Initiation

Chad and I glanced at each other trying not to giggle. The others looked puzzled.

"I've never heard of the 69. Where does it go?"

"To heaven I think. It's a night bus, a double-decker."

"Oh."

On the way to college that morning I experienced swings of elation and depression. Conscious of wearing another guy's briefs and socks, of having his body fluids inside me, I felt thoroughly corrupted. The world had changed. I didn't want to look at the women I met, but every man I saw I imagined naked with me on a bed, his hairy, muscled body pressing down on me, our heads rubbing together, his big bare male feet between mine, both of us panting, grunting, sweating. My girlfriend problems seemed light-years away. What had happened?

Chad and I didn't repeat our encounter. He stopped showing up at the hostel and I couldn't remember exactly where his bedsit was in that row of almost identical terraced houses. I'd liked to have continued the affair, but it didn't happen. I've no idea what became of him. But the 'new me' had been liberated. I went on to have other girlfriends and eventually got married. But there was always a secret corner where, during dark times, I could enjoy a good sweaty wrestle with one of my buddies. And there were to be several such times. One such friendship lasted decades, through marriages and girlfriends, across three continents. But that's another story.

I've kept Chad's briefs and socks though. I jerk off with them from time to time.