Carried Away

Part of the 'Butt Monkey' series of stories by Robert Furlong

===

Pulling out of the car park after meeting Cameron, I couldn't help but marvel at how much nerve he must have. Imagine going back to a stranger's flat and rimming him while his mates looked on! The idea of doing something like that myself was more than a little titillating and could form the basis of many a fantasy, but I doubted I would ever have the confidence to actually do it.

Having said that, the way I had approached Cameron and arranged to meet up with him for a drink was well outside of my usual comfort zone. Indeed, what I had done in the park and at the adult learning centre a couple of days earlier was something which, just a few months ago, I would probably have found so alien to my normal behaviour that it would have been difficult to even contemplate. So perhaps, now that the idea had been planted, I might one day develop enough courage to go ahead and act on a more daring impulse.

As I began the drive home along Rockingham Road, I thought about what Cameron had said about how much sexual activity goes on between men in the military. In my early twenties, I had briefly considered joining the forces -- most probably the army -- because at that time they were running a national drive to recruit graduates in engineering, the degree which I had just attained. I'd always been deterred for the most corporal of reasons: I had, by then, an extremely high sex drive and I'd worried that I wouldn't have any outlet for the at least twice-daily relief that my swollen balls demanded. The thought of spending so many years cooped up in barracks with only male company was seriously off-putting: the prospect of having to make do with just my right hand for pleasure was not even worth considering.

I could now see, and the irony was not lost on me, that the very thing that had put me off joining the forces should instead have proven to be one of its main attractions. It had not occurred to me back then that all of us men together would have had equally insistent sex drives and that we all conveniently come with holes of roughly the right size which can be put to use as a practical outlet for those urges. Far from spending my life in enforced celibacy, I'd have probably enjoyed a fairly regular and pleasantly varied sex life in the quiet of the barracks after lights-out once I'd located a group of like-minded men who shared both my need for regular release and my taste for the male rear.

It struck me as bitterly amusing that I might have had more sex through joining the army than I'd had through my chosen course of getting married to Linda. I was confident I could have wangled a nightly hook-up with one or other like-minded soldier -- we'd have quickly spotted each other in the cramped confines of the barracks -- and I'd have no doubt come to enjoy taking turns with other men for mutual gratification. Thinking about it, I was fairly sure that I could have managed to fit in an early morning pre-shower session with those among my fellow-squaddies who, like me, found themselves waking before dawn with their erections standing to attention in their army-issue undershorts.

I wondered whether, extrapolating from what Cameron had said, such encounters between men for the sake of allowing a regular and healthy sexual release were now seen as acceptable -- perhaps even desirable -- within the forces. I rather liked the idea of tacit goings-on after lights-out, the men coupling up in their bunks, soundlessly helping one another to perform that last of the day's duties. The thought of quietly mounting another man in the darkness, our bodies gently working together in the knowledge that other men around us were discreetly pairing up together for the same reason, was extremely appealing. It gave the activity a fraternal quality: a late night brotherhood of men whose lithe sweaty bodies would come together for a few short minutes of unspoken union. The close, confined air of the barracks would be thicken at first with the base, malodorous whiff of so many men's quiet penetration of their brothers and comrades, and then, at length, by the more acrid, sharper bite of semen as so many pairs of balls were gratefully disburdened.

Such a bracingly masculine and loveless form of sex would have taken some getting used to, granted, but would gradually, in time, have acquired its own unique appeal. It would allow the discharge of a necessary bodily function, but would also be an intense and erotic moment of togetherness, the gentle rhythm of male coupling each night serving to unify us as a team and solidify the bonds of camaraderie between us.

Even if such encounters were still conducted in secrecy, like the discreet late night meetings of men described by Guy on the oil rig, such a low-key approach would bring its own attractions by introducing a sense of danger and taboo which I have always found exciting.

