Up At the Crack

"If you remind me next time," he went on, buttoning up his shirt, "I'll tell you the story of what happened the night Ash turned eighteen and he got so pissed that I had to undress him and put him to bed."

I nodded over at him and he threw me a smirk. "Mostly made up," he added, "just like yours."

"Okay," I grinned. "In that case I'll tell you what happened when I helped Jake move his stuff to a new house in Leeds and it was so late when we finished that I had to bunk up with him for the night."

"Nice one," he chuckled. "It seems that we both have very... er... active imaginations!"

I pulled on my trousers and he walked over to his wardrobe.

"Here," he called out, throwing me a small piece of clothing. "A little treat for next time you're in need of a bit of inspiration."

I looked at what he'd thrown me and it was a pair of orange and white stripy boxer briefs. They were heavily stained I noticed, especially along an inelegant streak running upwards between the well-stretched buttocks.

"Ashley's?" I asked, fastening up my belt.

"One of his more effluvious pairs," he grinned before adding, "If you're up for doing swapsies with Jake's, we can set up a little arrangement if you like."

"Okay," I chuckled. "That might be fun."

As he let me out of his house, we agreed to meet up at the weekend. This time he'd come to my place but the itinerary we followed would be largely the same.

As I drove away from his house and out onto the main road, I wondered whether it was wrong for us to be using our sons as what was basically masturbatory fodder. Well that's not strictly true: I didn't wonder whether it was wrong, but rather how wrong it was and whether it was so wrong that I should draw an end to it next time we met.

Even as I pulled in to my drive at home, I wasn't sure quite where, on the scale of things that were wrong, what we were doing would register.

I decided that, as with many things in life, it would probably best for me to go with the flow and see which beach I washed up on. As nobody was getting hurt and since even the swapped underwear would in the end be returned to their rightful owners, what harm could a few shared stories and borrowed shorts possibly do to our relationships with our sons?