Butt Monkey
by Robert Furlong


Part 8: A Walk In The Park

Early the next morning I was standing staring at myself in the bathroom mirror wearing only my pyjama bottoms.  I looked like shit.  I’d hardly slept all night, my fitful dreams being such a surreal tangle of male imagery that I kept waking, wondering what the hell was happening to me.

In spite of how tired I felt, the irony of what I’d ended up doing in the changing rooms was not lost on me.  My attempt to convince myself that I really wasn’t interested in other men’s behinds had backfired badly, resulting in me behaving like a kid in a candy shop, almost running amuck in my lust to sniff strangers’ underpants.

I had acted disgracefully and I was ashamed of myself.

But more worrying than that was the image which had been in my head when I’d climaxed: the image of me having anal intercourse with another man.  Is this where my interest in men’s backsides had been leading?  To the point where I was fantasizing about fucking them?

I’d lain awake for hours the previous night, aroused and appalled in equal measure by the idea of buggering another man.  I hadn’t known whether to beat myself up or beat myself off and in the end I’d done both.  Repeatedly.

Now I looked dreadful.  My face was drawn and haggard and the dark circles under my eyes made me look ancient.  I had dried cum-stains around the fly of my pyjama bottoms and my cock was sore from the number of times I’d been wanking it.

I was a wreck.

I either desperately needed a woman in my life, or otherwise I desperately needed a man in my bed.  I couldn’t decide which.

As I was driving Jake to college even he commented on how rough I looked and normally he wouldn’t notice if I was on fire.

“Cheers, Jake,” I’d said in a gruff voice.  “You know how to set a guy up for the day.”

“I just mean that you look even worse than usual.”

“Gee, thanks.  You really should consider a career writing verses for greetings cards.”

He smiled.  “Sorry… it’s just… well, these days you always look like you haven’t had enough sleep.  And with you being so… you know… recently…”

“With me being so what?”

He looked over at me, a little uncomfortable.  “Well… horny…”

“Oh right,” I nodded, adding a blush of my own to join with his sense of embarrassment.  “My sex drive has been a bit through the roof lately.”

Jake was well aware that, as well as inheriting whatever gene I possessed for genital size, he had also been similarly endowed or cursed – whichever way you looked at it – in terms of his sex drive.

After he’d started masturbating, Jake had asked me the question which had so plagued me during my teens: how often is ‘normal’?  Having received so little guidance from my parents about the subject, other than a portentous warning that such things were a form of temptation, I wanted Jake to have a more balanced understanding of his male biology.

I was already aware that he, like me, needed a regular sexual release from the scattering of discarded tissues next to his bed and the instantly recognisable smell of semen in his room most mornings when I awoke him with a glass of orange juice.  So, in answering his question, I’d set the bar at about once a day but had made it clear that it was not unhealthy to exceed that as long as it didn’t start interfering with his other interests.

He’d asked, “So, like, some days it would be okay to do it three or four times?”

I’d smiled.  He certainly did take after me.  “Whatever is comfortable for you, Jake.”

He’d asked me how often I masturbated.

Keen to nurture a spirit of openness between us without offering any specific details, I’d told him that I had done it a lot during my teens but was less active these days.

“I think it comes with having large testicles, Jake,” I’d suggested to him.  “We both produce a lot of semen each day and it needs to be released.”

“So other guys do it less?” he’d asked.

I’d nodded.  “I’m not sure how often other guys masturbate – I’ve never actually asked anyone – but I don’t think everyone needs to do it as often as we do.  It’s called having a high sex drive and, while it’s fun to have regular orgasms, it can become a bit inconvenient needing to do it so often.”

Now, in the car, I apologised to Jake that I had, in spite of my best efforts to be discreet, been keeping him awake at night.

“You haven’t been,” he said, “well, apart from the other night.  But there are other signs.  I mean, the way you’re getting through boxes of tissues…”

I smiled.  “Yeah.  So much for saving the rainforests.”

“And,” he went on, “there’s a sort of spunky smell when you’ve… you know… done it…”

I felt my face blush a little.  In spite of the fact I knew, from my morning wake-ups, that having strong-smelling semen was yet another trait which Jake had inherited from me, my post-climax odour was something Linda had made me self-conscious about.  It was one of the reasons she’d cited for banning me from masturbating in bed.

