Butt Monkey
by Robert Furlong

 

Part 16: Questions and Answers

I arrived at my office the next day to find an envelope on my desk with my name written on it in neat, if rather florid, handwriting.  It read “Robert” which was slightly odd because everyone at work calls me Rob.

My ex-wife used to call me Robert, although it was invariably done sarcastically, and occasionally Jake might continue his mother’s tradition by using my full name as a punctuating barb on the end of an already prickly sentence.

I opened the envelope and found a wad of photocopied papers inside.  There was a brief note, in the same ornate handwriting, which read, “From a fellow butt monkey”.

I felt the blood drain from my face.  What was this?

I glanced around, to make sure nobody was close enough to me to see what I was looking at, and quickly leafed through the papers.  They seemed to have been photocopied from various magazines, although one was obviously a copy of a health leaflet aimed at gay men, similar to the one my doctor had given me.

The theme throughout was mouth-to-anus contact between men.  There were diagrams showing different ways of rimming; information about how to do it safely; articles on its biological significance and cultural history; plus a list of websites – some of which I recognised from my own explorations – giving further information for newcomers to the field.

I quickly put the papers back into the envelope and stashed it into my jacket pocket.  I would go through them, but not here.

I looked around again to see if anyone was watching me, hoping to assure themselves that I had retrieved the papers.  There was Matt bending to retrieve something from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet – Jesus his arse looked hot in those dark blue trousers – and Lance munching on a muesli bar as he flicked through his e-mails.  Neither of them showed any interest in me.

I switched on my computer and mentally worked through other possible contenders while I waited for the operating system to load up.  The note read, “From a fellow butt monkey,” so whoever had sent it clearly shared my interest in other men’s backsides.  In any case, to have amassed such a collection of articles on the subject showed that they were, if anything, even more fascinated by rimming than I was.

Perhaps someone had noticed me checking out his arse and had seen the effect that it had had on the front of my trousers.  It was a long shot, but I guessed it was possible that someone might have been astute enough to put two and two together.

Or perhaps someone had seen me peering at the men who exposed their backsides while they urinated in the gents at the end of my corridor.  Could it be that all the time I thought I had been discreetly checking out arses through the wash-basin mirror, someone instead had recognised his own fetish in me?

The computer loaded up its desktop and a small speech bubble appeared with a popping sound from the taskbar.  One of the toner cartridges hadn’t been properly installed in the printer.  It had been doing this ever since Bradley, the technician from the IT department, had scrambled around beneath my desk trying to fix it.  Ever since I’d had my face pressed against his backside while he was on all fours.

Ever since I’d been caught –

I suddenly realised who my fellow “butt monkey” was.

It was Cameron.  It had to be.  At the time he’d caught me nose-deep in Bradley’s butt cleft, I’d wondered why he hadn’t reacted to what he’d seen me doing.  It turned out that it was because he was just as heavily into it as I was.

Straight-laced, family-guy Cameron liked to get his face stuck into other men’s arses!  Wow!

I felt a rush of excitement that I had found a fellow rimmer right on my own doorstep.  I had a strong urge to take a wander around to accounts to flash Cameron some kind of acknowledgement that there existed a bond between us.  I wanted to let him know in as subtle way as I could how much I appreciated the hand – or should that be tongue? – he had outstretched towards me.

But no: I decided I wouldn’t.  I’d make no response but instead would wait until I’d looked through the material he’d given me.  Then I’d think about what I wanted to do.

***

That night, while Jake was occupied upstairs on some of his college assignments, I got to work looking through the papers in the envelope.

The line drawings depicting different rimming positions didn’t teach me anything I hadn’t already seen on the internet or constructed my own masturbatory fantasies about.  They seemed to have been photocopied from a gay variation of ‘The Joy of Sex’ and showed a bearded man outstretching his tongue towards the backsides of other men who were variously bending forwards, squatting over him, standing up and lying down on their backs with their legs widely splayed.

A close-up showed the bearded man’s tongue reaching forward between his friend’s buttocks, with curved arrows to show he was making circular motions around the anus.  The diagram reminded me of something from one of my old Physics textbooks.  I wondered whether circular motions in the clockwise direction were found to be more stimulating in the Northern hemisphere while anti-clockwise ones were preferred south of the equator.

I thought that if I were rimming the man in the drawings, I’d prefer him to be bending forwards so that he could fully expose his arse to my face and I could sniff and lick his nuts as they hung between his legs.  I’d certainly enjoyed that position with the lad in the public toilet, even if he’d been frustrated that his cock wasn’t being given enough attention.

