tagGay MaleOlder, Sadder, Wiser Pt. 03

Older, Sadder, Wiser Pt. 03

byzaphod40©

My arrival at Jeff's home for the first time after the death of his grandfather was a moving moment for us both. Once inside the house we fell into each other's arms and our long kiss led to a flooding of our minds and bodies with emotion. I ran my free hand through his hair while he pressed his groin into mine until the pressure mounted between us and our dicks stiffened with the excitement. He put his hand down to feel mine through my trousers and I smiled, even as I kissed him, then giggled and said "It's all there, ready and waiting."

"Lets go upstairs at once," he whispered, though there was no need for silence in the house.

I had quite a surprise when we reached his bedroom. He had moved into the one at the front of the house which had formerly been his grandfather's before the old man had become too sick to go upstairs. Jeff had redecorated it so that it felt new, with pictures I had not seen before on the walls. But now was not the time to comment. He drew me again into his arms and there followed a rapturous embrace which ended with my hand untucking his tee shirt from the waist band of his trousers while his fingers searched for - and undid - the top fastening of mine. When my trousers were ready to drop I shuffled them down past my knees while he undid his broad belt and dropped his jeans to his ankles. As soon as he had done this my hand went inside his underpants to feel his wonderful dick and he did the same to me. It was a moment of great joy and for a minute we stood there, our hands round each other's dick and our lips joined in another long kiss.

"Time to lie on the bed," he whispered and he turned away, withdrawing his dick from my grasp and taking his hand off mine. "Here's a chair for you to put your clothes on."

Very quickly we were both naked, standing in the middle of the room and loving what we saw of each other : two long dicks ready for action with ball sacs swinging low beneath them. We embraced again, long and fiercely, and my hand went down to wrap both our dicks in my grasp. I wished then that whenever I held my own I could be holding his too. Our foreskins had clipped into place beneath the purple rims of our swollen glans which were wet with pre-cum. After I had given them both a few gentle strokes he put his hand down to join mine and urged it to quicker action. This had the effect of bringing me to the edge and as I didn't want to cum so quickly I said "Lets lie on the bed."

I got there first and he lay down beside me, then took me in his arms again and rolled on top of me while I held on tightly to his dick. I had never had anyone lie on top of me like that and it was undeniably exciting if somewhat uncomfortable. Soon afterwards, therefore, I rolled him off me and he lay on his back, hands to his sides, as if inviting me to do what I liked with him. And he was such a lovely sight, lying there, with his long dick sticking into the air, his slim build and his complete acceptance of the feelings we were experiencing for each other. So I kissed him again on the lips; then moved my face down to his nipples and kissed them; then caressed with my forefinger the area on his belly where I knew his spunk would soon be landing; and then at last I took his dick between my fingers and caressed that too. Soon my lips had enclosed his glans and he was gasping with pleasure as I ran my tongue round that most sensitive part of him, gradually moving from a circular motion to up and down with my lips. At the same time I gently started to ease my fingers up and down on the loose skin of his shaft and soon I could feel from his shallow breathing and the extra tension in his body that his orgasm was close. I withdrew my lips and glanced briefly up into his face. His eyes were closed but there was an expression of profound concentration there.

"Keep going," he urged, "I'm close."

I reapplied my lips, fondling his shaft just below the head again with my fingers, and soon he was gasping and saying "Urlen …. Urlen …" and I knew this was his signal to take my mouth off his knob and stroke more vigorously with my hand. He gave no other indication of approaching orgasm otrher than the soft "Uh … uh… " I had come to love and the sperm just shot out of him in several long spurts. I was left admiring the pools which formed on his belly. When he had finished spunking I touched the slippery knob with my fingers, sending him into another paroxysm of sensation. "Ah … ah" ..he gasped, so I did it again - and he gasped again. Then I put my lips once more over that pulsating glans and wondered that I had never done this before, so soon after orgasm. His spunk had a unique, rather pleasant taste, and I held my lips in place savouring it while gradually his dick lost its tumescence. Then I withdrew and lay quietly beside him, my hand now gently touching my own dick to keep it excited while he recovered.