Having a regular and reliable means of release was something I'd only briefly enjoyed when I was married and it was strange to think that in the forces I might have had a more fulfilling sex life. I would have missed having a relationship with a woman, of that much I was sure, and my interest in my fellow soldiers would have been purely directed towards achieving mutual satisfaction at the exclusion of anything more meaningful. However, it occurred to me that whatever little companionship I had enjoyed with Linda was now long-gone and her departure had left me with the worst of all worlds: for the last few years I'd had neither the sex nor anything more emotionally-significant in my life.

I had Jake, though, and that was important.

As I sat and waited at some traffic lights, listening to my indicator clicking and watching it light up the sign to Foxton with a pulsing yellow rhythm, I realised I now had two evenings to look forward to between now and Christmas. First, there was my second date with Debbie, which I hoped might bring with it at least a snog and perhaps a mutual grope now that we'd got over the initial necessarily awkward meeting. Second, there was the prospect of a get-together with another bloke -- the word 'date' didn't sound at all appropriate in this case -- which Cameron was going to set up for me. With my male-to-male encounter, I rather assumed there'd be a sexual element to the evening: in fact, if the night bring with it at least one climax I'd consider it a complete flop.

Now there's double standards for you.

As I pulled away from the junction, I thought about what it would be like to kiss a woman after such a long spell of enforced abstinence. It would feel wonderfully intimate to touch my lips against hers; to feel her hesitantly yield to accept the tip of my tongue into her mouth and to feel her warm breath and the scent of her perfume so close to my face. I'd press close to her as my mouth worked against hers and might reach into her blouse to gently caress one of her breasts. Some women would enjoy that and groan their approval; some might even reach down and fondle the fly area of my trousers. I guessed Debbie would be more reticent and I'd have to take it carefully. Nevertheless, while we kissed, I'd get near enough for her to feel my bulge swelling against her so that she could be in no doubt of my eventual intent.

Turning into my estate, I thought about how it would be to be with a man for the first time. I pictured us going back to his place which, for some reason, I visualised as a cramped bedsit with a shoddily made bed. Having no idea who Cameron was planning to fix me up with, I imagined my colleague Matt Strickson naked, standing upright on the sheets of his unmade bed with me squatting behind him, also naked and with my face nuzzling between his ripe, round buttocks.

My lips would be clamped to his cheeks, my tongue exploring his hairy crack and his hot, sticky hole, while his hand was grabbing the back of my head urging me further towards his buried trophy. He'd bend low to grind his arse into my hungry mouth and would reach down, through his own legs, to grab my cock and wank me off with a rough, fast rhythm as I rimmed him.

Then he'd squat down in front of me and I'd slide myself into him, one arm gripping his shoulders and the other around his belly. We'd fuck like that, my knees around his hairy thighs and our balls dangling low as we squatted one behind the other on his dishevelled bed. I'd reach down and grab his cock and wank him as I fucked him, the two of us working up a rhythm against each other. With my other arm, I'd hold him close, feeling my chest rubbing up and down his back as we grunted and panted together; smelling the fusty whiff from his soiled sheets being joined by the more animalistic stink of our sweating buggery.

I pulled up in front of our house and switched off my lights.

It was difficult to know which prospect excited me more: a long, passionate kiss with Debbie including -- I hoped -- my first touch of a woman's breasts for way too long; or a night of rimming and sodomy with some guy I might hardly know. They both had their own appeals; were both arousing in such different ways.

As I got out of the car, I felt the envelope full of the articles and clippings which Cameron had given me digging into me through my jacket pocket and decided not to take them back into the house. Instead, I stuffed them into the glove compartment of the car. They'd be safest in there until I could find somewhere discreet to bin them.

Having done that, I locked the car and let myself into the house. The hallway was in darkness but the distant deep throb of a baseline told me that Jake was in his room.

I poured myself a glass of wine from the fridge and grabbed a cold slice of pizza, a leftover from a couple of nights earlier. Tipple, our old ginger cat, started meowing around my feet so I filled his bowl. Then I went upstairs to see Jake.

