Cock Worshipper

by Jason Kason

 

Part 11

This old fella, Frank Parkin, had me proper figured out from the way I was flaunting myself in my tight, bleach-washed jeans and sipping at a rum and coke because I couldn’t stomach pints.  He must have had his eye on me from across the other side of the working men’s club and then followed me into the gents when I’d strutted in there with my arse bobbing around like I had the two halves of a watermelon stuffed down the back of my jeans.

He came and stood next to me at the urinals while I was pissing.  There were three of them free on that side of me, so he could have stood well away from me if he’d wanted, but he didn’t: he came and stood right alongside me.

As he was unzipping himself and pulling his dick out, he said, “You’re Pete Latcham’s lad, aren’t ya?”

His voice was quiet and deep; it had amusement in it and something more unpleasant that I couldn’t quite place.

I shrugged at what he’d said, directing my strong and noisy stream in to the bowl.  “Sort of.”

He started to dribble piss much more falteringly into his urinal.  “Yer not much like him, I’ve got to say, kiddo.”

“Well, he’s my step-dad.  Not my real dad.”

“Aye, that’ll be it,” he muttered.  “I could tell there were sommit.”

I wasn’t that interested in him at first.  He seemed repulsively old and had his hair Brylcreamed back so it looked matted and greasy.  And he was wearing a shirt and tie like old fellas did back then: even my step-dad wore something casual when he went out for a drink.

I was getting back on with pissing when he added, with a sly sneer towards me, “Mind, yer a bit on the fey side, aren’t ya, sonny?”

“‘A bit on the fey side?’  What do you mean by that?”

I suddenly realised what else it was that was in his voice: it was a sort of malevolent lewdness, like what he was saying was intended to be vulgar and offensive even though, so far, it hadn’t been.

He kept smirking at me, still just leaking a thin patter of piss from his wrinkly knob, and then said, “It’ll be easier for me to show ya… if ya don’t mind lettin’ let me…?”

I didn’t object and he reached across to me with his free hand and put the palm of it slap bang on my bum.  I swivelled my head around to look at him straight-on and he chuckled knowingly at my obvious surprise.

“Ya asked me what I meant, lad, and I’m showin’ ya!”

He gently groped the back of my jeans, rubbing his fingers between my cheeks around where he knew my hole would be lurking.

“It means ya like a bit of this, lad,” he grinned and then pressed his middle finger more firmly into my crack.  When I didn’t pull away, he pushed it in so hard he made my pants press right up into my bunghole.

He smirked more broadly, licking his tongue around his lips, and worked his finger ever deeper into my cleft, swivelling it around a bit.  He was rubbing it so heavily that I knew if I hadn’t wiped properly, my pants would have a really grim stain on the back of them.

“Ya like that, don’t ya, son?  Havin’ a dirty owld fella like me rubbin’ your little brown cunnie…?”

I thought well fuck you, so I said defiantly, “Yeah I do.  I fucking love it.”

He laughed at that and licked his lips again, now working his finger in and out of my crack.  “Aye, I knew ya would.  Prancin’ around like a fairy in there… showin’ off yer big round dookie for all the blokes to goggle at…”

I smirked back at him, trying to be as bold as he was, and now that I’d finished pissing, pushed my arse back towards his finger.  He was really jabbing it against my arsehole like he was fucking me with it.  He knew all about lads like me who liked bending over for horny fellas.

I worked myself against his hand, pushing my butt back onto it and feeling my cock growing hard, until he laughed again and said quietly, “If ya loosen yer trousers like a good little pansy-boy, I’ll do it so ya like it even more.”

I undid my belt and the button of my jeans, and he slid his hand down the back of them, between the denim and the material of my briefs.  He groped around the cotton with his middle finger pressing into my butt-crack and worked it lower and lower until he was level with my hole.

“Yer cute little panties are all damp down here, lad,” he muttered, working his finger deep into my crack and circling it around my arse-ring.  I pushed it back against him, loving the way he was groping me up like this right here at the urinals, and my cock stood upwards with the foreskin pulling back.

“Get a bit sweaty down there, do ya son?  Or is all the fellas’ spunk leakin’ out o’ yer stinky little pussy?”

