A New Direction

I stared into my coffee with no idea how I wanted to answer, or what I wanted to do. Then, thinking of the grime on my face, my hands, my clothes, I said, "I'm not exactly dressed for eating out. Besides, I've got something in for tonight."

He chuckled again, mirthlessly this time. "What, microwave moussaka? Or the menu from an Indian take-away, maybe? In that cold, dank little flat of yours?" The comment was like a kick in the balls. He knew I was growing to hate my home. And apart from the fact that it was mushroom stroganoff, not moussaka, he was bang on the mark. I glanced up at him. I suppose he read my weakening resolve in my face. "As for the state of you, you brought a change of clothes didn't you? And we can sponge down in the kitchen. I'm not suggesting we dine at the Ritz." He placed a hand gently on my shoulder. "Really John – wouldn't you rather have the company of a good, genuine friend this evening? Unless of course..."

Although he didn't say it, I knew what he'd meant. Unless of course I didn't trust him. I felt an unaccustomed warmth slowly spreading through my body, outwards from his hand. I placed my hand over his, and met his eyes. "Yes. Yes, I would Richard, thank you." I squeezed his fingers with mine. I saw a slight reaction in his eyes, but then he smiled, passed on the squeeze to my shoulder, then pulled away and clapped his hands. "Come on then, let's get this finished. I reckon another hour or so should do it."

It was more like two hours; but finally, weary but satisfied with our day's work, I stripped down to my underpants, ran a wet, soapy flannel over myself, and put my head under the tap long enough to dislodge most of the dust from my hair. Then I dressed and waited outside in the cool of the evening while Richard took his turn. We went to a classy Greek restaurant in Saint Martins Lane and had a wonderful moussaka – Richard's little joke. We washed it down with a couple of glasses of retsina each, and left the place feeling in fine fettle. I took a few deep breaths of air while Richard flagged down a cab then, giggling like schoolkids, we piled into the back.

I settled back into the worn leather seat of the cab, and watched the bright lights of central London drift past me. Richard stared listlessly out of the window on the other side. It was a fair distance to his place – ironically, not too far away from Joanna's parents' home. As my meal settled, I was beginning to feel nervous, despite Richard's assurance that he had no hidden agenda in inviting me to his home for the night. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. I wasn't sure if I wanted something to happen between us; I wasn't sure what. A couple of days earlier I had been sure that I wasn't gay; now, the only thing I was sure of was that each time he touched me I felt a stirring of sexual arousal which scared me a little. Oh yes, I trusted Richard all right – I just wasn't sure I trusted myself.

In the darkened cab I let my hand flop onto the seat between us. The outside of my hand brushed accidentally against his. There it was again – that slow rising of heat in my groin, just from his touch, as blood flowed into my cock and I became aware just what an effect our closeness was having on me. I didn't think about what I did next. I simply disengaged my brain, and let my hand decide for itself. Slowly, inch by inch, it crept forwards, and rested on his hand on the seat. I didn't look, but I was aware of Richard turning to stare at me. He steepled his fingers, and mine intertwined with them. We spent the last few minutes of the journey like that, our hands linked, both of us staring sightlessly out of our side of the cab, each of us hardly daring to breathe.

When we arrived at Richard's home, a large Edwardian townhouse, the tension between us was almost a physical presence. Not looking at me he unlocked the door and stood aside to allow me to enter. Flicking on the hall light, he busied himself with removing his coat, then taking my jacket and hanging it up. Then, giving me a reassuring smile, he said, "I don't know about you, but I still feel a bit grubby. I'm going to grab a shower in the downstairs bathroom. You can either make yourself at home in the lounge, pick out a record, or you can use the en suite bathroom upstairs." I nodded and, hardly able to find my voice, said I'd appreciate a shower too. In moments he brought me towels, warm from the airing cupboard, together with a spare towelling bathrobe and a pair of comfy slippers. "Next floor up, first door on the right."

