by Robert Furlong
Part 11: Pantomime Cow
Jake mentioned over tea that the drama department at his college was looking for someone to help out with the Christmas pantomime. It was still early November but rehearsals were already underway.
“I didn’t think you were interested in drama, Jake.”
“I’m not actually in it,” he replied, through a mouthful of ravioli on toast. “I’m just drawing them a few cartoons for their programme.”
Jake had always been very skilled at drawing and had a remarkable talent for capturing expression and movement. For a while, I’d tried to persuade him to take up art as one of his subjects at school but my advice had, like so many of my attempts at paternal guidance, been casually disregarded.
“They’re asking for volunteers,” he went on, swallowing one mouthful of food and promptly shovelling in another so he could continue to talk through it. “They want a parent to take on one of the roles they can’t fill,”
“Come on… you know I’m rubbish at that kind of thing.”
“Oh, it’s nothing too difficult. They’re just looking for someone to be the back end of the cow.”
I smiled. “Oh right.”
“Mr Barrowman was going to do it but they need him backstage.” He gulped some of his juice and then announced, “Anyway, I said you wouldn’t do it.”
“Probably for the best,” I chuckled. “You know what I’m like… I’d end up falling off the stage or something.”
He chuckled. “Yeah. And you don’t want to have your face in another guy’s butt all night, do you?”
I looked over at him, startled. “Is that what it would involve?”
“Yeah, of course. And it gets so hot in the costume, you’d both have to strip down to your underwear. I told Mr Roberts you’d be too weirded-out to do it.”
“Well, I dunno, Jake…” I picked up some of the dirty dishes to take them to the sink. “I mean, if they’re desperate…”
He shook his head. “Seriously, dad, it’d gross you out. I’ve seen them during rehearsals… the costume is so cramped that the guy at the back has his nose stuck right in the other guy’s butt… and it gets so hot in the costume, they were both sweating like a couple of pigs by the end of the show…”
I turned to look at him, temporarily lost for words at the mental image he’d just painted.
Eventually, I managed, “But… you know… if they’re desperate….”
He shrugged. “Anyway, the guy at the front is Mr Purves. Do you really want to have your face in his backside for a whole night? I mean, what if he hadn’t wiped himself properly… ugh!”
“Well, no. No. Of course not.”
I knew Michael Purves from a couple of parents’ evenings; he’d taught Jake Physics since he’d joined the college. He was in his late twenties and played football in one of the amateur leagues. The thought of back-ending him in the cow costume was already making my cock harden and I turned to face the sink so that Jake couldn’t see the bulge that was starting to form in my work trousers.
I called over my shoulder to him, turning the hot tap onto the dishes, “I just would feel bad if it means the play can’t run without a volunteer…”
Jake didn’t seem too interested one way or the other. “Well, I’ll let Mr Roberts know. But I’ll say you want to be the front end…”
“No!” I was surprised at how urgent my voice suddenly sounded. Smiling in an attempt to appear more casual, I said, “Er… the back end will be fine, Jake… honestly…”
He threw me a quizzical look. “Yeah…?”
“Well… I mean,” I muttered, struggling to think of a good reason for preferring the rear end. “The guy at the front has to know where to go and what to do… I’d just have to follow him…”
He shrugged a ‘whatever’ gesture which made him look like his mother and then brought the rest of the dishes over to the sink.
Although I tried not to let Jake see how excited I was at the prospect of being the back end of his Physics teacher’s cow, my mind was racing through the possibilities which the position might present.
Of course, I would have to be very careful not to have too much contact with the teacher’s backside, but, as a once happily-married man, he probably wouldn’t suspect I was actually enjoying having my nose jammed between his buttocks. He’d probably be apologetic, repeatedly so, about the awkwardness of the situation.
I’d reminded Jake twice that evening to tell Mr Roberts that I was interested in being in the play before his expression told me that I was venturing into uncool territory.
Needless to say, I lay for a while in my bed that night pondering about what it would be like to have my face so close to another man’s backside for so long, speculating on how brave I would be with my nose and my tongue, wondering if the teacher might start enjoying my attentions like Guy had… and what would happen if he did?
