first I assumed that, like a lot of guys, he was self-conscious about other men looking at his cock, but he kept turning and looking over his shoulder at me as if wondering whether I was checking out his arse.

He kept chatting, turning towards me for a few seconds and flashing his thick dick at me, and then turning away from me and showing off his cute-looking backside. Every time he did so, he’d glance over his shoulder, as if just looking over at me while he was talking, but closely watching where my eyes were directed.

At first I kept them well away from arse, assuming that my comment in the pub had made him feel uncomfortable about being naked in front of me, but after it had happened several times, I tried making odd glances in that direction to see how he’d take it.

He didn’t get too freaked out – he still just carried on chatting about the ring he was planning to buy for her and where their wedding would take place – and so I allowed myself to stare at it, making my interest more obvious.

He kept looking at me, watching me staring at his rear and then looking back up to his face, all the while explaining his plans for the big day next summer.

From then he stopped turning around to face me; stopped flashing his cock at me.

I took the opportunity to really get a good look at his arse. It was really nice – most rugby players, in my experience, do have pretty good ones – and was round and squat with just a slight suggestion of light brown hair sprouting out from between his solid-looking buttocks.

I couldn’t help but begin to develop an erection. It began rising upwards and making a tent in the front of my boxers. Steven saw it but he just smiled slightly and kept his pert little arse turned towards me. He obviously couldn’t be that uncomfortable.

He asked, “What about you? Any wedding bells on the horizon?”

I shook my head. “Not just yet. There’s a girl at Uni but we’re not even a tenth as serious as you two are by the sounds of things. Maybe in a couple of years I’ll be ready for it…”

He stared at me blankly like he was only half-listening and began washing his arse. I looked over at it, marvelling at how he massaged soap suds up and down the length of his cleft and made swirls with his thumbs across his cheeks, and my cock grew into a distinct rod in the front of my shorts.

He looked down towards it – obviously noticing its progress – and his smile widened.

I went on, “I always wanted to be married by the time I was twenty, but now that I’m there it seems like the last thing I want to be doing. I guess I just like dating a girl for a while and then moving on. Maybe one day I’ll be ready to settle down, but not just yet…”

“You’ll know when you’ve met the right one… and when you do there’ll be no question in your mind about it being the right thing to do…”

He started washing around his arsehole, opening his cleft for me to see inside and then working his fingers into it.

Now I was captivated. I had to adjust my cock to allow to stand to full attention upright inside my boxers. It made a swollen thick mound inside them, pointing diagonally upwards. I made no excuses about it just as he was making no excuses about the fact he was virtually fingering himself in front of me.

We stood in silence for a few seconds; him washing his arsehole with slow, deliberate motions; me watching him intently with a throbbing cock that was starting to make a wet patch on my shorts.

Then he turned around to face me again and I saw that his cock was fully stiff and curving upwards in front of him.

He muttered, “D’you wanna have a bit of fun, mate?”

I was astonished but I managed to mutter, “Yeah… like what?”

He grinned, like I was being deliberately coy with him. He said slowly, as if he were explaining something to a child, “Like… do you want to fuck me?”

I was so simultaneously surprised and excited that I could hardly speak. “I dunno…” I laughed inexplicably. “Jesus!”

He laughed. “What’s up?”

“I just… well… I never did this before!”

He laughed more loudly. “Fuck off!”

“No – seriously.”

He smiled more warmly, his cock still curving upwards as the water from the shower sprayed down onto it. “Okay… sorry, mate. I just assumed – that stuff you said in the pub…”

“Yeah – but I’ve never actually done anything. Well not… you know… the full works!”

He laughed again. “Okay. Fair enough. But I’m asking if you want to…?”

I smiled. “Yeah… Jesus, yeah! If you do…”

“‘Course I do!” He gestured over to his Slazenger toiletries bag. “There’s a pack of johnnies in there, mate. Rubber yourself up…”

He squirted some of his shower gel onto his fingers and began working a little of it into this arse, still facing me. I couldn’t believe this was happening: I still thought, somehow, we were talking cross purposes.

Pulling out a condom and tearing the packet open, I asked, “D’you do this often, then?”

He shrugged. “From time to time. When I fancy it…”

I yanked down my boxers and my cock leapt upwards between my legs, bouncing around like a diving board.

I asked, “Who with?”

He chuckled. “Why d’you ask? It’s no big deal…”

“No – I know – it’s just… well… I figured with you having a girlfriend and stuff… a wedding on the way…”

He squirted a little more shower gel onto his fingers and the tube made a farting noise. I noticed his cock was beginning to droop a little.

He said, “Yeah – but that’s different. I love her. This is just a bit of fun, mate… just like havin’ a wank or something…”

What he said made a lot of sense of the things I’d been feeling over the previous years. Neither of us were gay: this was sex between two men simply for pleasure rather than as part of an emotional relationship. The way he put it made my interest in guys’ arses seem as ordinary and insignificant as my interest in Star Trek.

He chuckled again and went on, “It’s pretty natural to want a bit of variety from time to time… I mean, I prefer eating a burger but sometimes a kebab can taste pretty good… nothin’ wrong in that…”

I unfurled the condom down my now-aching cock. Everything he was saying was helping to put things into perspective for me; helping to cleanse away the last traces of guilt that had been haunting me. It was all very obvious, and no doubt I’d had thoughts like that myself many times over the preceding six years, but the fact that he, as another straight guy, was expressing it so plainly and nonchalantly made it seem so much more acceptable.

He looked at my face and I smiled.