If I were being rimmed, though, I thought I’d probably like to squat over my companion so that I could masturbate myself comfortably while he tongued my hole.  That position had worked well for two of the men I’d had intimate contact with so far, and I looked forward to experiencing the same sensations myself.

The brief description accompanying the drawings described rimming as a “mainstream fetish”.  I found it a little disappointing that my one and only claim towards sexual aberration was considered mainstream.

Folding the pictures away, I went on to read a letter from a ‘Questions and Answers’ column which looked as if it had come from a page in a women’s magazine.  The letter had been highlighted with a yellow-green marker pen to distinguish it from others ranging across such topics as the best month to transfer dahlias from one’s greenhouse into the garden and to whom a complaint should be addressed regarding the amount of litter left in bus shelters.

The highlighted letter, from a Mrs Watling of St Albans, read: “I heard a reference to ‘rimming’ last night on the Graham Norton show on BBC-1.  At the risk of sounding awfully fuddy-duddy, may I ask what exactly ‘rimming’ is?  Is it similar to ‘tweeting’ which my nephew sometimes mentions, but about which I confess to being similarly in the dark?”

Miriam, the lady who had been assigned to respond to such diverse questions, replied: “Dear Mrs Watling, I can’t enlighten you about ‘tweeting’, but I do know that rimming is an important part of jam making.  While the fruit is boiling, the scum that rises to the surface has to be removed by decanting it over the rim of the saucepan – hence the term.  Having missed the programme, I am not sure why one of Mr Norton’s guests might have referred to this process, but I’d wager it was done in a tongue-in-cheek way.”

I chuckled as I put the article back in the envelope.  Tongue-in-cheek, indeed.  Miriam knew rather more than she was letting on, the sly old bird.

The next photocopied page speculated about the incidence of male-on-male rimming throughout history and cited decidedly spurious allusions to the practice in historical documents.  It claimed, for example, that the church had condemned the brutal medieval king William Rufus, son of the Conqueror, as “dissolute” on account of his interest in the effeminate male courtesans he had populated his royal residence with.  While that much may have been true, I thought it stretching the case somewhat to suggest that ecclesiastical records which stated that he “fed on that which is depraved and vile” and had “tasted such ungodliness which man should not know” could be taken to mean that the king was a notorious butt-licker.  I skipped through the rest of the largely implausible claims, spending a few moments to smile at some of fourteenth century poet Geoffrey Chaucer’s supposed references to homosexual rimming in his ‘Canterbury Tales’ (“the landowner’s tongue had peculiar itches/ for what his manservant hid ‘neath the seat of his britches”) and excerpts from old admiralty records which showed that the practice was apparently rife among sailors.

The last of the articles was far more interesting and had been taken from a fairly respectable scientific magazine.  It proposed that, in our murky evolutionary past, men had started taking an interest in each other’s backsides around the same time that we had started walking upright.  Monkeys, it noted, are agile enough to lick their own bottoms and in doing so exploit the antiseptic properties of saliva to clean an area which is vulnerable to infection.  When humans started walking on two legs, changes in our spines and pelvises meant that we lost the ability to reach our own behinds with our tongues and so we started to lick each other’s instead.  “Such a potentially unpleasant activity between early hominids required a biological reward to ensure that it was regularly performed,” the article continued.  “In males of the species it is likely that this reward took the form of sexual excitement.  Previous studies have found this sexual response to still be evident in modern human males very soon after mouth-to-anus contact is made between them.”

The author went on to quote a series of experiments which he called the “Baltimore study”.  In this, pairs of heterosexual male volunteers, mostly undergraduate students, were placed in a room, told to undress and then filmed as they were instructed by the experimenter to perform various sexual acts on each other.  In all cases, the men involved had expressed no interest in homosexual sex and indeed some of them had stated that they were repulsed by the idea of sex with their own gender.

The Baltimore study had found that, while activities such as kissing, fellatio and mutual masturbation had elicited mixed responses from the men, the act of anal licking had, in spite of an overwhelming expression revulsion at the prospect of performing this act at all but especially on another male, produced “a dramatic lengthening of the penis” in every case.  “The man performing the act of anal licking,” it noted, “became far more sexually excited by what he was doing than the man whose anus he was licking, and their penile reactions were invariably reversed when the two of them were told to change places.”

“In most cases,” it went on, “licking another man’s anus triggered such an intense arousal in participants that they had their partner bend lower and parted their buttocks in order to maximise the area of contact.  Many of the men felt compelled to rhythmically stimulate their lengthened penises while their faces were so positioned and in some trials, this penile manipulation was taken as far as issue.  Furthermore, one pair of volunteers became so aroused that the men attempted penile penetration even though they had not been instructed to do so by the experimenter.”