He was at his desk doing some work for college with the music playing from his iPhone through his speakers. A familiar smell and a ball of scrunched up tissues in his bin betrayed how he'd taken advantage of my late return.

I touched his shoulder, startling him, and he asked if his music was too loud.

"No. I'm just saying 'hi'."

"Oh right, yeah. Hi," he said, turning back to whatever it was he was doing.

"Have you eaten?"

"I had some toast."

"Do you want anything else?"

"I'm good."

He knew that expression bugged me but I let it go. I left him to whatever it was he was doing, and switched on the computer in our box room. While I was waiting for it to boot up, I ate the slice of cold pizza and took a few sips from the wine.

I was both nervous and excited that the prospect of having sex with a man -- full, unhurried and unpaid for sex -- was soon to become a reality. I could hardly believe it was about to happen.

The idea of penetrating a man from behind in the classically 'gay' sexual position was very attractive and the image of Matt Strickson and me squatting together on his grubby bed, our balls slapping against each other as my hips worked against his buttocks, came back to me. I thought about how it would feel if our positions were reversed: if I was the guy in front, feeling Matt's -- or whoever's -- cock driving in and out of me and having his hand beating at my erection as his stubble chafed the back of my neck. That would have its own appeal too, I was sure, and the prospect of following Cameron's suggestion that we would take turns on each other -- something that wasn't possible with a woman -- held a particular allure.

I liked the idea of having sex with guy at his place: the fact that we would be doing it on the bed he shared with his girlfriend or wife presented, for some reason, a tremendous turn-on. The two of us men would be enjoying furtive, forbidden sex together on a bed more used to the delicate bouquet of the sensual and vaginal. We'd be rutting together, revelling in defiling the feminine sensuality of the place with the strong, unashamed odours of our rough, male-on-male buggery, making the bedsprings shriek in ways it never had, and coating the already sex-smeared sheets with our own, more expressive stains.

As the Windows desktop loaded up on the screen, I realised, however, that it was far more likely that I'd have to bring my 'companion' (is there a better word for such a person?) home with me as my place would make a more obvious venue for our get-together if he was involved with a woman. The thought of having sex with another man on the bed I'd shared with my wife was similarly pleasing, though for rather different reasons, and I realised how gratifying it would be to watch the two of us wanking, rimming and mounting each other through the mirrored wardrobe doors which ran the length of the room.

Taking another drink from my wine, I reminded myself that I was going to have to get Jake to stay with his mother that night, or else force him to have a sleepover with one of his mates. He'd know exactly what I was up to -- he was eighteen, after all -- and would probably be intrigued by the prospect of listening in to the sounds that two men make when they get together for sex.

He'd already proven, with his undisguised interest at the sounds that Guy and I had made during our clumsy hook-up in the hotel, that he was fascinated by the idea of men being sexual together. I wouldn't put it past him to creep along the corridor and lurk outside my bedroom door while we were in there, just to hear what his dad and his new-found friend were doing together.

I really didn't want to have to feel conscious at the sounds we were making together for the sake of my son; to worry about every creak of the bedframe and to feel inhibited about what we did together for fear of making too much noise. It was embarrassing enough that he'd heard me masturbating that night a few weeks ago: how worse it would be to know that he was listening to the rhythm of his father being buggered for the first time.

Although it was unlikely, I could imagine Jake's curiosity driving him to peer through the keyhole of my room. The possibility was certainly real enough for me to end up spending more time feeling concerned about what he might see than enjoying what we were doing. How would he feel to see his dad naked and aroused with another man? Sucking another man's cock? Licking another man's bum? Would it surprise him to see me beating myself off in my excitement as I did so? Would he be disgusted to see me anally penetrating a man? Would he be shocked to see his own father bending down to be similarly mounted by a member of his own gender?

No -- he'd have to be out of the house. There were no two ways about it.