“Anyway,” he said as we were pulling up at the front gates of his sixth form college.  “I just figured that was what was making you tired.”

I nodded.  “Maybe it is.  I guess my hormones are bit screwed up at the minute or something.”

If in doubt, blame the hormones.

Once I’d dropped Jake off and he’d disappeared into the crowds of teenagers congregating around the entrance to the main block, I decided that I couldn’t face going to work and that I’d take the day off as a sickie.

I phoned the local surgery to make an appointment to see my doctor later that week.  I knew him quite well and was confident that I could confide in him about at least some of what I was feeling.  Perhaps, as I had suggested to Jake, there was some physical explanation for what I was going through, or perhaps my symptoms were more common than I realised.

After making the appointment, I spent the rest of the morning in bed, exhausted, and then, following a long bath, went for a walk to try and clear my head.

I took a fairly familiar path through Welland Park and along the river, dodging the cyclists and joggers who had ventured out on what was a sunny but bitingly chilly autumn afternoon.  There were a few ducks on the water and I shivered at the thought of how icy cold their feet must be.

I kept mulling over the sexual imagery which had plagued me during the night.  It was as if a switch had been clicked in my head.  For some reason the idea of penetrating another man suddenly fascinated me and I couldn’t understand why.

How would it feel to push my cock into another man’s darkest, most unmentionable place?  Would my large organ fit into what seemed like such a tiny hole? Would our sex have that raunchy, anal smell which so excited me?  How would it sound as I slid in and out of him?  And if I climaxed inside him, how would it feel to have his innards become sloppy and sticky around my cock?

All these questions intrigued me and yet, until just hours ago, the concept had simply never appealed to me.

Perhaps I was being titillated by the unspoken taboo which still, in spite of our increasingly accepting society and talk of same-sex marriage, shrouded to a large extent the more uncouth details of penetrative sex between men.  Or perhaps it was an expression of some unconscious desire inside me to assert my masculinity at mid-life by sexually dominating another male.

I thought back to the only direct experience I’d had of seeing two men having sex.  It had happened many years ago – I’d been a student at a university party – and although I’d thought about what I’d seen from time to time since, it had never struck me as being an attractive sight.

It was the end of the party I’d been at with my girlfriend at the time – I can barely remember who she was – and I’d gone upstairs to find our coats in one of the bedrooms.  I’d opened a door and walked in on two young men, students I vaguely knew but not to talk to, fully clothed and writhing together on the bed.  They were lying on their sides, one guy behind the other, making weird squirming movements against each other.  They either didn’t hear me enter or were so absorbed with what they were doing that they seemed unaware of my presence.

I couldn’t immediately work out what was going on between them.  The guy behind was hugging the one in front as their bodies moved together, and both of them had pained expressions on their faces with their eyes half-closed.  It looked like were in some kind of weird wrestling hold and I wondered momentarily if I might have walked in on a practical joke for which I wasn’t the intended recipient.

Then I saw that the guy in front had his trousers pulled down slightly, exposing his cock, which was prominently aroused and had its scarlet head fully exposed, and the cheeks of his arse.  The guy behind had undone his belt and fly revealing occasional glimpses of the thick base of his cock protruding from his pubic hair as his hips moved back and forth against his partner’s buttocks.

As their strange contortions continued it dawned on me that I was watching the two young men having sex together.  And not just rubbing themselves against each other – they were having full-on anal intercourse – the guy behind actually had his cock inside the other man’s bum and was pushing it in and out!  I could hardly believe it: here it was – gay sex in all its glory, right in front of me!

At first I was mesmerised by what I was looking at.  The sight of a cock sliding back and forth between buttocks which were unmistakably male (they were a little bit hairy and had a squat, muscular shape) was absolutely fascinating and a marked contrast to the vaginal sex I was used to.  That such a large organ could enter an anus was also remarkable to me and I stared at it, absorbed by the thought of how deep it was pushing into the other man’s body.  Perhaps the guttural smell of their sex was of further intrigue, again in how different it was from the feminine aromas I was used to during my own lovemaking, but I don’t remember clearly enough to be sure of that.

I do remember feeling surprised – in my innocence, I suppose – that the slowly moving cock which I was so captivated by was, in spite of which orifice it was penetrating, largely clean.  Its swollen length was glistening with a sticky wetness, and in retrospect I now realise they must have brought some lube with them, but the liquid on it was undisputedly clear and certainly wasn’t the colour I’d expected.