The thought of these lads licking each other’s arses and wanking themselves off had brought on a rather dramatic lengthening of my own penis and I fumbled with my underwear through my trousers to conceal it as well as I could in case Jake came down from his room.

Oh, to have been able to volunteer to take part in such an experiment!  And to have been paid for it!  I thought I would probably have been the guy who’d wanted a taste of the “penile penetration”, although in my case it wouldn’t have been “attempted” – I’d have been in there like a shot and rogering his arse as quickly as I could!

The article went on to extol the virtues of rimming between men as a means of engendering healthy emotional relationships.  “It is an important part of our evolutionary past and we should embrace it as such,” the article recommended.  The author was especially keen, for some reason, that men should be taught the art of “concurrent mouth-to-anus intercourse” – science-speak for an anal sixty-nine, I figured – to promote fraternal bonding and unity.

The author envisaged a distant past in which tribal men spent weeks together on hunting expeditions, leaving the women and children back at the encampment.  He proposed that the men would pair up to lick one another’s backsides, and would embrace in a sixty-nine position with their heads between each other’s legs.  “Finding themselves sexually excited by the act they were performing on one another, they would no doubt rub their aroused penises between their entwined bodies and move back and forth against each other until they had achieved mutual climax.  Thus, this act of anal licking would have provided a dual function during periods when the men were separated from their females.  On the one hand, it would have promoted good sanitation, while on the other it would have provided the men with a means of sexual release, avoiding the need for homosexual penetration which brings with it issues of dominance and hierarchy.”

The article concluded by suggesting that it would be natural and healthy for brothers to pair up together to encourage intimacy between them and to curb their adversarial competitiveness.

I thought of my own brother, Richard, who was a few years older than me.  We’d never got on well and perhaps adding a sexual dimension to our relationship might have done us the world of good.  I couldn’t see it happening though: he’d always been so self-righteous and judgemental, acting as a spy for my parents as I’d been growing up and only too ready to grass on me for doing anything which he saw as a sexual impropriety.

He’d enjoyed telling me that my own large genitals were abnormal and regularly repeating my oft-told mother’s advice that I shouldn’t play with myself. If he caught me or heard me trying to discreetly masturbate, he’d tell my parents and he and his equally pious friend Aiden Pratt (prat by name…) would snoop around my bedroom looking for girlie magazines and semen-soaked tissues.

He always seemed too pure to masturbate himself and was very guarded about showing his own penis which I assumed was of more “natural” proportions.  So I grew up thinking that, not only was I some kind of freak in the trousers department, but that I had a peculiar sexual appetite as I seemed to need sexual release so frequently.

He used to say, “I know you can suck yourself!  If I ever catch you I’ll tell mum, because that’s the worst thing you can do!  She’ll probably have to take you to the priest or something.”

While it was true that I could suck myself – my cock was certainly long enough and my back flexible enough – I didn’t really like the feel of it and so I hardly ever did it.  But I couldn’t understand how Richard knew I could do it and thought maybe he’d been spying on me at night when I’d been experimenting sexually.

I seemed to spend years in constant fear that he’d catch me with an erection or, worse still, in the middle of gratifying myself.   If I stayed in the bathroom too long, he would be knocking on the door, making insinuations.  If I woke up with a morning hard-on, I’d have to carefully conceal it before I left my bedroom lest my brother had some spiteful quip to make about my “deformity” or my “fat bell-end”.

One afternoon everything changed, though.

Barging into his bedroom, after only a perfunctory knock, I found him and Aiden together on his bed, masturbating together with their trousers and underpants around their ankles.

It turned out that couldn’t have picked a more opportune moment to burst in on them like that.  My brother and his friend weren’t just having a wank together: there was rather more to it than that.

Richard was in mid-orgasm and, with an arched back, was gulping down the semen which was spurting from his enormous-looking cock, the bloated head of it filling his mouth with every thrust.  Aiden was watching my brother pleasure himself in fascination, one hand pounding at his own much smaller erection and the other working back and forth between Richard’s legs.  At the time I hadn’t realised what he was doing: only now did it dawn on me that he was most likely fingering my brother’s arsehole as he wanked himself.

On entering the room, both of their faces swung towards me, their expressions horrified.  But Richard was too far gone to stop what he was doing: he continued sucking the semen pumping from his cock as he stared at me wide-eyed, his huge organ seemingly determined to empty its load into him no matter who had joined his audience.  Aiden withdrew his arm from between my brother’s legs and cupped both hands around his own erection in an attempt to hide it.

