Once home, my mother made me a sandwich while I sat in the kitchen with her. Watching her do this everyday task was also a surprise comfort given what had happened there earlier that day. Yet watching her walking over the spot where Mrs Davidson had cleaned my spunk from was also bizarre. What would she say if she knew? I quickly pushed the thought away.
Then she sat at the table and it began. “I’m worried about you David,” she said. “I don’t like the idea that this job will get in the way of your swimming.”
So we talked over the benefits and repercussions. I told her that coach intended to talk to me about it, but it might mean me giving up the club. However, I was an adult and I should do my best to pay my way. She tried to argue that we could cope, but I could see in her expression that the extra money would help.
“In any case,” I told her. “I can still swim, just not competitively.”
So that was that. I’d made my mind up. But it wasn’t over for her.
“Its not just the swimming or the job,” she said tentatively. “I’m not sure I like you working for Phillip. All these late nights with him. I just don’t understand what you have in common.”
I started to fidget, my face flushed and my cock betrayed me once again. I began to speak, but she held her hand up.
“It’s not just Phillip either,” she continued “You’ve stayed out with coach too. Not just late, but overnight.”
Mr Davidsons words immediately came back to me. Was it obvious to everyone who saw him that coach was gay? Was it the same with Phillip? Did my mother know that too? Had she seen what Mr Davidson saw?
My humiliation was taking over. I needed to get away. I shouldn’t be sitting there hard with my mother sitting opposite me. I fought my emotions. I needed to stay in control.
“I’m not gay,” I said. It just came out. I guess it needed to be said. Maybe that’s why I did. It had a surprise effect though. My embarrassment subsided. My erection too. I wondered if I should tell her I was bisexual but wearing lingerie had complicated things.
I could almost see her mind working. Trying to work out why I’d been late home so often with Phillip and coach. Trying to reconcile what she thought she’d seen.
“Listen mum,” I continued. “I’m 18 years old, in fact I’ll be 19 in a few months. Whatever you think I can take care of myself. You don’t need to worry about me, I promise.”
There was no way I was about to discuss my sexuality with my mother. Fuck, I hadn’t even come to grips with it myself really, so how could I. I just wanted her to know she didn’t need to be concerned.
Her expression softened. “I’m your mother David, it’s my job to worry.” She held my hand adding that I could talk to her about anything. The topic moved on to something more mundane as I finished my sandwich. For the time being she was happy.
I edged and masturbated for nearly 2 hours that night in bed letting the events of the last couple of days wash over me. I tried to concentrate on Lewis and Mr Ali in particular, but I couldn’t. As I pinched and pulled my nipples I couldn’t stop thinking about the way Mr Davidson had spoken to me. The mocking tone of his voice. The smirk on his lips. The way he’d used the word “sissy” as if to belittle me. yet he looked at the erection in my shorts twice, maybe 3 times. Not just glances either.
He’d told me there were sissy boys when he was in the navy and that the sailors got pent up when at sea for months on end. Was he one of those frustrated men? I started to create a fantasy of me as one of those sissy boys. My cock was streaming. I was close. The way he described coach as “that fuckin’ queer” with such derision, yet his gaze had drifted to my tented wet shorts. There was definitely a contradiction in his words compared to the look in his eyes.
Then I was remembering what Mrs Davidson had said, what she’d seen and saying it was “our little secret” before she left. It didn’t matter about her age or the fact she was my neighbour. I pulled my nipples hard. No, that didn’t matter at all. The image of her pulling my shorts back up filled my head. My shaven cock less than a foot from her face. I’d seen my spunk on her hands as she’d twisted the cloth over the bowl.
Fuck! It was all too much and my orgasm rained onto my face, some even landed on the pillow above my head. It was intense. I mean really intense. As the shudders subsided I felt light headed. I managed to clean myself up, but the need to sleep was overwhelming.
I woke up at around 5am with the usual morning erection and the image of Mr Davidson holding the knickers up asking if I was a sissy boy, the first thing in my mind. It took less than a few minutes to climax, the need too urgent to extend the pleasure.
The last thing my mother told me before she left for work was to clean the bin after the binmen had been. I hated doing that chore. It also meant having to be in the garden to do it. What if Mr Davidson was out there too? The prospect wasn’t appealing. So why was I hard?
I did my other chores trying not to think about it. So what if he was? After what Mrs Davidson had said, maybe he wouldn’t say anything more to me. If he did I’d just have to deal with it. My bravado weakened when I saw Mrs Davidson leaving through the front gate with her shopping bag.
Within half an hour the bin lorry had been and it was time to bring the bin in and clean it. I decided to deal with it the best way I knew how. I went upstairs and put my white shorts on, no underwear, no socks and just a tight black vest on. Fuck him. I put my trainers on and went out to collect the bin, then took it around to the back garden.
No sign of him, so I got on with the task. Just as I was hosing the bin down after scrubbing it out, he appeared at the fence.
“You can do mine when you’re finished,” he grinned at me. He was in his usual scruffy clothes. A white shirt that had turned long ago turned a shade of grey, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was tucked into a pair of worn out brown trousers, dirty from gardening, held up by a black leather belt. His boots had mud and dust clinging to them. He had a full head of silver hair, but it always looked greasy and unkempt.
I carried on, telling him it was bad enough doing my own. Maybe he wasn’t going to mention what had happened after all. He just stood there watching me. I felt uneasy. Uncomfortable. He disappeared. Thank fuck.
I finished up and began to tidy the hose away when he reappeared walking up my garden path dragging his bin behind him. What the fuck? I really couldn’t believe the cheek of him. He dumped it next to me and stood there looking me up and down, waiting.
“It ain’t been cleaned for ages,” he said looking directly at my crotch. “Needs good fuckin’ scrub.”
There was a moment where I considered what I should do. Then I just gave in and started to clean it. Maybe he’d leave me alone afterwards.
I started to regret my choice of clothing as I worked. I hadn’t expected this. In my mind I’d only thought of giving him a show of rebellion. To show him that he hadn’t embarrassed me and that I could wear whatever I chose. Now as he stood next to me pointing out bits I’d missed or to make sure I got right to the bottom, I could feel my shorts riding up between my cheeks. I should have worn underpants. Even worse was that fact that I was getting wet through, the cold water caused my nipples to harden beneath my vest and the flimsy nylon shorts to cling to my body.