And yet, as enthralled as I was by what they were doing, it didn’t seem to be much fun for either of them.  They just writhed together, their eyes narrowed and their mouths grimacing, one man pushing his rear back against the other man’s grinding hips.  Although joined together physically and both clearly aroused by what they were doing, they looked emotionally distant; enduring rather than enjoying their homosexual version of lovemaking.

So I’d quelled the interest I had in watching their sex, and quietly left them to suffer together in their private moment of intimacy.  I eased myself out of the door and went off to retrieve our coats from someone else’s bed.

Following my brief glimpse of the two students, I guess I had formed the absurd assumption that sex between men is always similarly passionless and mechanical.  It was utterly ridiculous, I now realised, to tarnish the entire spectrum of homosexual relations with the brush of one fumbling encounter between two inexperienced students at a party, and to assume that only heterosexual sex could have emotional intensity.

In any case, the thought came to me, there on the riverbank, that the two guys writhing around together on the bed had probably been stoned; so off their heads on some drug or other that they’d barely been able to hitch their trousers down enough for the one guy’s cock to find its way into the other’s backside, never mind show any enthusiasm towards what they were doing.  That would explain, I mused, why they had been completely oblivious to my presence as I’d stood watching them from the doorway.

I could now see that, had the guys on the bed been more animated together – perhaps had been rapaciously enjoying an ‘anal sixty-nine’ together like the one that had so aroused my attentions on the internet – the mental processes which I was now working through might have been triggered many years earlier.

On second thoughts I mused, as I walked along the overgrown river bank past the little fruit shop and the KFC on the corner, perhaps such a thing would have disgusted me back then.  The sight of two lads licking each other’s backsides would most likely have horrified me: I’d have simply had no conception as to how enthralling such an activity could be when it was conducted one male to another and would have been utterly appalled at what I was witnessing them doing to one another.

The likelihood was that I had needed to experience for myself the powerful allure of rimming. If it hadn’t been for the tantalising odour between Guy’s buttocks as he’d straddled me in the hotel; if I hadn’t been compelled to disregard every rational voice in my head and lean forward and inhale the thick, raunchy scents in the tangle of hair between his cheeks, I might never have even suspected that sex could have this extra dimension to it.

I crossed the bridge over the river then walked up through the town. The High Street wasn’t very busy and the air was crisp and fresh. I stopped for a coffee near the church and, in spite of the chill, I drank it outside on one of the tables and chairs they’d set out.

As I was drinking my coffee, I decided I would ask Debbie if she was ready for us to meet up.  We’d been e-mailing each other for a few weeks and it was clear that we got along pretty well.  I knew a nice pub in Kettering, about halfway between where we both lived, and we could have a meal there and a few drinks without it being too formal and uncomfortable.

I hoped that there would be an obvious attraction between us – not love at first sight, which I didn’t believe in, but at least a feeling that some sexual chemistry could develop between us.  I certainly liked the look of her from the photos she’d sent me, and she’d commented in one of her e-mails that I looked ‘cute’ which I’d taken as an intended compliment and tried not to feel patronised.

I wanted to feel an attraction towards a woman and to know that she was attracted to me.  I thought it would help me dispel – or at least control – the interest in other men which had taken such a hold of me.

I wanted to go back to innocently fantasizing about having sex with a woman when I masturbated instead of constantly having my thoughts drawn towards other men.  I could accept that I had an interest in rimming members of my own sex and, since yesterday, that I might even like to have anal sex with another man, but I wanted to be able to put it into some perspective.

I didn’t think it unhealthy that I’d discovered this fetish within myself – after all, there are far worse things to find oneself fantasizing about – but I wanted it to take a backseat to my more familiar heterosexual interests.

And I figured that meeting Debbie might help me achieve that.

Happy with my plan, I set off to walk back home through the park.

I hoped Debbie would find me attractive.  Linda had said some very cruel things about my body, and in particular my penis and my supposed inability to use it effectively, in the last, dark days of our marriage.  I’d known full well that she was speaking out of spite and that in better days we’d enjoyed a satisfying, if not exactly mind-blowing, sex life, but the jibes had nevertheless been hurtful and their memory was still sore.