When his cock had spent itself, Richard withdrew it from his mouth, staring at me intently with white gobs splattered across his face.  His cock, which looked enormous, flopped onto his stomach as it began to soften with white dribbles still oozing from its massively swollen head.  The stem of it seemed as thick as his wrist and his bollocks were fat and distended like a couple of ripe plums.  Although his genitals seemed so much bigger than mine at the time, I dare say that as adults we would probably be pretty evenly matched.

He barked out, “You can’t tell mum about this!”

I’d slowly smiled.  “Why ever not?”

Aiden had chirped up, “It’s not what it looks like, okay?”

Richard had turned to him with annoyance.  “Of course it’s what it looks like, dipshit!  How could this not be what it looks like?”

Aiden got off the bed and started pulling his underpants and trousers up.

Richard swung his legs off the bed and sat on the edge of it wiping the cum from his face.  His cock was still lolling upwards even though his erection was abating.

He muttered, huffily, “She wouldn’t believe you, anyway.  Do what you like.”

I held my nerve, fully aware of the power I now had over him.  “Do you really want to risk it?  Mum knowing that you drink your own spunk… that you get up to this kind of stuff with other lads…?”

Yanking his briefs up and packing his cock and balls into them with some difficulty, Richard glared at me with venomous eyes.

I went on, “I won’t tell mum, but you’ve got to get off my case… okay?”

Richard’s stark expression softened slightly as curiosity seeped in.  “What do mean, ‘get off your case’?”

“I mean, I don’t mind what you guys do – you could be screwing each other for all I care – but you’ve got to leave me to do whatever I like.  And you’ve got to stop saying my dick’s so big… yours is even bigger.”

Richard had nodded.  “Okay… and you won’t tell mum?”

I nodded.

Pulling his trousers up, he’d said, “And we’re not screwing… me and him…”

Aiden had chipped in, “Yeah… we haven’t done that yet.”

Richard had turned to him and said, gruffly, “And we’re not going to do that, okay?  There is no ‘yet’!”

Aiden had nodded quickly but I suspected he was a little disappointed that the line had been drawn.

Richard and I never spoke again of what I’d caught him and Aiden doing that afternoon.  Suffice to say, he was never again on my back about anything sexual but beyond that our relationship never improved.  We haven’t spoken for years: the last I heard he’d got married to a girl he met at university and they’d emigrated to Australia.  By now he probably has a couple of kids out there; Jake’s cousins who he doesn’t even know about.

I put all the documents back into the envelope and stashed it back into my jacket pocket.  I’d considered showing Jake a couple of paragraphs from the article about how butt-licking could be an evolutionary throwback to help him understand why it might make me feel as it does, but I decided against it.  It was the sort of information he might guilelessly work into a Biology assignment and I had no desire for a second embarrassing conversation with one of his teachers.

I poured myself a glass of wine, put an Andre Rieu CD on and sat back down to think about what I would do about Cameron.

As he’d made the opening gambit by sending me the envelope, it would now be up to me to make the next move.  I’d have to invite him out for a drink after work; try to make it sound casual even though we’d both know what it was about.  It would be good to discuss rimming with someone who was obviously quite actively into it and to hear about some of his experiences if he was willing to share.  I wondered how he’d discovered that he enjoyed other men’s backsides: whether, like me, it was an interest he’d stumbled across recently, or whether it was something he’d been harbouring for years, perhaps since long before he’d married or even before he’d started dating girls.

I wondered what kind of stuff he liked doing with guys.  Maybe he was a purist and his interests were confined entirely to reciprocal butt-licking.  It could be that he had accepted his enjoyment of rimming on the basis of the biological arguments presented in the article he’d sent me, but that he regarded other, more blatantly homosexual activities, as being out-of-bounds.  The literature he’d sent me certainly bore no suggestion that he might enjoy things like mutual oral stimulation or anal penetration, but perhaps he had deliberately not included references to these activities in case they were a step too far for me.  He had, after all, simply stumbled across me sniffing another guy’s bum: he had no idea how far my curiosity had taken me nor of the array of fantasies I had been mentally exploring.

It suddenly occurred to me that Cameron might have made contact with me in this way as an attempt to orchestrate a sexual encounter between us.  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.  He was an attractive guy with an athletic build and was probably a few years younger than me, but I hardly knew him.

It would be awkward between us.  I’d have to invite him over one night when Jake was at his mum’s but, beyond that, I’d have no idea about what to do.  Would I offer him a drink so we could sit downstairs for a while making small-talk about work and the weather?  Or would we just head upstairs to undress in my cold bedroom and then get on the bed with goose-bumps to contemplate each other’s limp cocks?