As I glanced through the work e-mails which had come in since I'd left the office to meet Cameron, I mused that if I were to bring a woman home with me, I'd have no such qualms about Jake being in the house. I'd ask him to keep a low profile, of course, but the thought of him being aware that his dad was having sex in the next bedroom would not be an issue for me.

Perhaps, in time, I might come to accept Jake's presence in the house when I brought men back too, but not right now. Certainly not the first time.

I could envisage a time when I might bring Debbie, or any other woman, home with me one evening for a meal, and have her stay over with me, and then the next evening having a guy around for a few beers and extending the same invitation to him. Slow, gentle lovemaking one night; rough, sweaty butt-fucking the next. Different needs; different ways of satisfying them.

I could actually see that happening as a realistic possibility, and I liked the idea.

To my surprise, as I was looking through my e-mails, a message came in from Cameron. He must have sent it just moments earlier.

"Nice to meet up with you tonight, Rob. Lots of good stuff to talk about. Been doing a bit of research about one of your misgivings. Google 'Andrew Marter' if you're interested. Looking forward to the Xmas party. It will be a very good night! Best, Cameron."

As he'd sent the message through the work e-mail system, its contents were deliberately vague, but his meaning was clear enough to me.

I typed the name 'Andrew Marter' into Google and looked down the list of results. Most of the most prominent links were to Facebook and LinkedIn pages and those below cited references to the author of several erudite papers on management techniques. At first I wondered if Cameron actually intended me to read through those -- perhaps his e-mail really was of a purely professional nature -- but on the second page I spotted a blog entitled, "For Men Like Me".

The author was from Southampton and appeared, from the picture on the front page of the site, to be a slim, bespectacled man who was married with three daughters. He had the look of an accountant or a solicitor; a fairly nondescript kind of guy who you wouldn't glance twice at if you passed him on the street. He'd discovered that he had a taste for rimming on a business trip with a long-time friend about a decade earlier (details weren't forthcoming) and had set up an internet group for others of a similar persuasion, of which there seemed to be many.

I read through some of his posts and chuckled at the tone of his language which seemed inappropriately formal, as though his interest in rimming, or 'anilingus' as he insisted on calling it, was of a purely academic nature. Perhaps he liked to think of it that way: as if he was doing some kind of high-brow research or studying a largely abstract branch of science.

I quickly found the post which I assumed Cameron was trying to direct me to in which Marter described how a guy might overcome his worries about meeting another male with a sexual motive for the very first time.

"The choice of one's anilingual companion is of paramount importance in affording a successful and fulfilling sexual experience," he wrote in his typically scholarly style. "One needs to choose someone who is sufficiently close and trusted as to facilitate unembarrassed intimacy, or otherwise it may be preferable to locate a complete stranger via the internet or other means."

Well, I couldn't argue with that.

"Bear in mind that you and your chosen companion are likely to be naked together, that you will be sexually aroused in each other's presence and that you will experience contact of the most intense and deeply personal nature with each other's bodies. If you are choosing a friend with whom to share such an experience, you must ask yourself whether your friendship is strong enough to survive such an intimate encounter and how you will relate to one another afterward."

As Jake was always quick to point out, I didn't really have many guys who I could call 'friends', so the point didn't seem to apply to me. I played squash with Steve once a week and sometimes met up with Adam for a drink, but there was no way I'd suggest anything like this to either of them.

"That is not to say that what you are contemplating doing together is necessarily of a homosexual nature," the blog went on. "While it is no doubt true that some anilingual encounters between men might occasionally develop along homosexual lines, the vast majority have no homosexual elements to them whatsoever and remain primarily a means for both men to achieve sexual gratification using each other's bodies as mere facilitators in that process.

"As such, you may want to consider at an early stage whether you wish to expose your penises to one another when you are sexually excited. Many men -- myself included -- find this to be unacceptable and therefore wear jockstraps when engaged in anilingual intercourse. Such garments, which are available in standard sports shops and have no sexual connotations in themselves, allow you full access to each other's anuses without requiring your erections to be bared."