Ordinarily, my dreams very rarely drift towards the sexual and those which do are confused mosaics of hazy impressions and indistinct sensations. I might feel like I was inside a woman – my penis gently throbbing in her vagina – only to find that she seemed to be behind me, her nipples rubbing against my back and her hands reaching round to fondle me. Next thing I might have my face nuzzling into her breasts, then to become aware that I was kissing her mouth or licking her pussy or that she had been turned away from me the whole time. The back-story to the scenario and the identity of the woman I was with would both be unclear, or at best vague, and the dream’s eroticism would exist merely as a pleasant ambience of fragmentary fantasies.
I enjoyed having such fleeting feminine imagery lapping over me like the gentle waves of a warm, tropical sea.
The dream I’d just had was altogether different. Aside from the obvious shift in its gender-focus, the atmosphere had been almost crackling with an aggressive lust, while the sexual imagery had been crude and explicit. And yet, as surprising as it was to have one’s mind throw up such an intensely homosexual scenario – a scenario in which I’d been an active participant – the stiffness throbbing upwards from between my legs was a testament to how much I’d enjoyed it.
I staggered to the bathroom, hearing Jake downstairs busy himself with spooning instant coffee into my mug and opening a tin of food to placate the meowing cat, and locked the door behind me.
I unbuttoned my pyjama bottoms and released my cock from its confines, throbbing expectantly and hungry for attention. Angling its curving shaft with some difficulty into the wash-basin, I ran some cold water over it, thankful when my erection began to subside and the swollen head of it began to shrivel.
I looked at myself in the mirror above the sink while my cock reluctantly responded to the cold water from the tap.
What the hell was happening to me?
Over the previous day, I’d largely accepted that I’d enjoyed my first bona fide homosexual experience – the two of us men had been drunk and sexually tense, and so it was sort of understandable that we’d allowed things to go so far between us. While I couldn’t have anticipated how aroused I would get by the smells and tastes of another man – his musky cock, his sweaty balls and that most tantalising area deep inside the moist crack between his buttocks – I felt more able to acknowledge this unforeseen interest as part of my broad sexual make-up.
I just couldn’t believe that my natural curiosity to find out why I had been so excited by what Guy and I had done together had ended up with me whacking off in front of websites of men tonguing each other’s backsides. Couldn’t believe that those pictures, which really ought to have appalled any guy who professed to be straight, had instead brought me to the most powerful climax I could remember for many years. Couldn’t believe that while I’d taken a bath, I’d thought of how the men in those pictures had looked together and had ended up jerking myself again, running the tap noisily so Jake couldn’t hear my rhythm. Nor that, after I was sure Jake was asleep, I’d lain in bed and beat myself off a third time imagining Guy’s hairy arse-crack being pushed down onto my eager, tongue-extended face.
As well as feeling troubled that I was getting so aroused by such lurid subject-matter, I was surprised that I’d felt compelled to masturbate three times in almost as many hours and had subsequently, if Jake hadn’t awoken me, been well on the way to having a wet dream – both feats having been virtually unknown to me this side of turning twenty. Whatever had been triggered inside my brain by the events of Friday night had, at the same, given my penis a new lease of life.
I’d never been interested in women’s backsides – not in the slightest. If I had to apply a label to myself – as one sometimes did to appease other men in the bawdiness of the group – I would state simply I was a ‘breast man’, even though the concealed treasures to be found lower down held a far greater erotic appeal for me. There was nothing I found more sensual than to lick around and inside a woman’s vagina and to smell and taste her most delicate and feminine scents.
While showering, I wondered if my fascination with rimming was the homosexual counterpart of the same desire to taste of the secret and carnal; an expression of my salacious need to probe the bodily with my mouth and tongue. But whereas having one’s face between a woman’s legs was arousing because her juices and pheromones contrasted so subtly with one’s own sexual smells, having one’s face between a man’s cheeks was – as I had found – a far more powerful and more electrifying experience. Indeed, the two were hardly comparable. The graceful sweep of a woman’s smooth pudendum was heavy with eroticism and mystique, at complete odds with the lewd frankness of a man’s hairy buttocks which seemed more like an expression of the vulgar. The secretive folds of her vagina seemed almost homely in contrast to the barren simplicity of his hole. The gentle aroma of her womanhood paled into the predictable alongside the intoxicating array of powerful sensations I’d experienced as I’d explored Guy’s sumptuous male rear.
Such thoughts of Guy’s backside as I showered – and of the more general attraction of other men’s arses – led my penis to begin to recover its earlier glory and start its inexorable ascent upwards. I looked down at it, watching it thicken and harden as my foreskin slowly eased back to expose the fattening head and its single slit-eye was revealed to peer back up at me. In spite of its insistent demands for gratification as the water splashed down on it, I refrained from attending to it a fourth time so as not to stoke further waves of guilt about the rightness or wrongness of my burgeoning fascination with that most sordid of places.
In any case, Jake would be banging on the door at any moment, asking what I was doing in there and eager for us to get going.
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My feelings of guilt gradually eased as I drove Jake to football practice and we chatted about mundane matters like where he might have left his best trainers and whether he wanted fish-fingers for tea.
We had to stop at some temporary traffic-lights while they did some emergency work on a water main and, as the engine idled, I distractedly watched one of the workers using a pneumatic drill to break up the tarmac. He looked like he was in his late twenties and had a roughness about him which suited his luminous safety jacket and yellow hard hat. My attention was caught, though, by the back of his dirty jeans which were tight enough to reveal his round and muscular backside as he bent forwards to handle the juddering drill.
An involuntary sensation of how it would feel to have my face burrowing between his cheeks flashed into my mind and I quickly looked away from him over to the busy chip shop on the other side of the road.
But then I looked back at him.