I wondered how his arse would look nude, flexing below the hem of his work jacket. He’d have a lovely pair of pert cheeks and a deep sweaty crack sprouting coarse black hair, the same colour as that on his head but curlier.
I looked away again – back to the lights, willing but at the same time not willing them to change colour.
I was developing yet another erection, right there in the front of the car with my son next to me. I was thankful that my swelling organ was directed down one leg of my jeans, giving it the space to expand inside my loose boxers without me having to awkwardly adjust myself.
I looked back at the worker. Oh god – that arse!
How exciting would it be to push my nose between those amazing cheeks; to inhale the sweat of his morning’s exertions condensed like dew on his wiry butt-hair? And to extend my tongue deeply into him, to taste –
“Pretty good, huh?” said Jake. “You really want to get stuck into that, don’t you?”
I swung round to face him, feeling myself start to blush. “What?”
“I think it’d be too much for you, though, Dad. Too intense.”
I stared at him uncomprehendingly. Was I really so easy to read?
He laughed. “The drill! You were like miles away! Wishing you could have a go.”
“Oh right! Yeah. Wow – if only, Jake.”
“It’d be too powerful, though. It’d drag you all over the road.”
I smiled as the lights changed colour and we set off again.
I glanced at the worker still drilling the tarmac as we drove past him. He was probably aware that one or two women among the queues of traffic might admire his tight buns, but I wondered if knew that the occasional man would spend a few minutes at the lights day-dreaming about rimming him. I wondered, actually, if he knew what rimming was.
As I swerved around the road-works to rejoin the flow of traffic, my semi-hard-on now thankfully softening in my trousers, Jake said, “Yesterday was pretty cool. It’s so much better to see a big game… the atmosphere’s completely different. We should do it again.”
I was pleased he enjoyed the match. After what had happened between me and Guy, I’d had trouble focussing on the game and the extortionate price of my ticket had been rather wasted.
“Maybe we should go and see Man U next time they play?” I suggested.
He nodded. “Yeah, but we should stay over somewhere again. It was a good laugh.”
I smiled. “We’ll do it again, Jake. Maybe this side of Christmas if we can.”
I slowed down behind a cyclist, waiting for a gap in the traffic. The shorts he was wearing were very tight and showed his buttocks off rather well. I let a couple of opportunities to pass him go by so I could get a better look.
When, eventually, I overtook him, Jake asked, “What was it like to sleep with Simon’s dad?”
I glanced over at him and saw that, while he’d intended his question to sound innocent, the way he was looking at me betrayed that it had been planned and that he was curious about something. He had his mother’s guile, as I was frequently reminded.
I said noncommittally, “Not too bad, I guess.”
“Did you get on okay with him?” he asked.
I glanced over at him again. He was studying my face intently.
“Well, sort of. It wasn’t like we were big mates or anything. But he was reasonable company for one night.”
I stopped to let some kids and their mum cross the road at a zebra crossing.
He asked, slowly as if choosing his words carefully, “Was it good to… you know… spend the night with someone again… since mum left.”
“What are you getting at, Jake?”
He was quiet until we set off again, and then he said, “When Guy came in to say goodnight, Simon asked him what you guys were doing.”
“And what did he say?”
“He was like, ‘Oh, nothing much… only bumming!'”
I threw him a look. “That’s vulgar, Jake. And you shouldn’t call it that.”
“Well that’s what he said.”
I stared straight ahead, feeling annoyed that Guy had made such a crude joke. I had made every effort to stop Jake using the word ‘bumming’ which he’d brought back with him from a scouts trip a few years earlier after he and his friends had – if his story could be believed – spied on a couple of older boys having sex together in their hostel after lights out. For a time he’d found it hilarious to use the word whenever he could and the cartoons in his notebook, usually cleverly perceived caricatures which he’d always had a talent for, had abruptly veered towards the lewd. Since then I’d tried hard to steer him away from such smutty playground humour and to nurture a more balanced view of sexuality than my parents and my older brother had given me.
When my irritation had subsided enough for me to speak without it showing in my voice, I said as calmly as I could muster, “Guy shouldn’t have said that. It’s a horrible word.”
“But were you?”
I glanced over at him more sternly. “Are you serious, Jake? Of course we weren’t!”
Jake being Jake, he didn’t know when to let up.
“But Simon’s dad said you were. And it’s been so long since you had a girlfriend…”
I turned on him angrily to show him that he’d gone too far. “Drop it, Jake. That’s enough!”
I did a left turn onto Great Bowden Road, feeling annoyed by Jake’s apparent ease at believing that his father would have opportunistic anal sex with another man who he hardly knew. The fact that Guy and I had indeed had sex together – and that what we’d done had in many ways been far more intimate – added to my discomfort.
I was going to let the subject drop but after driving a few blocks I said, more calmly, “I can’t believe you would think I’d done that, Jake.”
“Well… you know… it’s no biggie, dad. You told me guys like to play around together sometimes even though they’re not gay. So I figured that’s what you were doing.”
He had a point. I had told him a while ago that it was normal for some boys go through a period of being interested in other boys and that he should not feel ashamed about experimenting with his friends in sexual ways. He’d been both amused and repulsed by the suggestion and had asked, laughing, if that meant I’d be okay if I found him ‘doing it’ with his friend Craig in his bedroom (I think he’d subconsciously plucked Craig’s name out of the air because he is the most effeminate of Jake’s friends and can, in my view, sometimes be a bit flirty with him). I’d smiled and said I’d obviously prefer not to walk in on my son ‘doing it’ with anyone – girl or boy – but that if it happened I’d see it as a natural expression of his sexual curiosity.
So I suppose, in Jake’s eyes, whatever I’d been doing with Guy had simply been my way of leading by example.
Perhaps seeing from my softening expression that I was tacitly accepting his argument, he added, “I wouldn’t mind if the two of you were doing stuff.”
I smiled at how permissive he was trying to be about it and how our roles had been reversed.
“Well, that’s good to hear. But what Simon’s dad said was just a joke – in pretty poor taste and using a word I don’t like, but a joke nonetheless.”
He nodded. “Well I thought that. But then there were those noises and… well…”
“What noises?”
He shrugged. “You know. Sexual noises.”