I fondled myself through the fly of my pyjamas, feeling my cock starting to harden as it always did when my thoughts turned to other men’s backsides.
What if he, like me, was harbouring a secret yearning for the male rear? What if that had been the reason he’d volunteered to take on the role?
Once he’d recognised my interest in his arse – once he’d realised that I’d offered to spend the evening cooped up in the costume with him for reasons less respectable than a wish to support performance art – he’d likely respond by pushing himself back against me. Perhaps even pull the back of his underpants down to give his new-found friend better access.
Would I be brave enough to rim him on stage, hidden from view within our costume but nevertheless in front of an audience? I imagined myself inside the dark, stuffy confines, my face level with his pert, sweaty buttocks. His crack would be hot and ripe after a day of being cooped up in his trousers and underwear in the Physics lab; the tastes and odours around his tight, puckered anus ready and waiting for licking and sniffing.
Without a doubt I’d rim him! I’d have my tongue stuck so far up his arse that his eyes would be watering!
I gently eased my foreskin down the stiffening length of my cock with a couple of fingers and my thumb, and then slowly swept it back up again. Then I did it again, and again, becoming a little bit faster each time as what had started out as idle fondling gradually developed the rhythm and pace of masturbation.
It occurred to me that, if Michael Purves was into guys’ arses like I was, he might suggest that we swap places during the half time interval so he could do to me what I’d so enjoyed doing to him.
For the first time, I considered how it would feel to have another man rimming me. Would I enjoy it? I imagined the feel of another man’s nose sniffing my most private smells, the sensation of his tongue licking around my most intimate spot.
I wondered if I might be self-conscious. What if I was a bit smelly down there or hadn’t prepared myself as thoroughly as I should have? What if he was disgusted by me?
But I figured that if someone was into rimming, part of its attraction had to be towards experiencing the natural smells and tastes of the arse: that had certainly been what I’d found so exciting about Guy’s backside. So another guy would be just as likely to enjoy rimming me in the state he found me as I would him.
I imagined Purves behind me in the costume, pulling my underpants down and pushing his face between my buttocks. My cock swelled at the thought and I started masturbating it more quickly, my breathing quickening and a thin film of sweat forming on my forehead in the darkness.
I hitched my pyjama bottoms down so that I could work my free hand between my legs and, pushing underneath my large balls, extended a finger into my hot, hairy arse-crack. I drew circles around my moist ring, imagining it was Purves’s tongue, and felt my cock hardening to its full size as I jerked it as quietly as I could.
Grabbing his head, I’d grind my arse into his face, relishing the sensation of him tasting my hole and inhaling my sweaty, pungent odour. I imagined holding his head steady and sliding my arse up and down against his face, just like I’d seen the men in the park toilets doing. I’d feel his nose sweep up and down between my cheeks, and then bend forwards to open my crack to allow him to fully penetrate my hole with his tongue.
Suddenly I had an idea. Remembering how much I had enjoyed, to my horrified surprise, the sensation of Dr Courtney’s middle finger entering me during the prostate examination, I clicked my bedside light back on and found in my bedside drawer the tube of KY jelly I’d bought in a chemist’s shop. After squirting a generous gob of it onto my middle finger, I smeared the transparent goo up and down from tip to knuckle, the way I’d seen the doctor doing, and then clicked the light back off again.
I pressed my moistened finger back against my hole and marvelled at how smoothly and slickly it slid inside me. The sensation was exquisite: even better than I remembered it had been in the surgery now that I didn’t have the doctor’s beady eyes staring at me. I pushed deep up into my bowels and gasped at how pleasurable it felt. My cock throbbed and hardened in response, as if pleased that its little brother round the back was finally being invited into the party.