"You're wonderful," I said, rolling over and giving him a kiss. And with my finger I joined up the little pools of sperm and traced on his belly the words "I love you." To begin with he couldn't read the letters so he asked me to do it again. This time, when I got to the end I felt that to say "I love you" might be a bit "heavy", given the circumstances, so I lengthened the writing into "I love your dick."

He laughed and said "And I love yours too."

And now he was ready to wank me, using his lips and fingers in the same way as I had done him, only he used a kind of "sipping" motion with his lips which brought me to the edge almost immediately. I had no reason or desire to hold back and was in control of myself only long enough to utter "I'm close …. I'm close ….Here it cums," before spewing my juice liberally onto my belly.

"You're wonderful too," he said, as he stroked me through the final, dying spasms, then returned the compliment by touching my super-sensitive glans.

I know of no words that adequately convey the sensation that a lover caressing your glans in the seconds after orgasm gives rise to. It would be painful were it not so pleasurable; and yet the pleasure, extraordinarily intense as it is, is close to pain. It doesn't last long for the glans quickly closes down on you and it's not the same if you do it to yourself immediately after masturbation.

After it was over we lay quietly beside each other on the bed, our dicks deflated. Then we began to talk. He wanted to say that this might be the last time we would have sex together because he needed to start a new life by finding someone with whom he could fully share it. He laid emphasis on the word "fully" because he said our relationship and the sex were great, but I was not free to join him on a permanent basis and I was difficult to phone during the week if he wanted to talk with me. He was very anxious for me to understand this and that he had enjoyed every moment we had been together.

I reassured him as best I could. Inwardly I was bleeding to think that I might not see him again to share the strong sexual attraction we felt for each other. The loss of his warm, gentle personality, such a contrast to Chris's less engaging taciturnity, cut me to the quick because we were both deeply lonely people at heart. But I knew that his grandfather, who had been fond and proud of him, had been his main emotional tie and that he had enjoyed the daily cares and chores of looking after him when he fell ill. His was a naturally helpful and generous character : he liked to be of service to other people. As he once said to me : "I like to give." Now he was left alone in the house and was still coping with the pain of bereavement. His mother, not naturally sympathetic, was unable to help. He would be happier with a new man in his life who could, perhaps, live with him and give him more of himself than I could. Part of me was still badly wanting my wife to come back and my children had never given up hoping that she would.

I asked him "Why not advertise then?" and he said he had been thinking of it but felt nervous about making the first move. It was, he thought, easier to respond to the adverts of others (as he had done to mine) than to advertise himself.

"You get more choice if you do the advertising," I pointed out. "Why don't we sit down together and work out an ad for you to place in the local papers. It's free - and will give you a voice mail-box. All you have to do is work out the written ad, then think of what you want to say on your voice mail recording when people phone in response to the ad. Then you can listen to what the guys say and choose whether or not to reply to the phone number they'll give you."

"OK" he said simply, "We'll do that when we go downstairs. But first …." And he took me into his arms again and kissed me; our dicks re-stiffened and soon we were both wanking each other and going hell for leather for the second orgasm. It took considerably longer this second time and to my surprise, because I was the one who usually needed less stimulation to reach a climax, he came first; but the sight of yet more spunk erupting from his magnificent dick immediately had me on edge, and I came too, bucking my hips to get the maximum satisfaction from it.

We cleaned up in the bathroom, which he had also redecorated, and went downstairs where, with pencil and paper, we roughed out a simple draft advertisement stating his age and locality, the fact that he could accommodate but not travel far; and that he was looking for a long-term relationship. The recorded message was more difficult because it was more personal and he could say more that was meaningful. We decided that he should ask the men who responded to say a little about themselves, their age, circumstances, experience and interests and when they were free to meet. He stated again that he was looking, if possible, for a long-term and loving relationship. Jeff got nervous about phoning the newspaper, so I did this for him, reading out the agreed text of the ad. I was given the voice-mail box numbers for recording the spoken message and listening to the replies and told the ad would appear on Monday and in the next two editions. Jeff practised speaking the bit and then did the recording. All he had to do now was wait for next week. I left him, giving him a hug full of fondness, and promised to come again next Thursday to find out if anyone had replied.