I walked through Richard's bedroom, glancing at the huge bed – a king-size. It felt very strange, stepping into a bath off someone else's bedroom, in a house I didn't know, to use the shower fitment. The building seemed eerily quiet, and I welcomed the soft hiss of the water. I took my time, soaping myself thoroughly, allowing the warm water to soothe my aching muscles. As I stepped out of the bath, dripping onto a deep pile carpet, I heard a slow '20s rag tune drift up the stairs. I became increasingly nervous as I towelled myself and pulled on the bathrobe. What was I about to go downstairs to – a friend to get respectably drunk with; or, just possibly, a new lover – a new homosexual lover? Which did I want it to be? I still didn't know. I tied the belt on the robe and, slowly, made my way down the stairs, following the sound of a weeping clarinet into Richard's parlour. He had lit it subtly, with just a couple of table lamps providing a muted glow, supplemented by a very realistic looking flame effect gas fire. I noticed the light glint off the record that was playing – how typical that Richard would still opt for crackly vinyl, not an anodyne, sanitised, too perfect CD.

Richard was sitting on a brown leather sofa, dressed in a Paisley pattern silk dressing gown, his feet encased in heelless leather slippers. On a low coffee table stood two crystal glasses, containing a clear, brown liquor. Richard was lounging back on the sofa, his eyes closed as he soaked in the music. As I entered the room his eyes opened. He smiled, and gestured with a hand towards a big leather armchair, a partner to the sofa, on the other side of the table. I hesitated, then slowly, deliberately, made my way around the table, and sat on the sofa, a foot of space between us. Richard pulled himself into an upright position, his arm along the back of the sofa, and our eyes locked. After a few seconds – or possibly a few hours – I awkwardly shuffled myself closer to him. My hand, also resting on the back of the seat, brushed against his. As in the taxi, I entwined my fingers with his. His brow furrowed. His voice barely a whisper, he asked me, "John, are you sure? I meant it about just a drink and separate bedrooms. There's no pressure here, no expectation whatsoever..."

I interrupted him. "I know." I inclined closer to him. I could feel the heat of his body, smell again his aftershave; just like once before, our faces were very close together.

Richard still looked troubled. "Johnno, I..."

I placed a finger across his lips. "Richard, I know what I'm doing, what I want to do. It's okay, truly."

He leaned towards me – our lips were now an inch apart. He breathed, "And you're really sure about this?"

"Yes," I lied.

He inclined his face upwards, and kissed my eyebrow. He ran his fingertips softly down my cheek – my skin burned where he had touched me. Then he pulled back slightly, inspecting my face for a reaction. I gave him a watery smile. He leaned in again and kissed my cheek. I surprised us both by turning my head, so that his lips slipped onto mine. He took my face between his hands, and increased the pressure of his lips. Instinctively I opened my mouth. He hesitated a split second, then I felt his tongue stroking the inside of my lower lip, tracing my teeth. His arms slipped around my neck. Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, I flung my own arms around him and pulled him tight to me. Immediately the kiss became more passionate: his tongue surged past my teeth, and toyed with mine. The fingertips of one hand closed around my earlobe, caressed it. I felt myself gradually sliding down on the sofa, into a reclining position, until John was almost on top of me.

He broke the kiss and took a deep breath, then gazed into my eyes with concern again. "Okay?", he whispered. I nodded and pressed my lips back onto his, my tongue invading his mouth this time. For the first time in months I felt very sexually aroused by another person – in fact, more so than I had for some time before my marriage ended. I felt my doubts drifting away, with the sound of Luis Armstrong's cornet. Now, for the first time in my life, I knew, I really knew. We lay there smooching for several minutes, exchanging no words, I holding tight to Richard's waist, he with one arm around my neck and one hand stroking my hair and face. After a while, Richard raised his head. "If you want us to just stay here, doing this, that's fine. I don't want things to move too fast between us, I want you to be absolutely sure John."

I smiled weakly and shook my head. "I don't want us to stay here any longer Richard. I want us to go to bed. And before you ask again, yes, I am sure." Without a further word he stood, helped me to my feet and, his hand resting lightly on my elbow, led me up the stairs. I felt light-headed, almost as if this whole episode was a dream. At the bedroom door we paused and kissed again, our arms around each other's necks, leaning against the door jamb. Then, with a small smile, Richard nodded and we stepped inside. He closed the door behind us, and leant against it, watching me. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I kicked off my slippers, unbelted the robe and let it slide off my shoulders and down my arms, then slipped quickly beneath the duvet. His eyes locked on my face, Richard slowly moved to the other side of the bed and sat, his back to me. He slipped off his gown, swung up his legs and he was lying next to me. I thought he was naked too, but I caught only a glimpse of pale flesh.

