David Begins Graduate Study

We went for dinner at the Sparrowhawk and before and after the meal had about three pints of beer each. Robin told us that Arnold had got a good degree and a job, and that they had rented a flat together at Reading, where Arnold was working. They had settled in happily together and Arnold was enjoying his new job. This satisfaction had produced a big change in Robin, who was now much less "eeyorish." While naturally not being forthcoming about his sexual relations, he gave us to understand that Arnold was a good fuck and that they were blissfully happy together.

As we walked home from the pub, possibly as a result of the beer that we had consumed, Robin demonstrated his newfound self-confidence by farting frequently and noisily. Inevitably David and I took up the challenge and matched his anal outbursts with blast-offs from our own rear ends. I asked Robin what Arnold thought of his farting habits and he replied that Arnold loved them and that his farting really turned Arnold on. "That's what's so good about fucking a man," he said. "Women always complained when I let off, but Arnold loves it!" We were all feeling a bit uninhibited, as you may have gathered, and the conversation became a discussion on farting habits. If you feel that farting and toilet matters have no place in a romantic novel, feel free to skip to the beginning of Chapter 6.

By now we were back in our flat in Fountain Street, and we continued the farting competition with great enjoyment. As readers of the previous book may remember, I get very flatulent, and fart whenever I get the opportunity, particularly when I visit the toilet for a piss. However my anal blast-offs are noisy rather than smelly, but when David lets off, there is often a stink. "What time of day do you fart the most?" I asked Robin. "You'll soon find out at breakfast time tomorrow!" he replied, and let another blast escape from his arsehole.

David started to giggle and bent forward and blasted another thunderclap from his rear. "I really enjoy farting," he said "It's a pity that making a rude noise with your arsehole is so antisocial, because it's fun!"

"It's only antisocial because of the stink," I said "otherwise as Benjamin Franklin pointed out 150 years ago, the noise is no worse than coughing or blowing your nose. It's a shame that no-one has ever properly followed up Franklin's research proposal to the Royal Academy of Brussels to identify a material that could be ingested via the mouth to make farts smell pleasant."

"You two are the chemists," said Robin "maybe it's a job for you!" We had a glass of White Shield each and then went to bed.

The next morning we had breakfast to the accompaniment of a chorus of farts from Robin and myself. David left for his lab giggling. "I need a shit," I said to Robin "and I guess you do as well. Shall we toss for who goes first or will you use the bog in your en-suite?"

"You do your business first," said Robin "and if you don't mind, I'll come in and talk while you're on the pot."

"OK," I said, without considering any possible consequences. I went into the bathroom, pulled down my lower garments and sat on the toilet. A couple of loud farts preceded the exit of a big installment of shit from my rear end. I did a quick courtesy flush before the stink got too awful and sat to await a further possible download. Robin entered the room and looked at my manhood dangling into the pot. "Nice dick!" he said.

"It's nothing special," I replied.

"Maybe not, but I don't get to see a lot of cocks, especially cut ones. Would you like me to suck it? Yours is the first circumcized cock I've seen close up, and that makes me want it in my mouth even more."

"What, here on the pot?"

"Yes! Just open your legs and I'll kneel down and do the necessary."

This was a dilemma for me. Here was a guy whom I had thought of as a friend and colleague, attempting to seduce me in my own bathroom! "Are you sure that you should be doing this? What about our partners? Don't you think we might be betraying their trust? Don't forget that we have to work together. Is that compatible with us having sex?"

"I've always fancied you. I like skinny guys. And I love sucking dick. As for David, his turn will come tonight!"

"At least let me wipe my shitty hole and wash my hands and flush the bog again. It'll be better for you as well if there's no stink of shit."

"OK" he said, and passed me the roll of toilet paper. I tore some off and started to wipe my hole. As I did so, Robin farted noisily. That excited me, and as I flushed the toilet, I could feel my cock stiffening. It took a lot of toilet paper to get my hole and crack clean. Having done so, I flushed again and stood up to wash my hands, my half-erect dick waving in the air. "You see!" he said, "you really want it!"