When I got there a week later and asked how many replies he'd had, he looked at me in a kind bewilderment and said "I've had so many I don't know where to start. I had no idea there were so many people out there wanting to reply. It's costing a small fortune phoning the voice box on premium rates but it's exciting! And the amazing thing is that most of them are married."

Being married myself, though separated from my wife, I gave a rueful grin and noticing this he said "Oh, sorry" but in truth I didn't mind at all. By that time it had become, for me, a normal way of life.

He had made a note of each of the recorded phone calls he had received and we re-dialled to listen to the ones he thought the most interesting. They were all different, some spilling their emotions onto the tape, others nervous and hesitant and finding it difficult to say anything connected; and it was one of these that Jeff had fixed on as being of greatest interest for following up. The message, with plenty of pauses, went as follows :

"This is Lionel… er, I'm thirty-eight and er… married but my wife has thrown me out. I don't have …er.. a lot of experience but I ..er ….. I can travel …. I'm a signalman on the railway and I ..er ..could visit you any time when I'm not on shift. I've got my own allotment and… er… like gardening. …. Er…. I'm five foot six and I've got dark hair .. er.. what's left of it. You can .. er… phone me on my mobile" (and he gave the number) "anytime. I.. er .. hope very much you'll want to phone me." There was a pause and then a click as the phone went down, as if he had run out of anything to say yet knew he ought to have said more. I could see why he appealed to Jeff.

"Have you phone him then?" I asked.

"Yes. He sounds nice. Quite quiet and shy, I'd say."

"Did you ask him why he wanted to meet a man?" "Yes. He said he'd always known that he was bi-sexual and that his wife had found out. He's got two children apparently."

"So have I," I reminded him.

"Do you think I should meet him?"

"Of course. If you don't like him you don't have to do anything or see him again. But don't invite him here until you've met him, say in a pub, like when you met me. Why not ring him now? If he's at work in his signal-box , he'll probably be able to take a call on his mobile."

In fact Lionel had finished his shift and was at work on his allotment when Jeff's call came through. Jeff, with his shop assistant's training, was fluent and business-like on the phone and in no time they'd made a date to meet on the Saturday afternoon at the same pub he'd met me. He smiled up at me as he made the arrangement and when the call was over he said "It would be funny if we found we'd already met somewhere." Then, "And now, lets go and celebrate" - and he set off upstairs.

The sex was again wonderful, but poignant too in that we knew that it was probably for the last time. Jeff had said that if he formed a new relationship he would be faithful to his new partner and I knew that this was what he wanted. I was deeply sorry about losing him but above all I wanted him to be happy. He was such a generous, warm and open-hearted guy that he deserved what he was looking for, namely a long- term relationship with someone he could love and who would love, admire and appreciate him. After it was over we lay for a long time side by side on the bed, talking quietly and just being friends. I offered to be of help to him should he ever need it and said I would continue to use the Builders Merchants so I would be seeing him from time to time. We held our embrace for a long, long time before I left his home and returned to mine. Both my children were out when I got there and I felt lonely and sad. Though I could visit Chris for sexual excitement, I was not fond of him in the same way; and I knew that whatever the world called it, it was a genuine sense of love that I felt for Jeff and that Jeff felt for me. The feeling was precious; and now it was being replaced by the kind of emptiness I had experienced when first my wife had left me. I scarcely knew what to do with myself.

However I decided not to contact Chris, anyway for a month or two, and I held off going to the Builders Merchants for four weeks. When eventually I went there one glance at Jeff, at the counter, showed me he was happy. He suppressed his start of recognition when he saw me but when I wandered into the back regions of the shop he found an excuse to come there and in a hurried conversation told me all was well and asked after me. "Lionel OK then?" I asked quietly, and he nodded and went back to the counter.