Taking up a gentle rhythm in and out of my anus, I imagined Purves pushing his tongue inside me smiled to think of him enjoying it so much he would push deeper and deeper, hungry for more. How wonderful it would be to feel him frantically wanking himself in his excitement as he fed so passionately on me. Emboldened by how good it felt, I began fingering myself more quickly and eventually worked up to the same rhythm as I was using to masturbate. I was amazed by how incredible just a single finger could feel as it slid quickly in out of my tight, slimy hole and how hard it made my cock throb to imagine it was another man’s tongue reaching up inside me.
I lay there marvelling and grinning with glee at the new sensation I was experiencing; pleasuring myself so delectably with two hands rather than one. This was masturbation cranked up to the max: the de-luxe form of the habit I had so enjoyed since boyhood. Why had nobody told me about this? Why had I never had the imagination to discover it for myself?
Increasing my rhythm, I began panting as I realised I was now getting pleasure from two places rather than one. I’d always enjoyed the waves of sensation which rubbing my cock would give me; now I was getting further stimulation – nearly double the fun – from my hot, tight backside which had all these years been hungry for me to feed it.
I gasped again in delight; God this felt so good!
My finger was making slurping noises as I thrust it in and out of myself and imagined it to be Purves’s mouth, sucking at my backside and giving me his own version of the rim-job I had seen in the park toilets. I opened my legs wider, both hands growing faster in their separate but co-ordinated roles. One expertly circling my cock in its long-established technique; the other less certain and still finding its way as it plunged in and out of my long-neglected hole.
A waft of air was expelled from beneath my duvet and I sniffed greedily at the novel kick my new technique was giving to my masturbatory odour. I’d always revelled in the sharp, biting smell of my cock when I wanked it; now it was joined by a stronger, and deliciously smuttier, smell from between my legs. Both my hands quickened in their excitement: this was a welcome new slant on an old favourite.
I gasped a third time, this time coupled with an urgent grunt. My whole bed was a pulsating mass of movement and rhythm. The manageable to-and-fro vibrating of my mattress under the motion of only one hand had given way to a frenzy of pounding and creaking. In time I’d learn how to restrain such excesses, or at least limit them to more discreet levels, but for now I just enjoyed it. My bedroom door was closed; if Jake could hear what his father was up to, he’d just have to put a pillow over his head.
He could have no idea where my thoughts were straying to.
And in any case, this was too good to miss.
I focussed on the mental picture of me bending low with another man’s face eating so urgently and hungrily at my backside, the two of us sweaty and panting with excitement. I just let the pleasure wash over me, both hands working as fast as I was able to move them.
With another sniff beneath my duvet at the smell of Michael Purves rimming me inside the hot, sweaty pantomime costume, I grunted like a pig as my inevitable orgasm overwhelmed me. And as semen was erupting in thick, unending gushers from my cock, I was fascinated to feel my arse squeezing my finger in time with each squirt.
Had it always done that? Even without a finger up there?
In the quieting aftermath, as I lay recovering my breath, I decided that anal-fingering during masturbation was worthy of a lot more investigation and regular, perhaps nightly, practice to perfect my technique. Such a two-handed approach was going to make cleaning up afterward rather more involved – not only had my huge outpouring semen managed to soak my duvet and pyjamas without my left hand there with a tissue catch it, but there was also the unwelcome matter of my bum-smeared finger.
Nevertheless, I figured it would prove well worth the added inconvenience.
The next morning I managed to be sufficiently restrained to remind Jake only once to let Mr Roberts know I was interested in helping with the college pantomime.
He responded with a curt, “I said I would so I will.”
At tea that evening, a response to my offer wasn’t forthcoming so I was forced to broach the subject myself.
“Er… any news about me being in your play?”
He slurped his drink before answering. “They’d already cast the part. Luke Ainley’s dad is going to do it. I bet that’s a relief, huh?”
“Oh… er… yeah.” I smiled, internally gutted. “Phew!”
“Everyone thinks it’s really funny how Ainley’s dad is going to be brown-nosing Purves all night.”
Jake glanced up at me to see how I would respond to the term ‘brown-nosing’.
I just smiled and said, “I bet they do.”
“Better than them saying that about you, huh?”
“Well, of course. I was only offering to help out… you know… for the sake of keeping the play going.”