He laughed. “Hey – it’s natural, mate! And I’m not the only one. I reckon half the guys on the team, half of those you met tonight, have done this. And probably a lot of your mates too…”

“Half of your team?”

“Yeah – I dunno for sure. I’ve only messed around with one of them – but I reckon, from stories I’ve heard, that five or six of them have played around together…”

I got into the shower with him and he turned his back to me. My cock was throbbing, feeling painful from being so hard.

I said, “I don’t think I’m gonna last long. I’m really fuckin’ close…”

“Don’t worry about it… if you cum quickly I’ll take it as a compliment!”

He bent forwards against the wall and stuck his arse outwards. The fact he was offering it to me for penetration – the first guy to do so – made me almost cum right there.

I gasped, “Oh Jesus!”

He laughed, “Try and actually get it in, mate…”

I tried to think of other things, tried to calm my breathing, but I found it so difficult.

I felt my climax well up again when I pushed the tip of my cock against his arsehole.

I grabbed his hips, muttering, “Christ… I am sooo… fuckin’… close…”

He laughed, “Looks like you need a bit of practice at this… maybe I should give you my phone number…”

I laughed back, wondering how serious he was. I said, “Yeah… that’d be a good idea…”

He didn’t say anything so I pushed my cock a little way into his arse. It swallowed first couple of inches eagerly like a warm, soft mouth. I could feel his anal ring gripping my stem tightly.

He gasped, “Aah… yeah!”

I pushed further in and he bent forwards a little more to take me. The deep interior of his arse felt hot and tight and I began to pant with the pleasure of finally feeling my cock reach a place I’d fantasized about for so long.

He whispered, “Fuck me, Ollie… come on!”

I just held my cock inside him, relishing the pleasure of feeling myself – at last – connected to another man through my favourite part of him. Finally feeling what it was like to ‘bum’ another guy, like my cousin Martin had teased me about all those years earlier.

I muttered, “I don’t know if I can… I’m gonna cum any second!”

He whispered, more urgently, “Well cum when you’re fucking me! Find out what it’s like…”

I gasped, “Yeah… okay…” And I began to work my cock slowly out of him, withdrawing it almost fully, and then pushing it home again. The waves of pleasure I felt as my cock slid back into his insides almost overwhelmed me.

I gripped his hips more firmly and did it again. And then again. Gradually I developed a slow, deliberate rhythm, gently working my cock in and out of Steven’s arse.

My mistake was to look down at what I was doing; until then I’d been facing the tiles on the wall in front of us and looking at his wet hair plastered to the back of his neck. I moved my eyes downward, across the broad sweep of his muscular back, to peer down at his arse. His cheeks were full and firm, looking ripe and round like a pair of peaches, and my cock was moving slowly in and out between them.

I realised my mistake too late as the pleasure overtook me and semen began shooting from my balls. I held onto his hips and felt the hot squirts filling the head of the condom deep inside him, aware that I was moaning like I was in pain.

It didn’t seem like it would ever stop: I thought the condom would burst inside his arse.

But eventually, as I came to my senses and heard him laughing as he still bent forwards against the tiles, it subsided and I managed to recover a little of my breath.

He was saying, “Christ – mate! Looks like you needed that!”

And I was unable to respond.

He stood up and pulled his arse away from me and my cock slid out of him with a loud slurp. I looked down at it and saw that, although it was still fully erect, the head drooped downwards with the weight of the liquid inside the condom.

He turned towards me and looked down at it too. The light brown streaks along the length of the condom didn’t seem to bother him; they didn’t really bother me either. He just laughed, “Wow – big fuckin’ load!”

I managed to mutter, “Fuckin’ hell – sorry it was so short!”

He laughed again, “I told you, mate – don’t worry about it!”

He pulled the condom off me, throwing it over to plop into the toilet, and asked, “Can I fuck you?”

I guess he saw the look of horror that crossed my face when I looked down at his cock and saw that it had recovered to full size. It really hadn’t occurred to me that he might want me to reciprocate. He slapped my shoulder, smiled and said, “Hey – it doesn’t matter…”

I looked at his face. “I just never did it before…”

He shrugged. “No worries. I’ll have a wank or something…”

As I showered and he was drying off, I asked him which of his team he’d “messed around with”.

He said, guardedly, “This goes no further…?”

“Of course…”

“That guy Adam. The one from over near St. Ives.”

I nodded.

He went on, “It started one afternoon after a practice match. We both hit the showers late and… well… one thing led to another…” He grinned.

I was surprised: Adam had seemed so straight. But then, so did Steven and so did I, but it hadn’t stopped us.

He added, “There’s this kind of sub-culture of guys having sex with other guys everywhere, once you start looking for it. It’s not really a gay thing – just sheer opportunism. When you’re tuned into it, Ollie… well…”

I looked over at him and he grinned broadly. I smiled back but felt guilty for the umpteenth time about the fact he was still erect and I was unable to help him out with it.

My period of ‘tuning in’, as he’d put it, took a long while and happened well beyond the confines of the youth hostel at Hayle. So I guess that’s where this story ends, but there was a long way to go and a hell of a lot more to learn. I had to do something, very quickly, that had never occurred to me: to take a look at my own arse and realise that a good number of other ostensibly straight guys might be as interested in that as I was in theirs; that I might have to start getting used to the idea of reciprocating if I was to take that wonderfully warm, soft plunge again.

But all that’s another story.

And it started off the next afternoon, after the rugby match, when Steven, muddy and sweating and grinning from ear-to-ear, walked up to me at the sidelines of the pitch and handed me a piece of paper with his phone number scrawled across it.

 

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