During the few sexual experiences that I’d had with women since my divorce, I’d always been a little apologetic about my cock and balls – perhaps they really were so big that they looked, as Linda had put it, “deformed”.  None of the women I’d briefly dated had expressed any kind of dissatisfaction about my size or my performance, although one had found my aroused organ too thick to enter her fully.  Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was part of the reason I’d been so unsuccessful at maintaining a relationship.

I hoped that – if things developed far enough between – Debbie would like my genitals.  I liked it when a woman rubbed my cock as I kissed her and played with her breasts.  I liked to see her surprise at how much bigger I would grow as I hardened and thickened as she wanked me, and for her to start fingering herself as she did so.  My hand would nuzzle between her legs and take over from hers, our fingers working on each other with the same rhythm.  And then I’d replace my fingers with my cock and she’d cry out in pleasure from the feel of it thrusting inside her.

It felt good to be with a woman like that and I wanted it to happen again.

Finding myself needing a pee from the coffee I’d drunk in town, I made a stop at the park toilets.  It was getting dark and the small, cottage-like building looked ominous, but I was pretty desperate and so I walked into the gloomy doorway.

Two men were standing at the urinals, not pissing but just standing there facing ahead, and so I made my way into a cubicle.  The small stall was dimly lit from a small insect-filled ceiling light and I could see that the walls were smattered with graffiti.

Some of the space was taken up with a smattering of scrawled messages trying to orchestrate sexual encounters.  Among them I spotted one which read: “COCK FUN HERE SUNDAY!  LET’S OF AN ORGY!”

I almost flinched, shocked that someone would write such a thing: how could anyone make the rudimentary mistake of writing ‘of’ instead of ‘have’?

Most of the walls, though, were filled with crude cartoon-like drawings.  I searched among them for anything which might suggest that the sort of men who frequented these toilets were into rimming.  Aside from the multitude of caricatured sketches of cocks and balls, any drawings showing sexual activity between men were restricted to a handful of blow-jobs and a more generous helping of penetrative encounters in various positions.

I wondered if, perhaps, the act of rimming was held in too high esteem to have its erotic power debased and sullied in a place like this.

Then I happened to spot some guy’s claim to have given another man a ‘rim-job’ here.  As well as the recording fact he’d used his tongue on a stranger’s anus, for some reason he’d found it necessary to add the date and time.

Reading his scrawled admission, I decided that I didn’t like the term ‘rim-job’.  As I unzipped myself and fumbled my awkward girth out through my fly, I mused that the term belittled what was for me an intense and erotic way of connecting intimately with another man.  It made what could be a deeply meaningful act sound cheap and inconsequential.  It was the sort of term, I felt, which could only apply to a fumbled encounter in a public toilet – a blow-job round the front, a rim-job round the back, then cocks cleaned off with a tissue and both guys on their way.

Not my idea of a good time.

As I pissed into the toilet bowl and steam rose up from it in the cold air, I looked at a drawing of two men having anal sex above the cistern.  They were in what I thought of as the classic homosexual position: one man on all fours, the other kneeling behind him holding his partner’s hips while he buggered his arse.  The drawing was amateur and showed little discernible skill – subject matter aside, Jake could have drawn better when he was about four – but I found myself studying the guy who was doing the penetrating and wondering if I could do the same thing.

I was certainly attracted to the idea – the events of the previous day had proven that – but could I actually do it?

I’d never had anal sex with any woman I’d slept with.  I figured that since she had a hole which nature had designed for penetration, why settle for anything else?  In any case, the idea of buggering a woman didn’t turn me on at all.  I liked sex with a woman to be romantic and affectionate and the idea of involving her anus as a sexual organ didn’t sit right with me.  I didn’t think she would feel any pleasure from having me inside her back there and a mutual enjoyment of physical contact was, for me, was a vital part of lovemaking.

But anal sex with a man: that would be a wholly different prospect.  Unconstrained by my heterosexual ideal of sex as an act of love, a sexual act with a member of my own gender could be more expressive and uninhibited.  There’d be no kissing or caressing, no whispering of affections: I’d just use his arse like a masturbatory aid – grabbing his hips like the guy in the drawing to hold him steady while I pleasured myself.

I was well aware that, unlike women, men did experience pleasure from being anally penetrated.  Not just gay men, who probably in part enjoyed being physically connected to another man, but straight men could also become sexually excited from being entered from behind.  It was something to do with having a bundle of nerve endings behind the prostate gland and was the reason why it was not uncommon for men to find themselves showing customs officers rather more than they’d bargained for during body cavity searches.