With a woman, things like this would just flow for me.  We’d have a few drinks, have a cuddle on the settee together, one of my hands would head towards her breasts and she might work her fingers up my thigh.  We’d kiss and I’d caress her; she’d knead my cock through my trousers or play with my balls.  Then we’d stumble upstairs together, fall onto the bed and I’d finger the wetness between her legs while she released my aching manhood from my fly.

Events would follow an effortless and spontaneous sequence and within no time I’d be inside her, filling her with my large organ and feeling my balls thumping between her legs as she moaned and writhed.

With Cameron – with any other man – there could be no kissing and cuddling beforehand.  Even if he wanted it, I wouldn’t.  So that would remove the natural element of foreplay and with it the opportunity for us to become aroused together and for the sensuality between us to gradually build.

I had to face it: it was extremely likely that we would indeed end up facing each other’s shrivelled penises on the bed, feeling awkward and not knowing what to do.  Maybe we’d fondle each other to try without success to coax our flaccid members to harden; maybe we’d try working our floppy organs against each other, like the positive ends of two batteries failing to make a spark. More likely one of us would kneel on the bed while the other rimmed him and let the smells and tastes we both found so exciting stir his cock into life.  Then we’d swap places so that we were both erect.  And keep swapping places – rimmed becoming rimmer, both of us masturbating without touching the other – until the first of us climaxed.  Then we’d change places one last time until the other man achieved his orgasm.

We’d clean up and get dressed, probably making small-talk again, and then I’d show him out.  And at work afterwards, we’d no doubt avoid each other for a while, until one or other of us felt horny enough to approach the other for a repeat butt-licking and cock-stroking session.

It all sounded rather… well… bleak.

Jake came into the room, stretching and flexing after being cooped up working at his desk, and plonked himself down on the couch.  “Any sport on?”

“Have you finished all your assignments?”

He nodded.  I don’t really know why I bother asking.

I tossed him the TV remote control and switched off my CD.

He flicked through a dozen or so programmes until he found some snooker on one of the Sky Sports channels and then looked over at me.  “Any good?”

Ronnie O’Sullivan was playing against a young Asian-looking guy I didn’t recognise but I nodded.  If nothing else, it’d be nice to watch the two of them bending over the table to reach the difficult shots.

“Fancy a drink of anything?” he asked.  “I’m gonna get a coke.”

I passed him my wine glass.  “There’s a bottle already open in the fridge door.”

While he was getting the drinks, I thought again about what it would be like to invite Cameron over for sex.  I found it difficult to move beyond the image which was now so firmly lodged in my brain: that of us facing each other uncomfortably on the bed, our cocks dangling ineffectually between our legs and both of us unsure about what to do.

I’d have to suck him.  Even if he was limp, that might ignite the spark which could get things going between us.  I’d done that with Guy and it had worked a treat: even with the guy in the public toilet, it hadn’t been too unpleasant to have his cock sliding in and out of my mouth.

Jake brought me my wine and sprawled out on the couch slurping noisily at his coke.  He let out a barely-stifled belch.  Decorum had never been his strongest suite.

While Ronnie O’Sullivan was systematically and mercilessly clearing the reds from the snooker table, I got to wondering if I could think of ways to introduce a bit of foreplay into my encounter with Cameron.  There must be some way of starting things off for the two of us while we were drinking and chatting, so that by the time we got to the undressing stage we’d both be rock-hard and raring to go at each other’s backsides.

I would feel too awkward to sit close to him on the settee and so a bit of mutual crotch groping, which might get the ball rolling as it were, would not really be a possibility.

I thought back to how things had developed between Guy and me.  He’d got excited talking about his experiences watching other men have sex on the oil-rig, and then I’d started getting turned on hearing him masturbate.  Perhaps something like that might start warming us up: a chat about our experiences with other men.  Mine would be comparatively brief at this stage: I could tell him about Guy (without mentioning his name, of course) and about my experiences in the public toilet and at the adult learning centre.  But he could probably tell me a lot of other stuff and it was likely that if whatever he told me involved mouths being applied to bums, it would soon have my cock making a noticeable mound in my trousers.

Jake breathed in sharply as O’Sullivan missed what had seemed like quite a straightforward shot.  His opponent approached the table nervously while O’Sullivan slumped dourly back into his chair.

It occurred to me that, even without the kissing and cuddling I was comfortable with in my heterosexual experiences, it would still be possible to introduce a bit of spontaneity into my homosexual encounters.  I would just have to try and be confident: a pat on the bum, for instance, or a seductively delivered compliment about how hot his arse looked in those trousers.  That kind of thing.  I just needed to remember that we were both here for the same thing and that, even without any kind of romance between us, we could still get sexy with each other.