I grinned at him.  I’d known he was a dirty fucker but I’d had no idea he might like rubbing his finger against a gay lad’s slimy butthole.

“So you knew him before?” Philip asked.  “Prior to the night in the working men’s club?”

I nodded.  “Everyone in the town knew Frank Parkin.  He was rumoured to have fathered about half the kids getting wheeled around in pushchairs up the high street but he wouldn’t own up to anything for fear of having to pay out.”

“Had you met him before?”

“Only in passing.  He’d been at my mam and step-dad’s wedding the year previous but our paths hadn’t really crossed.”

My mam had insisted on getting married properly because she was sick of all the digs and bitchy comments she kept having to listen to.  The thing that had really upset her was when she’d been stopped outside the town hall and had given some comment to the local paper about whatever the issue of the day was, and the knobhead journalist had written after her name, “who lives in the town with her son and commonlaw husband.”

That had really pissed her off and she’d told my step-dad there and then that she wanted a proper wedding.

“How did you feel about the wedding?” Philip had asked ages ago when I’d first told him about the two of them finally getting hitched up.

“I loved it!” I answered him.  “It was totally awesome!”

“Awesome?  In what way?”

“Well, I got to suck off two waiters at the hotel where they had the reception and then got shagged by the chef round the back of the kitchens.  I spent most of the afternoon trying not to get spunk on the posh suit they’d hired for me.”

“You really need to curb this tendency, Jason,” he scolded me.

“Tendency?  You mean my cock worshipping?”

For a moment I was surprised: Philip had always said my cock worshipping was a symptom of me being screwed up and so simply changing that behaviour wouldn’t affect the cause of it.

“No,” he replied.  “You need to curb your tendency to sexualise everything.  You know full well that I was asking about your emotional reaction to the event and yet you persist in turning everything around to penises.”

“Maybe it’s a defence mechanism,” I suggested with a shrug.

He stared at me with a really piercing look.  “That’s actually very good, Jason…”

“Yeah, maybe I can’t cope with the all the emotional stuff so I just focus my attention on cocks as a way of hiding from it.”

He nodded slowly.  “Yeah… well done…”

I grinned at him.  “Can I have whatever they’re paying you for doing this, ’cause it seems like I’m the one sitting here counselling myself…?”

He smiled back.  “The very best therapists get their clients to recognise their unhelpful thought patterns for themselves.  It just shows you’re in good hands, Jason.”

Anyway, getting back to the toilets in the club and whether the dampness on the back of my pants was due to sweat or spunk.

I said to Frank Parkin, “If you have a proper feel, you might find out.”

He smirked at me and I glanced down at his cock.  It was bigger than it had been but still had a long way to go before you’d be able to call it hard.  I wondered if he could only grow boners slowly because he was old or whether he preferred real pussies to the stinky equivalents found down the back of lads’ underwear.

He worked his finger around the hem of my briefs and eased it between my pert, firm buttocks.

He smirked more broadly when he found my tight and wrinkled hole and then slid the top inch or so into me easily from how moist I was.  He jiggled it around inside me a bit so that I gasped and squatted forwards a bit, trying to work it as deeply up me as I could.

“Well fancy that, lad,” he muttered so low it was almost a whisper.  “It’s not sweat and it’s not spunk… I wonder what it could be, makin’ yer little boy-cunt so wet and slippy.”

“I dunno,” I panted, pushing my arse back against him, “but I reckon I won’t need any lube tonight!”

He pulled out of my hole with a slurp and took his hand out from the back of my jeans.  To my surprise he raised his middle finger to his nose, even though it was obvious what was smeared on it, and sniffed it slowly and intently.  He actually closed his eyes while he was inhaling the goo from where his finger had been, as if he was appreciating the delicate bouquet of a fancy wine or something.

“Ah, that’s a nice bit o’ stink, that is,” he breathed, sniffing up and down his discoloured digit.  “Look what yer’ve done t’ me, ya filthy little bastard!”

I looked down at his cock and found it was now standing upwards and looking much bigger.  He certainly liked the whiff of a lad’s smelly arse.