I washed my hands, dried them and resumed my seat on the toilet. I opened my legs wide apart. Robin bent and kissed me passionately on the lips and knelt down between my legs, farting again as he did so. He took my semi-hard cock into his mouth and it reached full stiffness at once. He pulled it out of his mouth and began to nuzzle and lick it. He was obviously an experienced giver of blow-jobs and knew just how to give maximum stimulation and enjoyment. As it was years since I had last been sucked off by anyone except David, in spite of feelings of guilt, I relaxed and let Robin work on my dick. He was gentle and subtle and knew exactly how to prolong the experience without sending me over the edge. Eventually though, I did come and squirted my small volume of jism into his mouth. To my surprise, he stood up and spat it out into the washbasin and rinsed his mouth out. "My turn for a shit," he said and began to pull his trousers down, farting yet again as he did so.

"That's about the fifteenth time that you've let off this morning!" I said.

"I know! Aren't I a dirty cock-sucker?" he grinned. He sat on the pot that I had just vacated and let a huge fart. I meanwhile had moved over to the bidet and was performing my anal ablutions with soap and wash-flannel. "Thanks for warming the seat with your arse" he said, and grunted noisily as a series of huge turds hit the water with loud splashes. "That's a lot better!" he exclaimed. A stink began to fill the room. He stood up and flushed the smelly heap of turds away. I handed him the toilet roll and he began to wipe his hole, inspecting the paper from time to time until it looked clean.

"Do you want me to suck your dick?" I asked.

"No, that's a privilege reserved for your boy," he said. I felt like asking what he would do if David refused, but decided not to. Robin really seemed to have changed from being a frustrated misery to a bombastic self-confident ephebomaniac. I asked him if he wanted to use the bidet.

"I hope that your session on the pot has cleared your guts of wind. We don't want our discussions to be distracted by your farting," I said, as Robin washed his crack on the bidet. I still felt uneasy at what had taken place, but we had real business to do, so I kissed Robin (because he seemed to want me to) and we adjourned to our little-used dining room and discussed the project in Derbyshire.

Chapter 6 Jon

Afforestation and a Blow-job

The repairs to the dilapidated drystone walling at the Derbyshire site were complete and the ground was ready for planting. Robin proposed to source the trees from two separate suppliers, one who specialized in the 'normal' small trees which would comprise 80% of the planting, and one who would supply ten-year-old trees that would be planted well spaced out, with the space between filled with the smaller trees. In that way we hoped to get mature woodland rather more quickly. I wished that I could go and see the planting, but being in a new job, the earliest that I felt able to get away was January, when the weather might not be satisfactory.

I was also keen to see the drystone walling. The project team for that had managed to secure a very useful contract to repair a significant mileage of wall lining country roads, funded by a local authority in the Yorkshire Dales and they were hopeful that such a public exposure would be good publicity for more work. "Should we be looking round for a new site for the next project?" I asked.

"Yes, I think so," said Robin. "Up to now, we have concentrated on sites of low agricultural value in attractive rural areas. Now I suggest that we find a small site in an area of heavily cultivated but relatively treeless chalk upland: downs or wolds. A patch or belt of woodland in such an area would have high landscape value." "It's worth a go," I said. "Could you try and identify a couple of such areas, and we'll spend a couple of weekends in December visiting them and looking for possible sites." There followed a long discussion on expenses, procurement and other financial matters that I would need to bring before the trustees.

We adjourned to the pub at lunchtime for a beer and a bite to eat, and I took advantage of the break to slip into a public call box and phone David's lab. Fortunately he had not gone out to lunch, so I hastily told him what had happened and warned him that he would be propositioned that evening by Robin. I felt that if he were forewarned, he at least would be spared the need to make a hasty and ill-considered decision about a sexual contact. In the afternoon, Robin and I got out a large-scale land-use map and identified a few possible areas in which to concentrate our search. We wanted to avoid National Park areas, because of land-use restrictions, and because the Trust wanted to enhance the landscape value of ordinary countryside.