Jake interrupted my musings by laughing out loud.  He gestured towards the TV on which Ronnie O’Sullivan was staring across at his opponent who was bending over the table, lining up his cue to attempt an awkwardly-positioned brown ball.  The way the camera was positioned made it look as if O’Sullivan was focussing intently on the younger man’s backside, mesmerised by his buttocks which were flexing as he strained to achieve the angle he needed.

Jake said, “I think he’s one of your lot, dad.  He must be a… I dunno… do guys like you have a name?”

I smiled.  “I saw the term ‘butt monkey’ written somewhere…”

Jake laughed, picking up his drink.  “Yeah… that’d fit!  Ronnie O’Sullivan’s a butt monkey!”  He gave the term ‘butt monkey’ a rather salacious emphasis.

“I think it’s just the camera angle, Jake.  His eyes are on the brown.”

Jake splurted his drink with a burst of laughter.

I looked at him with feigned-disapproval.  “The brown ball.”

He recovered himself and dabbed up the dribbles he’d made.

Still chuckling, he said, “Anyway, I think our Assistant Principal must be a butt monkey.  He was staring at the Principal’s arse all the way through the morning briefing yesterday.  And I wasn’t the only one who noticed.”

“Backside, Jake.”

“Uh?”

“Backside sounds less vulgar than arse.”

Jake went on, ignoring my suggestion, “You could see he wanted to get his face stuck in there.  He was licking his lips.”

“Well, maybe a lot of guys have that interest.  I mean, going by the amount of stuff about it on the internet –”

“I don’t think I could ever get into it,” Jake cut in.

I nodded.  “Yeah, well I’d have probably said that at your age.  In fact, I’d have probably said that just a few months ago.”

“I mean,” Jake went on, “what if the other guy farted?  When you had your mouth right on his… you know…”

I threw him another look of disapproval, this time rather more genuine.  I didn’t want to get into another question-and-answer session with him about a topic which was not, I was sure, anywhere in Good Parenting Magazine’s list of suggested father-and-son conversation topics.

I said, adding an edge of impatience to my voice, “I don’t think that’s very likely…”

“And what if he accidentally –”

“Enough, Jake!” I snapped.

He shrugged huffily.  “I’m just trying to understand…”

“Yeah, well it’s bad enough that you know I like doing this stuff, without me having to explain how it all works.  I don’t even know myself… I just did it that once, remember.”

The less he knew about what else I’d been up to, the better.

“You must have thought about it, thought.  Thought, you know, ‘What if he’s hairy down there?’… ‘What if he hasn’t wiped properly?'”

“Jake – I’d fully expect another bloke to have a hairy backside, and if there are issues about wiping, well that’s something I’ll just have to deal with at the time.  Now can we drop it?”

Jake nodded and flicked his hair out of his eyes in a swift movement which reminded me of his mother in her younger days.  “Sorry,” he muttered, “I’m just interested.”

“Yeah, I know.  But it’s private stuff.  I don’t ask you about what kind of stuff you fantasize about and you wouldn’t ask me all these questions about the stuff I get up to with women…”

Jake smiled.  “Okay, fair enough.  No more questions.”

We turned back to watch the snooker and I realised that there was no way it was going to be finished by the time Jake should be going to bed.

***

After reaching a compromise about how much of the snooker match Jake could watch with an early start at college the following morning, the two of us had gone to bed just after eleven.

I’d lain awake, hearing but not listening to the quiet rhythmic creaking from Jake’s bed next door, wondering again what it would be like to have a man in my own.  I tended to prefer petite women and for sex with them to be gentle and passionate.  How different would it be to be with a man with a similar stature to me and who would prefer our sex to be more strenuous and physical?

His skin would feel rougher, his hair coarser.  His body would be hairy and muscular, his smell musky and masculine.  His throbbing erection, the reddened head of it swollen and dribbling expectantly, would seem urgently demanding, almost threatening in its need for gratification, compared to the less striking signs of a woman’s arousal.

Would our sex be focussed around penile stimulation; would we rub our erections together, masturbating them as one organ, with our balls swinging pendulously against each other?  Or would we be drawn towards anal penetration, fingering and tonguing each other’s arses, bending and squatting against each other?

Would I mount him as he lay on his stomach, and work myself into him as I held him close to me with my arms around his chest and shoulders?  Would I fuck him like that, reaching down to fondle his oozing erection as I did so?

Or would I take him standing up, like I would have buggered the lad in the toilet stall?  Have him bending over in front of me as I held him by the hips?

What if he wanted to fuck me?  Now there was a thought.