Picking up a forkful of the spag bol I’d almost literally thrown together, he nodded and went on, “Well, you can always be the prompter because Mrs Fielding has gone off with the flu.”
“Oh… er… I dunno about that.”
“Go on,” Jake insisted through a mouthful of food. “It won’t be as bad as having your face in Purves’s butt!”
“Well, there’s a lot of responsibility to being a prompter. I’ll have to say no to that one, Jake. Sorry.”
Assuming he had already gone ahead and volunteered me, I expected a harrumph or something similar but to my surprise he didn’t push it any further. And when I glanced over at him I thought I saw him quickly concealing what looked like a self-satisfied smirk.
The next day, in my office, I left a message for Mr Roberts, the Head of Drama at Jake’s college, to give me a call when he had a free period. I didn’t really know this particular teacher – not even his first name – because Jake had never taken the subject. Jake’s interests at school had fluctuated between English some days and science others and now he was completing an IB in science and maths.
Mr Roberts called me back just after eleven.
As I explained that I was Jake Furlong’s father and why I’d called, I glanced around the office to see who might be listening to me. I didn’t want people my whole floor knowing that I was volunteering to be in a pantomime. Fortunately, the coast was fairly clear: Cameron, the guy from accounts I’d had a run-in with a few weeks earlier, was leafing through a file from one of the cabinets but otherwise people were occupied in conversation or away from their desks.
“Er… you realise Jake isn’t in the production?” asked the nasal-sounding voice on the other end of the line.
“Yes, of course,” I replied, picking up a pen to doodle on my Post-It pad as I always did when I was on the phone. “But he mentioned that you were looking for parents to help out.”
“Ah, yes. We need someone to be the prompter. We had a member of staff come down with flu. It’d just be a matter of –”
“Well, I don’t think I’d be much good at that,” I interrupted. “But Jake also said that you needed someone to be the back end of the pantomime cow.”
I glanced back over at the other people in my office. I got the feeling that Cameron was eyeing me but when I turned around he seemed absorbed by whatever it was he was reading in the file.
“That’s right… the cow. He said someone’s dad had already volunteered but I just wanted to let you know that I’d be happy to help out… maybe, you know… the two of us guys taking turns.”
I hoped my turn of phrase had not triggered the same mental image for Mr Roberts as it had for me.
“The cow?” he repeated. It occurred to me that you mustn’t need to be too bright to get to be Head of Drama.
“That’s right – the pantomime cow. Jake said you needed someone to be the back end of it.”
The line went silent for a few seconds before the pinched voice said: “But there isn’t a cow in the play, Mr Furlong.”
I was confused. Why had Jake mentioned a role that didn’t exist?
I said, “Well, er… is there a horse or something?” Perhaps Jake had got mixed-up.
“No. We’re performing Dick Whittington, so the only animal in it is a cat… and that part is a single role and has already been cast.”
I felt rather embarrassed. “Well, er… I guess Jake got the wrong end of the stick.”
“He was probably having you on,” Roberts chuckled. “I mean, who wants to be the back end of a cow?”
I felt a little rattled at his amusement. “I was only volunteering because I thought you needed someone.”
“Yes, indeed… it’s always good to have parents helping out. I’m sure we could find something else for you to do… perhaps you could paint some scenery, or –”
“Look,” I cut in again. “I just thought the play might not be able to go ahead if you couldn’t find someone to help with that part. But since it was clearly a mix-up or a joke or something…”
We said our goodbyes and I hung up, wondering why Jake had suggested that I might want to be the back end of non-existent cow.
I kept mulling it over throughout day.
Jake clearly had an inkling that I was developing a sexual interest in other men’s backsides; that much was clear. He had casually presented a plausible scenario which would put me in a position which most men would find unpleasant so that he could watch my reaction. And I had well and truly fallen for it; blatantly revealing my enthusiasm for getting my nose wedged between his teacher’s buttocks while he’d feigned disinterest and seemed more concerned about eating his tea.
My son was a lot more devious than I would ever have given him credit for.