“What’re ya gonna do t’ help me out, fey boy?” he asked in that lewd drawl of his with a seedy grin.

“I’ll suck you off,” I offered, “if you keep pushing your finger up me.”

“A big gash like yours’ll need more than just one,” he sneered, but just then the door of the toilet swung open and some big beefy fella barged in to join us at the urinals.

Frank Parkin quickly stuffed his hard-on away and I did the same with mine, fastening up my belt hastily.

I went over to wash my hands but he didn’t come over to wash his own at another sink.  He wanted to keep the stink finger he’d been so keen to sniff.  Instead, he walked over to me and muttered in my ear, “There’s some dressin’ rooms round the back for when they’re puttin’ on a turn.  I’ll show ya round them if ya like?”

“Yeah,” I smirked at him through the mirror.  “That’d be cool.”

He sneered back at me and then walked out of the toilet.  The bloke at the urinal turned his head to glare across at me like I was the lowest form of whore.

“How old was Frank Parkin?” Philip asked.

I shrugged.  “I dunno.  He seemed ancient to me back then.  His teeth were all stained and his eyes were pale and watery.  But he might just have had a hard life and been as young as… I dunno… forty, maybe.  It’s difficult to know.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I’ve no idea.  It’s not like we became pen-friends or anything.”

He showed me into one of the little backrooms which was in no way glamorous enough to be called a dressing room.  It was basically a storage room for the boxes and crates of stuff for the bar but there was a little table with a stool and a tarnished mirror hanging on the wall so I suppose someone could have got togged up in there if they really had to.

After I’d closed the door, he sat down on the stool and said, “Alright, now pull yer trousers and pants down, sissy-boy.  Let’s see what yer’ve got for owld Frank.”

I did as he’d said and pulled my jeans and little blue briefs all the way down to my ankles.  My cock flopped out and dangled over my bollocks.  It had gone soft when the big bloke had barged his way into the toilet.

Frank Parkin smiled at it.  His teeth really were a mess.  He must have either chain-smoked or drank black tea by the bucket-full.

“Mind yer a full-blown little fella aren’t ya?  Look at the grit hairy bollocks swingin’ around down there – big as a fuckin’ boxer’s.”

I laughed at that and lifted my cock up to jiggle them around for him.  “Do you like them?”

“Naah, I like lassies’ bits more than lads’, son.  I’m not one o’ your sort.”

“You like my arse, though, don’t you?” I grinned and turned round to flash my bare bum at him.

“Aye, that’s a nice podgy dookie yer’ve got there,” he chuckled.  “Come a bit closer and lift yer shirt up like a proper queer.  Let’s see what ya shit through.”

I did as he said and he reached forwards with both hands and stroked my backside almost sensually, caressing both cheeks and running his thumbs deep into my hairy crack.

“Aye, that’s nice,” he muttered.  “That’s a cute little tush you’ve got there, fey boy.”

He reached forwards and sniffed at my butt, just like a dog would.

“Aw, that’s fuckin’ lovely that is,” he said, pushing his nose into the cleft between my cheeks and inhaling more deeply.  “Yeah… you’ve got a nice ripe cunnie… all wet and stinky… just how I like it…”

He was clearly a butt-man, just like Hutchy was.  In fact Hutchy could well be just like him these days, taking lads into little backrooms and asking to see their arses now that he’s older.

After he’d had a good sniff inside my arse crack, Frank Parkin slapped my bum and said, “Let’s see ya bend forwards and show daddy yer little brown winker.”

“He actually called himself that?” Philip cut in.  “Referred to himself as ‘daddy’?”

“I’d hardly mess up a detail like that,” I retorted.

“And how did you respond?” he added.

“My hard-on sprang up like someone had flipped a switch.  One second I was floppy, the next I was running an absolute stonker.”

Philip sat back on his swivel chair and smiled and nodded.  “Go on, please, Jason.  This is very important.”

I bent forwards and Frank Parkin licked the finger he’d already had up me and which he hadn’t washed.  He really worked it in and out of his mouth as if he liked the taste of my bum on it.