I had occasionally, especially when I was younger, considered what it might be like to be penetrated by another male – what guy hasn’t mused about such possibilities in the quiet of the night?  However, such imagined scenarios had always been driven by hypothetical necessity – such as the unlikelihood of finding myself in prison – rather than sexual curiosity.

I’d never really thought about the mechanics of taking a man inside me – how he’d get his cock into me or what it would feel like to have my arse invaded in such a way.  I’d just imagined him on top of me, grunting into my ear and panting against the back of my neck as my bunk creaked and groaned with the rhythm of his hips against my buttocks.  I’d wondered how long he’d take to climax inside me, and whether he’d obligingly roll over when he’d finished to let me use his slimy passage as he’d used mine.  How long would it take me to get used to trading favours with other men?  And how sweet would a woman’s body feel on my eventual release?

Now I allowed myself to envisage what it would be like to actually have a guy fuck me rather than picturing the two of us just sweatily writhing around together as if we were in a made-for-TV sex scene.  I focussed my thoughts on what it would be like to have a man actually working his erection into my backside; the sensation of his fattened cock-head pressing hot and expectant against my puckered entrance, and how it would feel to have to open my anus up, just like I do when I’m fingering myself, to allow it to slowly push its way into me.  I imagined having to bend forwards and open my legs wider to allow him to ease his stiffened shaft up inside me, and having to push my arse back against him while he held me firm at the hips.

I formed a mental picture of myself on all fours with Cameron behind me, slowly working his cock inch by inch into my arsehole which was slick from the saliva his tongue had so liberally applied to it.  For some reason, he seemed like the kind of guy who would be well-endowed and I visualised his long, thick erection stretching me open as he pushed it deep inside me.  He’d sigh from the feel of my hot, tight tunnel gripping his organ as I received him, and I’d look over my shoulder towards him and we’d grin at each other as our bodies became joined.

The image was one I’d seen countless times on the internet – an almost stereotypical depiction of gay sex – and yet now, here in my bed, I seemed to see it from afresh, and surprisingly attractive, perspective.  I felt my cock beginning to stir deep in the folds of my pyjamas, awakening to begin its slow ascent, just as a triumphant succession of mattress squeaks from Jake’s room betrayed that his had just surmounted its own white-capped summit.

It would feel good to have Cameron inside me; to hear his cock slurping back and forth and to feel his nuts banging against mine with every thrust.  I’d push back against him, working with his rhythm, opening my legs as wide as I could to get all of him inside me.

I wondered how his cock would feel in my innards when he plunged it so far into me that his pubes would tickle my buttocks.  Would his balls be as large as mine?  Would they swing heavy and low in his nut-sack when he was fucking, just as mine do, like a couple of boiled eggs stretching a sock?

I reached into my pyjama fly and squeezed my organ which was becoming quite hard in response to these thoughts.  I was surprised that the prospect of being fucked by a man was having such an effect on me; I suspected that my hand would soon be taking up from where Jake’s had left off.

Gently easing my foreskin down across my fattening cock-head, I imagined Cameron on top of my back; his large hairy chest rubbing against my spine as he drove in and out of me.  His arms would be around me and his breathing rapid and hot against my neck.  He would reach down to wank me as he buggered me, his hips making clapping sounds against my buttocks with each thrust of his swollen cock.  My anus would be stretched around his thick shaft; my rectum would be squeezing the fat, swollen cock-head as it pounded away inside me.

He might be grunting to me about how hot my arse felt, how tight it was.  And I might be calling out for him to ram his cock into me; to fuck my arse harder.

I hitched my pyjama bottoms down and started gently masturbating my still hardening cock, hoping that Jake would now be sleeping contentedly after his own exertions.

I imagined reaching around with both hands and grabbing Cameron’s buttocks, feeling them flex in time with the pounding of his cock in and out of my arse.  I’d push my fingers into his crack, still wet with my spit from where I’d hungrily rimmed him, and try to work a couple of fingers into his hole as he fucked me.  He’d gasp to show that he liked that and his rhythm would speed up slightly.

We’d push ourselves upright and kneel together on the bed, him behind me, his hips still thumping against my cheeks and his arms still wrapped around my chest.  The air around us would be thick with the sexual fug we were producing: sweaty and anal in equal measure, we’d both be excited by its rich and delicious odour.

I used my free hand to reach between my legs and began to gently finger my arsehole – an act which was now commonplace when I masturbated.  After sliding it in and out a few times, I withdrew it and brought it up to my nose.  This would be the exhilarating smell of our sex: the heady smell of me being butt-fucked.  With this thought, my cock rapidly hardened and lengthened to its full size and I began stroking myself more quickly.