I imagined myself as the guy mounting the other in the drawing, my cock sliding in and out of the other man’s backside and the two of us sweating and panting as we worked up a rhythm against each other.  We’d both be groaning in pleasure: me from the feel of his tight moist arsehole clamped around my thrusting cock and from the heady, raunchy smell of him being sodomised; him from the excitement of having such a large manhood inside him, stretching him open and driving in long, rapid strokes deep into his innards.

Of course I could do it.  And of course I would love it.

I finished pissing, and shook the last drops from my cock into the toilet bowl.

The door of the next cubicle banged closed and there was a fumbling of clothes and zips.  I hadn’t heard anyone come into the toilet block and so I figured it must be one of the guys who had been at the urinals.  Perhaps he’d found he couldn’t piss in front of the other man and so had retreated to the cubicle.

But then I heard whispering and realised that both men had gone into the cubicle.

I suddenly felt stupid for not having figured out instantly what the two of them had been doing standing side-by-side in silence at the urinal.  They were cruising for sex and now they’d hooked up together.

Intrigued, after zipping myself up I sat down on the toilet, wondering what might happen.  I noticed a hole about the diameter of a beer bottle had been carved out in the partition between the cubicles and tentatively peered through it.

In the gloom of the next stall, I saw that one of the men was sucking the other man’s cock.  Even in the near-darkness, I could see that the cock was large and impressive and curved upwards into the mouth of the bobbing head which was eagerly devouring it.  The coldness had certainly not affected his size!

I felt uncomfortably voyeuristic watching the men enjoying what should have been a private act and was about to get up and leave them to it, when the guy’s face suddenly pulled away from his friend’s cock and turned to face me through the hole.

Panicking at being seen, I ducked down out of view.  I had visions of him turning on me for spying on them, dragging me out of the cubicle and beating me up.

But instead I heard him whisper something.

I looked back through the hole at his face peering at me.  He was young-looking with stubble.  One of his front teeth was chipped.  He asked in a gruff whisper, “You wanna come in with us?”

I shook my head.  This was way too fast; way too soon.

I whispered, “Sorry… but… I’ve never done this before.”

He smiled like he’d heard that one a few thousand times before and then turned to his friend’s cock, still throbbing level with his face.  After stroking it a few times, still slick with his spit, he turned back to me and said, “What are you into?”

At first I had no idea how to respond.  What was I into?  But suddenly an idea flashed into my head.

I said, without foreseeing any serious prospect he would comply: “I want to see you rimming him.”

After what had happened in the library, I was anxious to watch what his reaction would be.  Part of me expected him to recoil in horror and order me out of the building, much like Silas the Chief Librarian had.

But he didn’t.  He just threw me a mischievous smile, as if to acknowledge I was rather less innocent than I tried to seem, and then asked, “That’s what you’re into?”

I nodded.  Well I was.

He smiled more broadly, as if what I was asking breached the normal rules of etiquette in such places, and then looked up, his mouth a wicked grin, at his friend.

I wondered if I may have been mistaken as to why references to rimming were so uncommon on the cubicle walls.  Perhaps, far from it being viewed with such deference that it was rarely performed between strangers in such places, it was instead scorned as the most base of sexual acts between men.  Contrary to being the queen of intimate contact, it was the whore.

The stubbled guy’s expression said it all: what I was asking was out of the ordinary and, however decadent he regarded my request, he was also amused and titillated by it.

He stood up and the two men’s erections pointed towards one another.  The guy with the stubble had a cock which was pretty average in length but the shaft was coursed with a labyrinth of prominent veins.  His friend’s cock looked much larger in comparison and its bulbous head was like a fat red helmet which glistened from a steady ooze of clear liquid.  I was starting to enjoy the wealth of different shapes and sizes of other men’s cocks.  Whereas once they had been of little interest to me, other than to make me uncomfortable by highlighting my own unusual endowment, now I was beginning to recognise that they were – especially in the erect state – quite fascinating.

The men whispered something together – perhaps checking matters of personal hygiene – and then the stubbled guy’s face reappeared at the hole, looking more serious.

He whispered, “Show us your knob!”

I wasn’t sure why he wanted me to expose myself to him but I supposed it was a reasonable request given what I was asking them to perform for me.