Then he pushed it up into my arsehole much more deeply than he’d managed with his hands down the back of my jeans.

“Oh, yeah!” I called out, pushing my bum towards him.  “That’s dead nice that is!”

“‘That’s dead nice, daddy’,” he corrected me.

“That’s dead nice, daddy,” I said with a smirk, looking back over my shoulder.

He grinned back at me, working his finger in and out of my hole.  “Mind, ya ‘aven’t just been usin’ this big brown cherry when yer’ve been sittin’ on the bog, ‘ave ya?”

I chuckled at his crudeness.  “What do you mean, daddy?”

“I mean yer’ve had a good few lads’ fat chubs breakin’ you in, ‘aven’t ya?  Yer big hairy boy-minge is nicely opened up – fuckin’ loose, just about.”

“I’ve had one or two, daddy, yeah,” I gasped.

“One or fuckin’ two,” he laughed.  “Yer’ve been stickin’ yer chuff out for ‘alf the fuckin’ lads in the school, more like.  I’m not fuckin’ soft in the ‘ead, kiddo.  I know a well-bummed arse when I stick me finger up one!”

He started sliding two fingers into me together, my stretched hole easily able to accommodate them.

“Aye, yer fuckin’ well loose, ya little fag-skank.  It’s like a knife through butter!”

I laughed back at him.  For some reason I was loving this: I hadn’t yet got a proper look at his cock, never mind paid proper tribute to it, and yet I was really getting off on having him finger my bum.

“I can’t help it, daddy,” I panted.  “I love getting my arse knobbed… squeezing my muscles ’round a big fat dick!”

“Aye, I’m sure you do,” he grinned and worked three fingers into me.  “Yer a proper little pansy Potter, aren’t you, son?  Bendin’ ower for all the big lads to stick their bonk-ons up yer dirty little shitter…”

“Yeah I am, daddy,” I gasped, pushing my arse back against his hand to try and get his fingers deeper up me.  “I love having all the horny lads queueing up to bum me!”

He laughed at that and I saw him loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt.  His face was getting sweaty and his cheeks were blotchy red.  He was enjoying finger-fucking my backside just as much as I was loving having it up me.

I grabbed my cock and started wanking myself off, but he put his free hand on my elbow to steady it and said, “Not yet, son.  Not ’til daddy tells ya that ya can.”

“I wanna wank off, though!” I implored him.  “I won’t spunk up but I really need to jerk my dick!”

“I don’t know what yer sayin’ son…. I’m not followin’ ya.”

I realised what he meant and said, “I need to wank off, daddy.  Please can I play with me knob?”

He smiled and said, “Yer’ve gotta earn it, son.”

“How do I earn it, daddy?”

“How the fuck d’ya think, ya little puffter?”

He pulled out of my arse and stood up off the stool.  He undid the front of his trousers and yanked his piss-stained old man Y-fronts down.  His cock sprang up looking bigger than it had in the loos now that it was fully exposed.  His bollocks were big and saggy and his pubes mostly grey.

I knelt down in front of him, thinking I knew what to do, but he said, “No, stay bending ower, nancy-boy.  I ‘aven’t finished wi’ yer tush!”

It was an awkward position to give a blowjob in but it seemed that for some reason Frank Parkin was the sort of guy who called the sexual shots.  I found myself just going along with whatever it was he wanted, so eager to please him in spite of how unpleasant he looked.

There was just something about him which seemed to command obedience from his sexual partners.  It must be why people said he got off with so many women in spite of what a grubby creep he was.

“This really is fascinating,” said Philip.  “I don’t know why you didn’t tell me this ages ago.”

“I didn’t think it was that important.  Just another notch on the bedpost, kind of.”

“But don’t you see how it links in with what we’ve been talking about all this time?  This man wanted you to call him daddy and in your sexual psyche becomes the father figure you’ve been seeking?”

“I never saw him again after that,” I shrugged.  “It’s not like we started having picnics and holidays and stuff.”

“But that’s not important, Jason,” he insisted.  “It’s what such moments represent to the subconscious that are significant.”