I lay on my back, my skin goose-pimpled even though I wasn't cold. I felt as nervous as a virgin awaiting the caress of her – or his – first lover. Richard rolled onto his side, facing me, his body perhaps a foot from mine. He reached out a hand, tentatively, and rested it on my chest, his fingers trailing slowly through my mat of hair. I glanced sideways and noticed his chest was hairless. I trembled for am moment as his other hand settled on my lower belly, below my navel, inches from my semi-erect cock. After a few seconds of immobility on both our parts, I suppressed a gasp as I felt one finger stroke along the top of my shaft, from tip to base. I turned my face towards Richard, then my entire body. I knew at that moment that I really wanted this man, maybe as much as he wanted me. In a swirl of emotions, the realisation shocked me, scared me a little – and excited me.

Richard glided towards me under the duvet and, with a slight awkwardness, we closed into an embrace. As we cuddled, I felt for the first time another man's stiff cock brush against my own developing erection. I initiated the next kiss: a long, lingering, tender one, my tongue massaging his. He slowly rolled me onto my back, still kissing me, his body half on top of mine. He pressed his face to my neck, and I heard him breathe "Oh God, if you only knew how many times lately I've imagined this." I lay flat on my back, my heart pounding, my chest rising and falling rapidly. Richard lowered his head, and I let out a long, sighing breath as his mouth closed over my nipple, his tongue stroking it. Nobody had ever done that to me before, and I was surprised at how erotic it felt. A moment later his hand closed around my circumcised cock. He didn't move the hand, just held me, firmly but tenderly. His mouth moved down my body, towards the hand – across my navel, then my lower stomach. I sensed my breathing deepening and becoming ragged. I heard myself moan as his lips closed over my penis.

Women had certainly done that for me plenty of times, but never as skilfully, as sensually; or perhaps I simply desired Richard more than I had them. My moan developed into a long groan, almost as if I was in pain, as he slid my prick further into his mouth, his tongue exploring my length, rimming the tip. His hand curled around my balls, his fingers stroking them. I felt the most exquisite warmth spreading through my loins, my belly, my chest, and into my mind. Then suddenly, catching me by surprise, I found myself sobbing and writhing as I gushed months of pent-up frustrations into his mouth. He stroked my stomach until my tremors subsided, still gently lapping at my cock. Then he took a long swig of water from a glass beside the bed, then kissed me, hungrily, searchingly. I responded with enthusiasm. As our lips parted he nuzzled my face, his hands resting against my cheeks, and whispered, "Oh Christ, I am so in love with you Johnno."

Struggling to find my voice, I responded with words I would once have thought would never pass my lips: "I love you too Richard."

As we held each other I realised, dopily, that I had yet to touch him. I stroked his nipple with my fingers, then dropped my hand. His breath caught as my knuckles brushed his cock. Then I echoed what he'd done for me. I kissed his throat, sucked his nipple, closed my fist around his length. I shuffled my hand slowly, rhythmically up and down, pumping his foreskin. He pressed his lips to the top of my head, stroked my hair, cupped a hand around my jaw. He had already been quite stiff, but as I caressed him I could feel his scorching prick getting harder by the moment. He clamped his hand around my wrist, staying my movements. He whispered, "John darling, I want you, I want to have you. Can I?" Not looking him in the face, my head still resting on his chest, I nodded.

He pulled his body from under me and manoeuvred me to lay on my front, his chest resting on my back, his hip beside mine. His hand slipped between my legs and massaged my balls. Instinctively I opened my thighs wider. Gently he eased me onto my knees, my weight resting on my forearms. His hand left my scrotum and I heard tearing, then a soft wet sound, and knew he was donning a condom. A small part of my brain marvelled at my tranquillity as I readied myself for what in my old life I would have regarded as the ultimate taboo; what I was now, at the very least, happy to accept as the assertion of my commitment to my lover.

I felt a hand rest lightly on my back. I tensed as something pressed between my buttocks, then realised it was his fingers, smearing a cold, wet gel into my passage. The hand shifted alongside the other onto my lower back. I felt his slick cock resting between my cheeks. "Okay Johnno?" Gazing down at the bed, I nodded. I felt a sharp sensation as he pressed into me, then a surge, then his warm thighs pressing against mine as he entered me to the hilt. I could feel the hairs on his balls tickling me. He paused for a few moments, his fingers kneading my back and buttocks, allowing me to get used to the feel of him inside me. The he started to fuck me in earnest.