At first I wondered if he still suspected that Guy and I had been ‘bumming’, as he’d crudely put it, on the night before the Everton match. He’d seemed convinced by the story I’d put to him at the time, but perhaps he’d harboured doubts which he’d wanted to put to the test.
The picture he’d painted for me had been very specific. Far from setting me up to think I might get the chance to penetrate another man, he had instead had presented the very real-sounding opportunity that my face might come intimately close to his teacher’s backside.
I felt sure that Jake didn’t suspect that I wanted to bugger other men: it was more alarming than that – somehow he knew that I wanted to rim them.
During a particularly tedious afternoon meeting, I tried to figure out how he might have come to guess that his father had developed such a peculiar fetish. I was surprised that my son would even know that men got up to such things, never mind be able to recognise such an interest in me. He was bright but he wasn’t particularly perceptive, and the signs that I must have betrayed would surely have been far too subtle for him to pick up on.
I wondered if maybe I had been talking in my sleep. I was almost sure I didn’t do that: if I did, my ex-wife would certainly have added to the already expansive list of my shortcomings which she had always been so eager to share with me and anyone else who would lesson. And, in any case, what could I have called out which would have exposed my interest so unequivocally?
I thought of other clues I may have inadvertently left.
He’d picked up on the fact I had been far more sexually active – albeit solitarily – recently. But then, how could he know what sort of fantasies were driving my heightened sex drive?
Maybe I had aroused his suspicions with the underwear I’d been buying from e-Bay. But he would have no idea what… how should I put it… ‘arrangements’ I’d come to with the sellers and, in any case, all of my dealings with them had been via e-mail which needed a password for access.
As the meeting droned on, I wondered if Jake could have noticed me checking out other men’s backsides as I so frequently did these days. It was a habit which I had found surprisingly easy to pick up but nigh-on impossible to break. I remembered that he’d thrown me a quizzical look in Tesco when we were shopping there at the weekend, after I’d become distracted almost mid-sentence by the heavenly pair of peach-like buttocks straining against the black trousers of one of the young shop assistants who was stacking the shelves. Jake could hardly have failed to notice my reaction as the lad had bent down to pick up some groceries from his pile of boxes, especially when his blue checked shirt had ridden up to reveal the back of his gaudily coloured underwear which tightly cupped his pert buttocks. Perhaps I’d done more than just stare: perhaps Jake has seen me drooling as I’d fixated on the young guy’s gorgeous arse and that I’d had to adjust myself at the thought of what lay just beneath the confining material.
But even that was too much of a long shot. It was one thing for him to notice that his dad had – for whatever reason – started eyeing up other men’s bums, but it would take a pretty serious leap of imagination for him to guess that I was fantasizing about pressing my face into them.
Later, back at my desk, I began to wonder if Jake could have seen me enjoying occasional physical contact with guys’ arses when opportunities were presented. I’d realised early on that I could take advantage of crowded places – the market in the centre of town on Saturday morning was a particularly good spot – to squeeze past other men and ‘accidentally’ rub the palm of my hand against their backsides as I did so. As long as the place was sufficiently busy, they’d rarely even glance in my direction and if they did, a brief “Sorry, mate” was enough to downplay my indiscretion.
More recently, I’d refined my technique to include an upwards flick of my middle finger just as my hand was sweeping from one buttock to the next. Nothing too obvious: just a quick poke into the guy’s arse-crack which could be explained as an ill-timed spasmodic twitch if things ever turned nasty. If I could position my hand so that my outstretched fingertips were skirting the crease between his thighs and cheeks and was able to push my finger into him quite deeply, I might get a result.
A few paces on, hopefully out of view of the guy whose arse I’d ‘inadvertently’ prodded, I’d have a casual sniff of the offending digit.
If my victim had been wearing jeans or chinos, I’d probably get nothing for my troubles, other than perhaps a glare from him (although a couple of times I’d been warmly smiled at and, one occasion, followed). If he’d been in football shorts or tracksuit bottoms, though, my finger would often bear a tantalising trace of the man’s rich and earthy scent. And sometimes it was significantly stronger than that: sometimes – not often, but regularly enough to make the effort worthwhile – my finger smelled so powerfully of the pungent musk of his backside that it was like having my nose stuck in there. When that happened, I had to quickly dart into a toilet and take full advantage of my prize while it was still fresh.