I nodded but I couldn’t really see what he was saying.  In the last session he was going on about me having a desire to penetrate older men but that was all bollocks because nothing had been further from my mind with Frank Parkin.  I just loved the way he was fingering me and how he knew that my arse had worshipped so many cocks.

“Please, Jason, continue,” he urged me.  “Try to remember as many details as you can.”

“You gotta earn the right to fiddle wi’ yersel’, son,” Frank Parkin called down to me as I started lapping at the shiny head of his cock.  “You gotta treat daddy’s nice big choad wi’ the love and kindness it deserves.”

“Yes, daddy,” I said, lapping up the clear fluid that was weeping from his furrowed slit.  His cock smelled rough like stale urine, but the taut purple head of it tasted quite nice.  I’d expected it might have a distinctive old man taste, sour and fusty, but it wasn’t like that at all.

He reached back and started fingering my butt with three fingers again.  The sensation was exquisite: he really knew how to make a gay lad’s dick throb and dribble.

I pulled off from him and said, “Can I wank off now, daddy, please?”

“Not ’til I fuckin’ say so, flitty boy,” he said snappily.  “You ‘ave to treat daddy’s chub wi’ proper respect and show ‘im how much you love it – now do as yer fuckin’ told!”

I went down on him properly, sticking my bum out for him to work his hand in and out of, slavering my lips down the thick shaft of his dick and licking at the head as it slid in and out of my mouth.

“Aye, that’s more like it, ya little cock-whore.  Suck it nice and ‘ard and divn’t forget me knackers.”

I slurped at it, sucking it as roughly as I could and then licked and kissed his dangly nuts, reaching up to smother his scrotum across my face.

“Show daddy how much ya love his big plums,” he panted, his hand speeding up as it drove it in and out of my grateful behind.  “Let daddy know how much yer wantin’ all the thick, white spunk he’s mekin’ for ya!”

I took one of his balls into my mouth, rolling it around on my tongue as I grunted with the pleasure he was giving to my bum, and then moved across to do the same with the other.  Then I worked back up to his straining hard-on, kissing all around the weeping head and licking at its ooze, and soon took his thickened shaft into my mouth again to show it the reverence it deserved.

“I bet ya suck all yer mates’ porkers, don’t ya?” he gasped as I swept my lips rapidly up and down his throbbing cock.

“Mmm…” was all I could mouth in reply.

“One lad’s big fat root in yer mouth, and the other behind ya, jebbin’ off up yer arse!”

I pulled off him and panted up to his scarlet face, “I really need to wank off now, daddy!”

“Wait ’til I fuckin’ tell ya, ya horny bastard.  I know what young lads are like – I don’t want ya spunkin’ up and fuckin’ off before I’m ready.”

“You can shag my arse while I wank off!” I hopefully offered.

He chuckled like he’d heard it all before and stopped working his fingers in and out of my butt.  “I were in the merchant navy for four years, son.  If I were gonna get some sissy-boy’s shit on me cock I’d ‘ave done it back then, believe you me!”

“I’ve got a condom on me,” I said, thinking maybe that was the issue.

He smirked at me.  “Nice try, lad, but I don’t like it smellin’ o’ rubber, either.”

No wonder he was supposed to have so many kids.

Seeing my disappointment he smiled almost sympathetically.  He pulled his fingers out of my bum and sat back down on the stool with his cock pointing upwards and the head of it making a snotty smear on his dark blue tie.

“Come ower ‘ere and stand wi’ yer back to me,” he said, gesturing me in front of him.  “Show daddy how ya play wi’ yer arse in yer bedroom every night.”

I did as he told me and, bending forwards a bit, reached around to work a couple of fingers up my butt.  I never did this to myself normally – I couldn’t see the point – but showing Frank Parkin how I supposedly pleasured myself in my bed turned out to be much more horny than I might have expected.

I pushed my bum right back towards him and slid my fingers quickly and roughly in and out of my big, swollen ring as if I was used to doing this every night before I slept.

“Ah yeah,” I gasped, acting up for him.  “I love wanking off my arsehole!”

He laughed, “Aye, I thought you would,” and started jerking his cock off as he watched me perform.