I'd had no idea what to expect, but I felt an unaccustomed ease, almost a sense of release, as if he had identified an itch deep inside me which he was now scratching for me. He screwed me with long, smooth strokes, going deep each time, his fingers still stroking my back. My body began to push back at him with each of his thrusts, increasing the sensation of penetration. I felt that same comforting warmth spreading through me, and curled my fingers around my own cock as it began to stiffen once again. We both gasped and shook as Richard came inside me, into the condom, with a series of final, powerful thrusts. As he carefully withdrew I slumped onto my back, and he fell on me, smothering my face with kisses and whispering his love for me.

We both went to the bathroom after that, then we slept, Richard's arms around my waist, my back to him. I woke in the dawn light, and felt his warm chest resting against me, his long, soft cock nestling between my buttocks, his knees tucked into the hollows of my own. I smiled and snuggled against him, mildly amazed at my own certainty in the situation in which I found myself. As I thought about that, I realised I was ready to take the next, once unthinkable, step. Easing myself from Richard's embrace, I turned to face him, slipped my head under the duvet and sucked his cock into my mouth.

His body twitched convulsively and he grunted, then his fingers lazily curled into my hair as my licking and sucking drew him out of sleep. He rolled onto his back and my mouth moved with him. His prick felt rubbery at the tip, beyond that like a sheath of fine suede wrapped around an iron rod. I found I enjoyed the feel and the taste of it on my tongue, and pressing into my cheek, and guzzled greedily. Richard groaned his pleasure, and a hand slipped from my hair to my face, stroking the cheek which bulged with his manhood. I curled a hand around his balls, pumping the base of his shaft with my other hand. I slipped my hand from his scrotum to between his legs, stroked a finger along his perineum – he liked that, twitched and gasped – then I reached further, working the finger, then a second, into his back passage, scooched them around. He squirmed his bum on my fingers, and his groaning increased. I had been prepared to go the whole distance, but just before he came Richard eased my mouth off his cock and urged my pumping hand to cover its full length. I finished him off that way, my fingers still in his anal passage. It was like trying to hold onto a bucking bronco as his hips jerked and a fountain of jizz shot from him.

I stayed until after lunch. Richard sucked me off again, while I sat in the leather armchair in the parlour, then I went back to my own flat. We had agreed that I would take a change of clothes to the shop with me on Monday, and would return with Richard to his home, and his bed, that evening. I had a long soak in my bath in the afternoon, and phoned Richard that evening to reassure him of my love. I can't pretend I didn't do a bit of soul-searching during the night; but I woke on Monday sure in my own mind that I didn't regret anything which had happened, or which would happen from then on.

Richard was nervous when I arrived at work, worried that I may indeed have rationalised recent events into no more than an emotional aberration. When I kissed him, and stroked his cheek, he hugged me to him, tightly, and whispered, "Good morning, my love." We worked quietly that day, between customers, exchanging foolish smiles and pausing occasionally to touch, hold and kiss. I felt loved and cared for – not a familiar sensation in my life for a while before that.

In bed that evening I offered to massage Richard. I perched astride him, my scrotum resting on his bare buttocks. As my hands worked his back my cock reacted, gradually stiffening. When Richard heard me ripping open a condom he glanced over his shoulder and husked, "Oh God, yes my darling." I lay along the length of his back and pushed forcefully into him, fucking him long and hard, and came gloriously. Later he had me again, but from the front this time. My legs rested on his shoulders, my rampant prick between us, rubbing against out bodies. As Richard came he leant down to me and we kissed. His fingers stroked against my dick, and instantly I showered both our bellies with my juice.

Richard and I have lived together for eight months now. His daughter spent Christmas with us, and we got on brilliantly – she thinks I'm good for him. Joanne knows about us, but I don't give a shit what she thinks. She backed down over the house, not that it really matters. I don't know whether I'm gay, bisexual or what. I've come to recognise that such labels are meaningless. The only thing that means anything to me is that I love Richard, and I know how deeply he loves me – more, I think, than Joanna did even in the early days of our romance and marriage. More than in any previous relationship, I feel content, cherished, and more at peace than I can ever remember. I don't think you can ask more of a life partner than that.