I stood up and undid my jeans.  Hitching the front of them down along with my boxer shorts, I revealed myself to him, feeling a few twangs of my usual self-consciousness.  My cock was still mostly flaccid and it looked smaller than usual in the coldness of the toilets – just five or six inches as it hung over my large and heavy balls.  I jerked the foreskin back and forth a couple of times, as if trying to arouse it, and then ducked back down to see his response.

He was grinning and gave me the thumbs up.  He obviously liked what he saw.

How bitterly ironic it would be if only other men found my cock attractive.

He turned and started eagerly sucking his friend’s cock again.  His technique was assured and confident and betrayed his obvious experience at servicing other men orally.  He swept his mouth up and down the other man’s large erection, making occasional slurping noises and glancing over at me to check that my eye was still watching them through the hole.

The other guy grabbed his head and started fucking his mouth with long, deliberate thrusts.  The stubbled guy enjoyed being used like this and made a moaning sound to express his approval.

While it was enjoyable to watch these two apparent strangers having oral sex in front of me, what they were doing wasn’t quite what I’d asked for.  I began to wonder if the definition of ‘rimming’ was somewhat broader than the internet had led me to believe.

I fondled my cock as I watched what looked like a highly proficient blowjob being performed.  It was only semi-erect and still felt a bit sore from the previous night.

The stubbled guy pulled away from the cock and started licking the other man’s balls.  They were large and hairy and I guessed they would smell quite sweaty.  The man being licked started masturbating his cock as his nuts were taken, one at a time, into his friend’s mouth.

Then the guy pushed his face underneath the other man’s nut-sack and started licking between his legs.

I could now see where this was headed.  He’d just been taking the scenic route.

The man being licked yanked his trousers and underwear further down so that he could open his legs wider.  He raised one leg, supporting himself on the toilet seat, and held his large scrotum out the way so that his friend had better access to what lay behind it.

Now my own cock started stiffening.  This was going to be good.

The stubbled guy pushed his face between the other man’s legs and started hungrily licking at the hairy cleft which was being presented to him.  I thought I saw him recoil a little – perhaps the other man was more whiffy than he’d expected – but he kept going, chafing his friend’s thighs with his stubble as he pushed his face further forwards.

I started masturbating, so excited to see another man doing what I had enjoyed so much; what I was sure I would soon enjoy again.

The stubbled guy pulled away from between the other man’s legs and looked through the hole at me again.

He grinned at me, anal hairs on his teeth, and said “Let’s see your knob again.”

I stood up and showed him the effect that what I’d witnessed had had on my cock.  It was much larger than when he’d first seen it, but still not fully erect.  I jerked it a few times for him, showing him my foreskin easing back and forth across the fat swollen head, and then knelt back down to look through the hole.

He smiled and showed his surprise at how large it had grown with a flick of his eyebrows.  “Nice!”

Then he pulled away from the hole again and gestured to the other guy to turn around.  He did so, exposing his pale but quite firm-looking buttocks to the stubbled guy’s face, and then bent forwards over the toilet.

My cock hardened and lengthened further in my hand as if to show its approval.

The stubbled guy grinned at me again and then turned back towards the arse in front of him.  He extended his tongue, glanced back towards me with another sly smirk, and then pushed it slowly into his friend’s hairy crack.  At first he licked tentatively between the cheeks, as if exploring the delicious tastes within, but then started jabbing his tongue more deliberately, right where his friend’s hole would be lurking.

I so desperately wanted to be in his place, but I was too afraid to go into their cubicle with them.

The guy being rimmed opened his legs wider, then squatted forwards and directed his cock downwards.  The stubbled guy reached down to lick the dribble of dangling goo from his cock-head and then swept his tongue slowly up the throbbing shaft, across his plump balls and up inside his arse-cleft, tasting the entire length of his crevice with relish.  He did it again, licking in a delicious line from the tip of the guy’s cock-head to the tufts of hair at the top of his buttocks, and then for a third time while I wanked my shaft to full size.

Jesus, this was hot!

Abruptly the man being rimmed grabbed his friend’s head and pushed his face into his arse-crack.  He ground the other man’s face between his cheeks, forcing his nose and mouth onto his anus.  The stubbled guy seemed to like that and fed enthusiastically on the hot, moist hole he was being pushed into.