Around 4 pm David came home from the lab. He had finished early. He unlocked the front door and came up the steps and I was filled with admiration at what happened next. He put down his bag, went across to Robin, put his right arm round Robin's shoulders and kissed him passionately on the lips, opening his mouth and endeavouring to stick his tongue into Robin's mouth. With his left hand he did what he knew drove me crazy, and I guess would drive most men crazy, namely that he clutched hold of Robin's crotch through his trousers and began to caress his genitals. He pulled his mouth away from Robin's for a moment and said "I can feel your dick stiffening, how about taking your trousers off? I will take your shirt off," which he proceeded to do. I looked on in amazement.

In spite of his relatively recent haircut, David still looked pretty angelic, his blond hair shining in the late afternoon sun. What man could resist such an angelic vision of lust-raising male beauty? David knelt and removed Robin's shoes and socks. Robin himself then undid his belt and dropped his trousers leaving his dick making a huge tent in his underpants. David then pulled them down and left Robin standing completely naked. We both appraised Robin's body, which we have never seen before. He looked pretty good. He was well built with a quite considerable amount of body hair. He had a very slight paunch developing round his belly, but otherwise he looked a fit and attractive specimen of manhood. He had a relatively big dick, which was of course sticking up and a good 20 cm in size, comparable with that of David.

David handled the whole business beautifully. He did not immediately take Robin's projecting man-stick into his mouth. Unexpectedly, he bent down and started to nibble the rolled-back foreskin. He then stuck his tongue out and began to lick the sides of the shaft. He moved down to Robin's balls and after licking the scrotum, took each ball into his mouth in turn. Then he moved down to the tip of Robin's prick and gently licked the pre-come from it before putting his lips round the head. I did not know what the relationship was between Robin and Arnold, which of them was top and which bottom. However, it was clear that Robin was not accustomed to receiving gentle and subtle blow-jobs. He got hold of David's head and began to fuck his mouth rapidly and roughly. It was not long in these circumstances before Robin's heavy breathing turned into gasps and mutterings as he finally shot his load. David bravely swallowed the not insignificant amount of spunk that shot into his mouth. He then gave Robin's cock a farewell kiss and ran his hands over Robin's arse before standing up with an angelic smile on his face. "Well, what about a drink and then something to eat?" he said. "and, Robin, don't forget to tell Arnold about what we've been doing. And tell him that next time he must come with you and we'll have foursome!" We thus avoided what could have been a very embarrassing scene, and I hope had warned Robin not to keep anything secret from his lover if he really did want a long-term relationship with him.

After a more sober and less crude evening at the Sparrowhawk, Robin returned to Exminster the following day. David and I then discussed the matter of infidelity, and concluded that a sexual contact outside our union should only occur if unavoidable, and that we should have no secrets from one another. This was a very wise and far-seeing decision, in the light of the AIDS epidemic of the following years. We also speculated about the respective roles of Robin and Arnold in their relationship. I reckoned that Robin was the archetypal top partner, even though Arnold did not seem a very submissive guy. Although inclined to agree with me, David felt that in spite of Robin's avowals of love for Arnold, the person who was most deeply in love was Arnold, and a big element of Robin's attraction was that he was in love with sex itself rather than with Arnold as a person. However, Robin's habitual taciturnity when it came to personal relationships made any real conclusions difficult, if not impossible, and it was none of our business anyway!

Chapter 7 David

Dr Marcello Fabioni

Singing lessons with Dr Fabioni were very difficult and demanding. There were huge numbers of scales and voice exercises to carry out, rather than mere singing or learning of words and music. This was a novel experience for me, because I had not had any formal voice training. My untrained voice as a member of a choir or chorus had always managed to sound satisfactory, but I appreciated that solo singing was much more demanding both in technique, delivery and audience response. I also found Fabioni a difficult person to relate to. He was voluble and understanding, but not always easy to follow. Things changed somewhat when one week because of other commitments, he was obliged to change the time and place of my lesson. He arrange for it to take place at 5 pm the day after the usual day and in his home rather than in a rehearsal room of the Music department.

Fabioni lived in a residential suburb in the west of the city in an old Victorian house with a large garden, well away from the road, so that the neighbours would not be disturbed by music from the house. I also met Mrs Fabioni. She was a delightful lady, a retired operatic soprano, who far from being a temperamental prima donna was a lady of firm but quiet charm, and delightful company. I instantly felt at ease with her, in contrast with Dr Fabioni, whom I found difficult to talk to.