That set the pattern for the next few visits to the shop, then, a few months after Lionel had moved in, Jeff asked me if he could telephone me at a time convenient for us both. There was something he wanted to ask me. We arranged a time to talk and I walked out of the shop wondering what it could be. He seemed happy - surely there could be nothing wrong between him and Lionel? I had met Lionel briefly on one of my shop visits. He was there, talking to Jeff, who introduced me. It was only the briefest of introductions, but from the look Lionel gave me I reckoned Jeff had told him who I was. It was an appraising, rather than an antagonistic look. Lionel himself struck me as a rather unprepossessing-looking little man, balding, dark-haired, slight of build, pale-faced and with a tendency to be nervous. I wondered whether he could easily be made jealous. We shook hands and I moved off after nodding and saying "Hello." So I was very surprised when Jeff phoned me to say that it was Lionel who wished to talk with me and, if I was willing, could he arrange a meeting between us?

I said "Yes, of course," and agreed to meet Lionel at his allotment on the next Saturday morning.

It was a damp, cold and overcast day when I reached the allotment. Summer had given way to autumn, and autumn was giving way to winter. Lionel was digging manure into the soil and there were a few straggly leeks and brussel sprouts and not much else. At the end of his narrow allotment garden there was a shed with its door open. He was wearing a grubby boiler-suit and sweating slightly with the exercise.

He put his fork down as I approached and held out his wrist for me to shake as his hand was dirty. "Good of you to come," he said in a pleasant voice. "No problem finding your way here then?"

"Jeff have me excellent instructions," I said.

He smiled. "You must be wondering what I want to talk with you about. Come inside the shed and I'll make us a cup of tea. Then we can talk." His conversation didn't sound nervous or disjointed as it had when I listened to his tape-recorded message to Jeff; and it was I who seemed the more disconcerted as we made our way into the shed. It had started to rain lightly as we went inside and Lionel said "Just as well it's dry in here."

Inside there was a table next to a small window with a chair drawn in under it. On it were seed catalogues, potting containers, a kettle with a gas-driven hob under it, two mugs (much stained) and the wherewithal for making tea. Hooks for gardening tools lined the long wall opposite the window and there were shelves all round for plants and trays. At the far end, opposite the door, which he had closed as we came in, was a mattress with half its length up against the wall and the other half on the floor. He washed his hands in a watering can that was standing near the door, took a handkerchief out of his pocket to dry them, pulled the chair out for me to sit on, struck a match to light the gas and set the kettle to boil.

"The vegetables I grow here come in real handy now I'm with Jeff," he said.

"Who does the cooking?" I asked.

"We share it - sometimes me, sometimes him. We don't have much money to go out and anyhow I wouldn't want my missus to see him by accident-like with me." He gave a wintry smile. "She doesn't know where I am and I don't want her to know."

"Do you have children?" I asked as if divining by inspiration that that was what he wanted to talk with me about.

"That's it," he said quickly. "I do - and it's about them I wanted to ask your advice."

Advice! I felt I was far from being able to advise anyone on the subject, having struggled as a single parent with my own two.

"I've got two children - a boy and a girl like you, only they're younger - seven and five."

I could tell that Jeff had been talking to him about me, but I didn't mind, having total confidence in Jeff's discretion. I waited for him to carry on.

"They're with my wife but I've been granted access to them. She knows I'm …" (for the first time he hesitated, then taking a deep breath) "She knows I'm queer, but they don't."

He looked up at me, anxiety written all over his face and I noticed what nice, light brown eyes he had. In a rush he said, "What do I tell them, when do I tell them, and how will it affect them, if they know their dad's queer?"

While I was thinking how to reply, the kettle started to whistle and he turned his attention to making the tea, which was just as well as I needed time for thought.

When he was ready for a reply I said slowly, "Being queer - does that make you any less of a dad?"

"I don't feel so," he replied.

"Do you love your kids?"

"Yes" - fervently.

"How have they reacted to your leaving home?"

"They want us to get together again."

"And that's completely impossible?"

"Yes - completely."

"Why?"

"My wife thinks I'm dirty." He looked at his hands, all dirty with manure and laughed. "Not dirty like this but morally dirty, corrupt, bad ….."

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