It was so arousing to see them like this; I was beating my cock quite quickly by now.  It was like when Guy had grabbed my head while I was giving him a blow job so he could fuck my mouth with his cock; only here the guy was grabbing his friend’s head so that he could have his arsehole fucked by his tongue.

The guy held his friend’s head steady and moved his crack rapidly and roughly up and down against his face like he was wiping his arse against it.  The stubbled guy fed hungrily on the crack as it swept up and down his face, the shuddering of his right shoulder betraying how quickly he was beating at his own excitement as he did so.  I took my hand away from my own throbbing erection, fearing I was going to climax.  I’d never seen such fervent, animalistic rimming.  I hadn’t known such a thing was possible.

The guy being rimmed bent further forwards, grabbed the cheeks of his arse with both hands, opened his crack as wide as he could and thrust his backside back against the other guy’s face.   The stubbled guy clamped his mouth against his friend’s anus and I could tell from the way his cheeks were moving that he was sucking it as he licked it.

Maybe this was what was meant by giving a guy a ‘rim-job’.  Kind of like giving him a blow-job but you sucked at his arsehole rather than sucking his cock.  Now I decided I liked the term; my cock was aching and yearning to be wanked again as I watched the stubbled guy’s cheeks sucking with such passion at the hairy crack between the other man’s buttocks.

He drew back and I his tongue emerged extended from the other man’s arse.  Had he really had his tongue inside the other guy’s anus?  Had he been fucking him with it?

He turned back to me and smirked at me.  He stuck his tongue out, perhaps to show me that it was pierced or perhaps to flaunt the stray anal hairs on its tip.

He whispered, grinning again, “You wanna come in here?  You can rim me while I rim him.”

I was sorely tempted but too scared to agree.

What they were doing looked so intense and so powerfully erotic and yet what if we were caught having sex in so public a place… how would I explain the trouble I was in?

I shook my head.

The stubbled guy reached round to rub his own arse and whispered to me, “Have a whiff of what you’re missing…”

He stuck a couple of fingers through the hole and I sniffed the strong odour of his backside on them.  The rough, acrid smell had its usual effect on me, making my head spin and my cock throb, and I reached down to wank myself furiously.

I would go into the cubicle with them.  We’d stand in a row, three men lined up with our mouths on each other’s arses like a strange, contorting six-legged creature.  And we’d beat ourselves off in our collective excitement as our tongues fucked in and out of the hot sweaty holes in front of us.

He withdrew his fingers from the hole and whispered, “You can lick my arse while I fuck him.”

Oh my God – how fantastic would that be?

Involuntarily, I leapt up and, my feet wide apart on the dirty floor, making rapid sweeps up and down the length of my engorged cock with my whole hand in front of his peering eye.  My large, bulging testicles were sticking forwards from the top of my trousers, like two reddened peaches as my fist beat against them with every stroke.

The mental image of me crouching behind him, licking his sweaty arse, his hairy bollocks and even the thickly veined shaft of his cock as slid in and out of his friend’s slick anus was so arousing, so exciting, so –

I grunted as my cum shot forth and splattered across the cubicle wall in front of me.

I continued jerking my cock, releasing in thick ribbons the surprising amount of semen which had built up in my balls during the day.

I heard the guy in the next cubicle whisper, “Yeah!  Fucking go for it, dude!” as he enjoyed my display.

Even in the fervour of my climax I registered with amusement that I’d just been called ‘dude’.

When my nuts were spent and I’d fully milked the last gobs of ooze from my softening cock, I wiped myself with some of the coarse tissue that such places are too often stocked with.  Then I wiped down the copious splashes I’d made on the partition – I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to (is there a protocol about such things?) but it felt wrong for me to leave my mess splattered across the wall for someone else to find.

After I’d tucked myself away and zipped myself up, I glanced back through the hole to see what the men were now doing.

As I’d expected, the stubbled guy’s cock had now claimed the prize which his tongue had so profusely lubricated.  The men were fucking in earnest – getting down to the business they had no doubt intended before I had diverted them with my eccentric request.  The stubbled guy’s hips were ploughing his condom-clad cock back and forth and the arse in front of him was being pushed rhythmically back against it such was the other man’s eagerness to receive it.  Their hands were groping at each other – the stubbled guy massaging his lover’s stomach and wanking his throbbing erection; the man being fucked reaching back to pull the stubbled guy’s arse towards him as if wanting his cock to bore its way even deeper inside him.