Squirting some KY on my finger for lubrication, I returned finger to my hole and started sliding it gently in and out, gently rubbing my large bollocks with the heel of my palm as I did so.  Moistened from the jelly, my finger started making slurping noises as it moved in and out of me.  Now I really did hope Jake was asleep!

Developing a steady rhythm in and out of my anus, I imagined it was Cameron, driving in and out of me.  It would feel so good to be physically joined to another man like this: his cock being consumed by the tunnel of my eager backside.  It would feel right and natural to have him pleasure himself inside me: I couldn’t understand why it had never occurred to me before how great it would be to have another man take me like this, using my arse to grip his excitement as he bucked his hips back and forth.

Now that I was becoming used to regular anal masturbation, I worked three fingers together into myself and started sliding them in an out of myself as deeply as I could.  I took up the same rhythm as my right hand beating up and down my cock, enjoying the wet sounds of my bunched up fingers as they fucked me.  I imagined Cameron having me like this: lying on my back with him kneeling between my legs, sliding in and out of me beneath my loose, large balls.  I thought at first I might be put off by feeling feminised by the position – after all, this was the position I most liked women to be in when we were making love.  But I soon figured that this homosexual version of the missionary position would be sufficiently different from its straight equivalent to have a unique appeal of its own.

For a start, how could I feel feminised with my cock, aching in its extreme state of arousal, raised so prominently between us and swollen to an almost bestial thickness?  How could Cameron think of me as a woman when he had my large pair of knackers bobbing around in his pubes every time he thrust into me?  And how could either of us imagine this as heterosexual lovemaking when the intoxicating smell from our exertions made it so brutally clear that this was a man’s gaping arse being fucked?

Now stroking myself as fast as I could and fingering my arse with long rapid thrusts which were stretching my hole wider than it had ever been, I imagined Cameron climaxing inside me, wondering how it would feel to have his hot juices squirting up into my bowels.  There’d be squelching noises from my anus as his semen was pumped into me and my arse-crack would feel wet from where some of it would leak out of my hole from the thrusting of his cock.  He’d be grunting like an animal and I’d be grabbing at his buttocks, pulling him into me with all the strength I could muster as his balls emptied themselves into me.

My own cock started spewing, soaking my pyjama top with thick gobs of semen.  I kept pumping my shaft, expelling the copious gushes of liquid from my fattened cock-head and enjoying the feel of my rectum clenching and unclenching around the deeply buried fingers of my left hand as it enjoyed its own, less visible, orgasm.

As my orgasm subsided it occurred to me that, if I were to climax when I was being fucked, my companion would feel the muscles of my bowels giving his cock a thorough work-over as he held it inside me.  It would be like my bum was wanking him off: he might actually start cumming himself from the sensation of feeling his organ gripped so firmly by my delicious rectal spasms.

Surely this was too fortuitous to be just a quirk of biology?  Surely this proved that men were meant to enjoy anal sex together?  Why else would my bowels squeeze so tightly when my cock was spurting, the muscular rhythm exactly harmonized to stimulate the thrusting girth of another man’s shaft?  It was like my backside fully expected that I would have a companion’s organ buried deep up inside it and was doing its best to ensure we shared a joint climax together!

When I’d fully spent myself and had squeezed the last beads of cum from my softening cock, I pulled my three fingers out from my arsehole and grabbed the box of tissues from my bedside table to clean myself off.  In spite of how much semen I’d produced, my balls still looked just as large and bloated inside the loose, hairy bag of my scrotum.  No doubt they’d need a further release come the morning.

I changed my pyjama top for a dry one and then settled down to sleep.

I wondered again why this fantasy had never occurred to me before.  Why, as a curious teenager, I’d dismissed gay sex as something other people did and had focussed my masturbatory energies exclusively on feminine attractions.  It now seemed so obvious that sex for me had been diminished by the absence of a male presence: all the times I’d had sex with women seemed boringly predictable in comparison with the prospect of having another man in my bed, the two of us armed with our wonderfully-versatile cocks.  That’s not to say that I wanted to give up on heterosexual sex: I just realised that there were many other experiences with my own gender which I could enjoy in addition to it.

I resolved to talk to Cameron the next day and invite him out for a drink after work.  Maybe, on Friday night when Jake was at his mum’s, he’d be here with me and we’d be enjoying doing some of the things I’d fantasized about; certainly the rimming if not the rest.  My cock started to respond to the prospect of that and so I tried to empty my mind to help me drift off to sleep.

As I began to relax, I realised how sore my backside was from where I’d prized it open and assaulted it with three fingers.  How the hell might it feel on Saturday morning?

 

Next story: Candid Cameron

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