She at once recognized that I was gay and asked me about my friends. I replied that I was in a fixed partnership with a man whom I loved and respected enormously. "That's good," she said "I always find that men who do not have a fixed relationship are temperamental and unreliable, however charming they may be. Would you like to bring him round to dinner sometime?"

"Thank you very much, we would both love that," I said.

To my surprise Mrs Fabioni telephoned within a few days and invited us to dinner on the following Thursday evening after my singing lesson. She said that she had a few other friends in the musical field whom she wanted me to meet. I asked what we should wear, and she said just suits, so we turned up to the dinner reasonably smartly dressed. Jon of course looked very smart in his expensive suit. My high street multiple store suit looked OK, to my relief. I mainly wore it for exams, where 'sub-fusc' clothing was compulsory in addition to gowns. The cuisine was superb, and was accompanied by several of our favourite Italian wines. There were three other guests apart from ourselves, and I knew one of them, the music director of the Camford Bach Choir, Justin Thyme. Jon was telling Mrs Fabioni about our recent holiday in Milapoli. She said that next time we should forget the seaside and stay at Montecatini Terme, where we could bathe in spa water rather than seawater. Fabioni introduced me to the other two guests, who were respectively, a well-known soprano and an assistant conductor at the Royal Opera House. We had a very pleasant meal, over which we discussed various musical matters and Jon, always very knowledgeable on such matters, though not himself musical, participated actively in the discussion.

After the meal, to my surprise Dr Fabioni suggested that the soprano and myself each sing an item for our entertainment and enjoyment. I protested, saying that I was not yet an experienced singer. Fabioni's reply was "You need all the practice you can get!"

So we both sang an item, Fabioni accompanying us on the piano. The soprano sang an aria from the Messiah, and I sang a piece that I had just been learning in my lessons. It was 'Wenn der Freude tränen fließen' from Mozart's 'Die Entfürung aus den Serail,' an aria very much in the style that I was used to. After we had performed, I got talking to the soprano. It seemed that Fabioni had been her teacher in her younger days and she told me that he had really made her career. "If he likes you," she said "he will spare no trouble to get you a singing job, whether as soloist or chorus."

"I don't know whether he likes me or not," I said. I've always had difficulty in deciding what he thinks."

"He likes you all right," she said "otherwise he wouldn't have invited you and your boyfriend to dinner."

Nothing else of note was said, and Jonathan and I went home. I felt that I was warming somewhat to Marcello Fabioni.

Chapter 8 David

The degree Ceremony and Afterwards

The final week of the Martinmas Term seemed, with hindsight, to be full of dinners and celebrations. The long-awaited degree ceremony took place in that week in December. We had both invited our respective parents, but Jon's mother had declined, saying that the climate in England in December would kill her. My parents had arranged for Jeroen, my young brother, to stay with friends for a few days, and my sister Dorothea was still in Oxbridge. My mother and father were booked in at one of Camford's best hotels. The ceremony was on a Friday, and my parents arrived on the Thursday and were to stay the weekend, leaving on Monday morning.

On the night of their arrival, at their invitation we dined with them at their hotel. The wine flowed freely and it was a festive occasion. The following morning, we left my parents to wander round and see the sights of Camford. Jon and I, wearing sub-fusc, Jon in an expensive number by a top Italian designer, I in my dark suit from the high street multiple retailer, were at a lunch for the candidates in the Senior Common Room of St Boniface's, hosted by the college's Dean of Degrees. Fortunately, it was a very light meal, with not too much wine. The graduands then walked with the Dean from the college to the University Aula in Convocation Street, and on the way passed several similar groups from other colleges.

The Camford degree ceremony is entirely in Latin, including the speeches. In both our cases, the matter was made complex because we were each receiving two separate degrees, which meant a double appearance for each of us, clad in two different gowns. The lower degrees were conferred first, and we were presented by college, so I and a group of that year's St Boniface's B.A. graduates went up together, I wearing my scholar's gown. After the Latin formula was pronounced, we left the hall, were re-robed in B.A. gowns, in my case by the husband of our cleaning lady, and re-entered the hall to applause. This procedure was later repeated for my M.Chem. degree, except that this time I reappeared in a Master's gown.