They looked extremely erotic together in the gloom of the toilet stall, writhing against each other in their shared carnal pleasure.  I felt my own organ starting to harden again as I watched them cavort together, marvelling at how much passion and excitement they could derive from the simple sliding of a cock in and out of a backside.  They were panting and sweating, gasping and grunting, and their feet stumbled together beneath the partition, both men’s boots facing forwards.

I was tempted to stay and watch them, perhaps masturbate for a second time or even ask to join them so that I could take up the stubbled guy’s invitation to rim him while he buggered his friend.  It was hugely enticing to know that I could right here and right now experience again sexual intimacy with my own gender, and perhaps even coax one of the men into licking my own backside.  And yet, apart from my reluctance to do something so risky, I was aware that the time was getting late and Jake would be already be home from college.

As I left the toilet block and headed back home, I thought about what I had seen and how aroused it had made me feel.  I knew I wanted to rim another man – it was now a matter of ‘when’ rather than ‘if’ – but now I was starting to feel that I wanted to take it further and have anal intercourse with him.  I had to work out how I was going to engineer an encounter between me and the right man.  By that I wasn’t thinking of the proverbial ‘Mr Right’ – far from it.  I was thinking of someone who would want to have sex with me but who wouldn’t want any kind of relationship with me or commitment from me.  I didn’t want a gay lover but rather someone like Guy had proven to be – straight for the most part but who enjoyed having sex with other men with no strings attached.

But how do you go about finding someone like that?  Personal ads on the internet?  Graffiti in public toilets?

Perhaps a message to Guy through Jake might still be the easiest way.

I couldn’t help but wonder, however, if meeting Guy again would prove to be anticlimactic after so many hours reliving every minute detail of our brief tryst and so long spent fantasizing about what else might have happened between us.  I worried that, after such intense anticipation, a second get-together with him might bring with it all the disappointments of a bad movie sequel: one of those which followed a film which had been so enjoyable that it was impossible to foresee how comprehensively they could screw things up.

Would a follow-up encounter between us turn out to be a ‘Terminator 2’, or end up being more of a ‘Speed 2’?


When I got home and while tea was cooking, an e-mail from Debbie suggested that we meet up for a drink in a pub one evening.  As I’d just been about to suggest the same thing to her, I regarded the coincidence as a good omen.  She asked me to suggest somewhere convenient to both of us, so I recommended the pub in Kettering.

Her diary was quite full – far fuller than mine ever gets – and she didn’t have a free evening until the week after next.

I’d had too many disappointments from meeting people through the internet to consider our date, if one could call it that, too optimistically, but Debbie looked nice in her photo and sounded funny in her e-mails and so I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe there might be hope for the two of us.

After Jake had finished work for college and we were watching television, during one of the commercial breaks I mentioned to him that I was going to meet someone.

“Another one?” he asked wearily, as if Debbie was the latest in a very long succession of failed relationships.

I let it pass and went on, “Debbie sounds really nice.  She works in a vet’s surgery.”

I thought this might awaken a glimmer of interest in Jake as he was quite interested in animals, but he seemed too bored by the idea of his dad having a potential woman in his life to let any kind of reaction show.

I said, “Well, we’re having a meal together a week next Wednesday.”

He nodded, his face still concealing his opinions, if he had any.  “Cool.  I’ll go over to Dan’s.”

“What about your tea?”

He shrugged.  “His mum’ll cook something.”

It never ceased to amaze me how other lads’ mums could rustle up food at the drop of hat.  I needed months of warning if Jake was going to invite his friends home with him.

He looked up at me.  “Can you pick me from there?  When you and her are through.”

“When we’re ‘through’?” I laughed.  “You make it sound like it’s going to be just a single date.”

Jake didn’t seem to be in a mood for humour.  It seemed as if, for some reason, he’d formed an opinion against Debbie, or perhaps didn’t like the idea of me having a girlfriend, if it ever came to that.  It was strange for him to behave like this: he’d never previously expressed any kind of animosity towards any of the women I’d dated since his mum left.

I said, “I’m meeting her after work so it’ll be about nine-ish when I pick you up.  Not much later than that.”

He nodded, his expression still inscrutable.

I could see I was going to get nowhere with him if I tried to pursue this.

I love Jake to bits – he means everything to me and I should probably let him know that more often than I do – but sometimes he can be so bloody infuriating.


Next story: Medical History

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