I turned to him and grinned, really jabbing away at my over-stretched hole, and he leaned forwards for a sniff, clearly enjoying the odour of what Mr Davies had once called ‘anal masturbation’.

“D’ya do it every night, lad?  Bendin’ ower on yer bed so ya can frig yersel’ off like a randy little bum-boy?”

“Yeah, I do it all the time,” I laughed, “wishing it was all my mates’ big pricks that were shagging me!”

He chuckled with me: we were both loving talk dirty to each other.

“And I bet yer fuckin’ bedroom proper stinks, does it, when yer bashin’ away at yer own dirty shitter?”

“Yeah, it stinks of my arse and then even stronger of my spunk!”

My cock was so hard doing this in front of this seedy old man.  It felt wonderfully sordid to make him think I did this to myself every night at home, and I loved the way he kept sniffing at it: getting whiffs of my well-fucked bum as my fingers hammered in and out.

“Aye, that’s it,” he said, his hand thumping up and down his dick getting steadily faster.  “Wank yer faggot arse off for daddy!  Fist it nice and deep like ya do on yer bed!”

I bent further forwards and pushed three fingers all together up there, jabbing them in and out as I gasped at how good it felt to shove my arse so close to his gawping face.

“Go on, lad – faster and harder… get yer fingers right the way up it!” he called out, beating still more rapidly at his hard-on.   “Yer a mucky little fucker, aren’t ya?  Stinkin’ the whole house out, I bet; floggin’ yer shitty arse off every fuckin’ night!”

“Oh, daddy, I’ve really gotta wank my cock off too!” I gasped, my hand making loud slapping sounds as it smacked over and over against my sweaty butt-cheeks.

“Wait for it!” he commanded, his own hand whacking less noisily away.  “Give me a smell o’ yer stinky fingers, son.  Let uz smell what it’s like when a horny little bum-boy cuffs his own arse!”

I pulled my fingers out of my hole and he grabbed them with his free hand.  He raised them to his nose and sniffed at them eagerly.

“Ah, yeah!” he called out, his nose all over my fingers as his other hand bashed away at his swollen cock.  “Cronkin’ yer fuckin’ hole while yer wishin’ all the big lads were bummin’ ya wi’ their massive chub-ons!”

“Let me wank off, daddy!” I tried again.

“Go on then, son, wank yer cock off,” he mercifully conceded.  “Show daddy how much spunk yer big bollocks have in them!”

I had to jerk at my knob with my left hand because Frank Parkin was still inhaling my butt-stink fresh from my right.  It was a clumsy way of doing it and it ended up meaning that he came first – right when he started sucking on my fingers and licking at the flavour of my bum.

When his cock started nutting, I quickly turned around and got my mouth over it the spasming head of it.  He thanked me afterwards for stopping his jizz going all over his clothes, but that hadn’t even crossed my mind: I just wanted to properly gratify his lovely solid hard-on while it was expressing itself in the most glorious of ways.

I swallowed his seed down, feeling honoured that it was feeding me so lavishly, with him holding onto my head and telling me to drink down everything that daddy was giving me.

I hit my own peak when he was starting to go limp in my mouth, still sucking the dregs of his spunk out of his droopy knackers and enjoying how it would ooze and dribble onto my tongue.  I loved the way his cock still felt so thick and full even though it was becoming floppy, and the way he was telling me I was such a dirty fuckin’ slut-boy for slurping away at what he called his choad.

“It sounds like you had quite a time,” Philip said, showing once again his rare talent for stating the bleeding obvious.  “Why didn’t you make a habit of meeting up with Frank Parkin on future visits to the club?”

“Because I was never allowed to go again,” I smiled.  “My step-dad got wind of what I’d done – why I’d been so long in the john – and went absolutely batshit.  I mean, it was worse than the time at the swimming baths, and that was bad enough.”

“What did he say?”

“He actually swore.  If someone on the telly had said what he said that night, he’d have put his foot through it.  But in the car on the way back home, when it was just the two of us, he went fucking ballistic.”

“How did he swear?” Philip asked.

“Well, it wasn’t like bad swearing or anything, but for him it was the equivalent of mouthing a string of c-words.  He shouted at me, “You never damn well shit your own nest, Jason.  Whatever filthy bloody antics you’re getting up to, that’s the number one rule.”