Could Jake have seen me having a ‘flick and sniff’? And even if he had, was he astute enough to realise why such a thing would excite me – that it wasn’t the act of fingering another guy that was turning me on but the fantasy of rimming him? I thought it unlikely; virtually impossible, in fact.
It was towards the end of the day when my ‘eureka’ moment came. I almost laughed out loud with the simplicity and obviousness of it. There must have been an occasion on which I hadn’t deleted my browser history. Perhaps I’d been in a rush or my internet explorations had been unexpectedly interrupted. Whatever had happened, I’d left a trail behind me and my son had dutifully followed it.
He must have thought that the images he had found – images which must have shocked him in their explicit lewdness – had been stumbled on by me in error. Or maybe that I had been curious to find out the meaning of a word I had seen written somewhere. He must have assumed that the images didn’t depict something I would actually fantasize about doing, something I might actually do…
But he’d wanted to know for sure. So he’d come up with the rather ingenious story about the pantomime cow. Just to see how dad would react.
The sneaky little bugger.
A few evenings later, when I was getting ready to go out for an hour to meet up with Adam for a drink, Jake came in the bathroom to have a pee just as I was about to start shaving.
“Have you got a lot of stuff to do for college?” I asked him, squirting a thin snake of shaving gel into my palm and working it into a lather.
“Yeah,” he replied glumly and directed a stream of urine noisily into the toilet bowl.
Working the lather onto my face, I thought I would mention the woman I was meeting up with the following week. I’d tried several times to engage Jake in conversation about her – the first woman I’d had a date with in far too long – but on each occasion he had chosen not to respond.
“I’m quite looking forward to meeting Debbie,” I offered brightly. “She seems quite funny from her e-mails and she’s quite nice looking.”
Once again, Jake didn’t offer any reply but instead just stared down at the toilet.
I got on lathering myself up while he shook himself and tucked himself back away.
After flushing the toilet, he came over and watched me make the few strokes with my razor in the mirror.
“Do you shave with the hair or against it?” he asked, curious to see how I was doing it.
I smiled. “Both. I shave in the direction it grows first and then against it to get the last bit of stubble that’s left.”
I offered him some of my shaving gel and a clean razor from my pack. “Here, have a go. You’ve got quite a bit of growth there.”
He rubbed his chin, feeling the light fuzz of fine hair which had only recently started to become noticeable in between his occasional shaves. “It’s not much. Hardly worth it.”
“Go on, Jake. It’ll be good practice. Let your old dad teach you a thing or two.”
He smiled and took a squirt of gel and rubbed it into a white beard shape on his face.
“Looks like Christmas has come early,” I said and he smiled more broadly. His teeth looked unusually yellow in contrast with the stark whiteness of the foam.
He took the razor and said, “Normally I shave the moustache first, but where do you start?”
“It’s probably best to start on your neck. Make upward strokes, gently pressing the razor into your skin.”
He laughed. “I don’t want to slit my throat, dad!”
I smiled back. “You won’t do that. Not if you move the razor like I show you.”
I demonstrated to him how I shaved my neck and he followed my lead, taking care not to snick his bulging Adam’s apple which had made his voice drop about an octave in the last couple of years. Then he moved up to his cheeks, first shaving in one direction and then the other as I was. He was getting very little hair off his face but the practice was good for him. I’d been meaning to do this for a while, actually.
As he continued following what I was doing, I said, “There’s no cow in your college pantomime, is there?”
He stopped shaving and stared at me through the mirror, his eyes full of surprise.
I smiled. “I’m not going to have a go at you for lying, Jake. I think it was a very clever way of finding out what you needed to know.”
He asked, “Who told you?”