I’d nodded, even though it was dark in the car and in any case he was driving so he was facing forwards, and he corrected himself, “No, to hell with that – that’s the number two rule.”

I almost laughed because I thought I’d just been witness to a rare joke from my step-dad.  I thought he meant that shitting in your nest was more apt as a number two rule… geddit?!

But he was in no mood for humour.

He said, “The number one rule is that you don’t ever – not on any sodding excuse – shit in my nest.  Is that clear?”

I nodded and he obviously didn’t see because he suddenly shouted across at me, “IS THAT CLEAR?”

I jumped so much my head hit the roof of the car and I quickly said, “Yes, Pete.  I swear to god I won’t do it again.”

After he’d calmed down and we were nearly home he said more quietly, “I’ve told you I don’t mind what you get up to, Jason, as long as you keep yourself safe while you’re doing it for your mam’s sake.  But you’ve gotta be discreet, and hooking up with fellas in the toilets of my club, right in front of a bloke I know, is definitely out of line.”

Fucking wanker who barged into the bogs.  Should have kept his trap shut instead of mouthing off.

“I mean, Frank Parkin of all people, Jason!” he went on.  “What were you thinking of?”

I was going to say he was just showing me the club dressing rooms but I didn’t want to risk another big shout.  Pete never raised his hand to me – and Christ I gave him ample reason to – but he might well have snapped good and proper if he thought I was insulting his intelligence like that.

So I just kept my spunky mouth closed and we parked up and pretended in front of my mam like it had been a really good evening.  Like I’d joined in with all the blokes with their pints sitting together round the poxy tables; like I hadn’t really left my sipped-at rum and coke for half an hour while I copped off with some sleazy old tramp in one of the backrooms.  Yeah, a fun-filled night was had by all.

Philip glanced up at the clock behind me.  I started to get up but he gestured me to sit back down.

“This has been a milestone of a session, Jason.  The stuff you’ve just told me was truly like the missing piece in a complicated jigsaw.”

I nodded even though I couldn’t see how it was.  “Oh… er… right…”

“From what you’ve just said, I think I’ve got it all figured out.  I can finally identify what’s at the root of all your problems.”

I cocked my head towards him.  “Yeah?”

“Yes,” he grinned, looking uncharacteristically jubilant.  “I really think we can nail this one, you and I, with just a few more sessions.”

“What, you’re suddenly that sure?”

He beamed at me and nodded.  I’d never seen him like this.

“I think your cock worshipping days will soon be over, Jason.  Once I’ve figured out a pathway for you, you can put it all behind you.”

A pathway, I ask you.  I mean, get fucking real.

I said, “Well, I don’t know that I want to give it all up just like that, mate.”

“But that’s the best part of it,” he said, grinning and wide-eyed like some religious nut.  “You won’t be giving anything up.  Once I explain it all to you – once it’s as clear to you as it is to me now – you’ll be kicking yourself it’s all so simple.”

“So why not just tell me now?” I asked.

“It’ll take a couple of sessions, Jason.  I need to join up all the dots for you, one by one.  It’s not that I think you’re not intelligent – you know I don’t think that – it’ll just take some time because you’re on the inside looking out.”

I shrugged and nodded.  “Okay.”

He went on, “This time next week, we’ll get started on your cure.  I don’t often use that word but in this case I’m confident that I can.”

He got up to show me out of his office; even patted me on the arm when he was telling me how everything was going work out well for me.  That wasn’t like him at all: normally he just sits there writing up his notes from the session and mutters for me to send the next nutjob in.

So I’m pretty excited about our next session right now.  I don’t really want to stop professing my adoration of the beef bayonet, but if Philip’s got it sussed and I really don’t wind up missing it, then I guess my life will run a lot simpler without it.

He said I shouldn’t write another journal entry until we’ve gone through how all the different facets of my problem fit together.  The whole jigsaw thing that I don’t really get.

So maybe next time I write this it’ll be like Philip says and I’ll be cured!

I really hope so.  It’ll be great to be normal!

 

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