I walked over to the sink and rinsed my razor, and then back to the mirror to start on my chin. “You obviously saw how keen I was to… well… get involved. So I phoned Mr Roberts and asked him to keep me in mind if that other guy, the one who you said got the part, had to drop out.”
Carefully getting to work on my chin, and after warning Jake that this was an area where you were likely to cut yourself, I went on, “I’m guessing I didn’t delete my browser history after a session on the internet…?”
He became defensive. “I wasn’t trying to spy on you, dad. I just found a good website about my biology assignment – some stuff about bottom feeders – and then the next night I couldn’t find it again. So I looked in the history and then… well, I found…”
I smiled again, trying to keep things friendly between us. I really didn’t want this to turn into a confrontation. After all, I was the one who was more in the wrong.
“I’m sorry you found that, Jake. At your age you shouldn’t have seen that kind of –”
“I’m not a little kid, dad,” he cut in defensively. “I am eighteen!”
He had a point: I often did have to remind myself that he’d be going to university next year. I supposed that to some part of my brain he would always be little Jakey – the name his mother and I used to call him when he was small until he’d abruptly decided, perhaps after being teased at school, that he’d outgrown it and we’d had to adapt, with considerable difficulty, to calling him plain old Jake.
“Well, regardless of that,” I went on, “I should have been more careful.”
He looked at me with puzzlement. “But, dad… what those men were doing… do you actually like that stuff?”
I nodded, feeling disgraced.
“And does it… you know… make you excited when look at it? Do you jerk off?”
I was surprised by his candour but I thought it best to be honest with him.
I said, blushing a little, “I do, Jake. Yes.”
“And do you want to do it with another guy? Put your mouth on… well… his butthole?”
He looked incredulous at the prospect that I could want to do something like that, but I nodded. I said, my voice betraying my shame, “It probably seems disgusting to you.”
He shook his head. “It’s not that. I mean, it’s not my thing, but if that’s what you like… I just can’t understand why you’re getting ready to meet up with this woman… Debbie? You’re not being fair to her… you’re not telling her that you’re gay…”
I finally understood why Jake was being so weird about Debbie. I suppose it should have been obvious as soon as I’d realised that he knew about my fetish. Sometimes I could be so stupid.
I said, “I’m not gay, Jake. I still fancy women and I still want a girlfriend. I certainly don’t want to hook up with a guy, but for some reason – and I don’t really understand why myself – I really want to do that with another man.”
Jake nodded. “I wouldn’t mind if you were gay, you know.”
I smiled and gave his arm an affectionate pat. “Yeah, I know. But I’m not.”
I started shaving my moustache, showing Jake how to be careful not to let the blade nick his lips and how to angle his razor to get at the awkward hairs at the base of each nostril.
“Maybe you’re a ‘metrosexual’?” he ventured, more brightly, as he tried to follow my lead.
“What’s a ‘metrosexual’?”
“I dunno… I just heard it somewhere. It sounds kinda cool, though.”
I smiled. “Cool or not, I think I’d want to know what it entailed before I stick a label on myself, Jake.”
When he’d made a good job of shaving what had been a fairly wispy moustache, he asked, “How can you want to lick another man’s… you know…?” He made a disgusted face to finish his sentence.
I shrugged, turning to shave my left cheek. “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure I’d enjoy it.”
“But it’s his bum, dad! I mean, he shits through it!”
“Well, that has occurred to me, Jake. But it doesn’t really bother me. Not enough to put me off.” I thought it best not to tell him that the fact it was such a base and taboo area of the body was a significant part of its intoxicating allure.
He asked, “And would you want him to do the same thing to you? Put his mouth on your backside?”
“If he wanted to, yes.”
“And would the two of you do other stuff? Get on top of each other and… you know…?”
“I don’t really know, Jake. I haven’t got it all worked out in my own head yet, to be honest. This is still pretty new for me.”
I smiled at him, wiping the excess smears of foam from my face with a cloth. “I really didn’t want to be having this conversation with you.”
He nodded. “I just needed to know, dad. I couldn’t figure it out what was going on.”
I chuckled. “Join the club.”
Next story: The Right Trousers
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