Exploring the dynamics of masculinity

I have always taken the view that a 'thing of beauty is a thing of beauty'; animal, mineral or vegetable. Putting arbitrary labels on things, whether people or characteristics, is unhelpful.

When I lived in London in my mid-twenties I sampled the gay pubs and clubs scene extensively. Those guys really knew how to have a good time. Even so, I did not feel fully committed to the way of life. “Ah,” you might say, “so you are bisexual.” No, I don't think I would even go that far. Read the story that follows and see what you think.

I was born in Manchester in Lancashire, U.K. At the age of four, the family moved to North Wales. While living in our new bungalow in one of the northern suburbs, I have a vague recollection of exploring the boy who lived across the road. He was a couple of years older than I was. I remember the event because he had a bicycle and I did not. In later years, I was told, I was discovered naked in the garden shed with the girl next door. It seems from the day I learned to walk I was 'precocious'.

We then moved house. I explored the Welsh forests and, in them, the local Welsh boys. One warm, dark summer evening there was also a girl called Janet whom I laid out naked on the grass in the moonlight. It was all entirely innocent.

At the age of eleven I attended the 'big school'. In the local Grammar School there were 400 boys aged between 11 and 18; a 'target rich' environment, as the military might say. I had my own 'secret' gang with a steady stream of new recruits eager to join over the years. Naturally, there was an initiation ceremony. Diligently, I catalogued the physical development of a sample of the town's youth as they passed through puberty. I read very recently that, until the mid 1970s, the Ivy League universities carried out a similar programme on freshman, amassing tens of thousands of photographs of naked young men, and girls.

By the age of 17 I had had my fill of school life and left to become a civil engineer. I worked for a firm of consulting engineers building a dam in the mountains. It had chosen to hire a number of young college lads who split their time between studies and 'work experience'. I took an interest in a lad of my own age called 'Mat'. He was dating a couple of girls (not at the same time) and I had a steady girlfriend.

Friendly larking about led to the occasional grope - on my part, of course. He squirmed but made little attempt to pull away or voice any objection. In the course of the next few weeks, when we were alone, I first had my hand down his trousers and then, a week later, had his jeans round his ankles. We had now passed the point where he was likely to complain, or resist.

I was not senior to him, except that I had been on site a year or so before he joined the company. I had a little more experience of how things worked so, in truth, my confidence was largely bluff. On the occasions I instructed him to join me for a ride in one of the company Land Rovers high into the mountains he was eager enough to comply. Nothing was said, but by now he was trained to accept whatever would surely follow once we were securely in the middle of nowhere,

Inevitable, after pulling off the track, I would lean over and slip down his jeans. By the time I had access to his briefs his cock would be stiffening nicely. I would fold the waistband under his balls and slowly stroke him. Mat was slightly taller than I, and a little thinner. His physique was still forming but his cock and balls were fully man-sized. He would sit patiently for half an hour or so while a gently stroked him. In the vehicle I never took him all the way. He never expressed any interest in exploring me. After all, he was 'straight'.

I played around with him for about two years before he left to go to university in Hertfordshire. A couple of times he stayed the night at my place. I still lived at home with my parents in those years and had a sizeable room of my own on a separate floor complete with a bathroom. On these occasions I was able to lay him naked on the bed and take him all the way. I enjoyed watching his facial expression change from initial disinterest to barely controlled ecstasy at the moment he spurted uncontrollably.

There is a postscript to these exchanges. Three years later, when I was living in London and he was passing through, on his way to Iran, I think, we met up again for an evening. I took him back to my place and undressed him. He was lying naked on the floor in front of the gas fire enjoying my slow hand-job when he leaned up on his elbows and pushed me aside. I was naked as well. He rolled me to the carpet and eagerly forced his mouth down on to my erect cock. This was a first. He had never touched me before, let along sucked me. I think he just decided there and then to try something he had never done before, and he wanted to do it with someone he trusted and knew.

He sucked me urgently for a few seconds, certainly less than a minute. I don't think he enjoyed the experience. It was just something he was determined to try. He quickly, let go before kneeling on the carpet, on all fours.

“Try fucking me,” he said, almost matter-of-factly.

It was as though he had a checklist he was anxious to complete before leaving the country. Things to remember while he was away or, maybe, things he knew he dared not try in Iran. I knelt behind him and slipped my very stiff saliva-wet cock between his tight firm arse cheeks. I pushed a little and rubbed myself against him. He was tight, a virgin and there had been no foreplay - or lubricant. It didn't come off. After a couple of minutes he pulled away, apparently satisfied at the attempt. He said he couldn't stay. He was on a tight schedule. I walked him to the local railway station. That was 38 years ago. I have not heard from him since, though I still have a black-and-white photograph of him reclining naked in a chair.

There were three other memorable events in the Welsh mountains that I will forever treasure. In these days of unrestrained sexual opportunities for all they are a reminder of a more innocent time.

David was a 'chainman'. That sounds naughtier than it is. A 'chainman' is the chap who holds the 'idiot end' of whatever measuring device the surveyor is using, The term refers to the measuring chains traditionally used for surveying land. A 'chain' is 22 yards long.

One very hot summer's day David and a fellow chainman went skinny dipping in one of the lakes. That year I was working out of a cabin on the shoreline of this particular lake. It was divided into two compartments: my small office and the outer area where the equipment was stored and the chainmen loitered when not busy. Both of them were roughly my age. I was about 19 at the time so David might have been as old as 22. He was, maybe, an inch shorter than I, though wider and more muscular.

After their swim they both came back to the cabin, naked and wet. The other guy dried and dressed himself in the outer office. David, still naked, came over to talk to me. He stood in the open doorway using his T-shirt to dry his hair and making no attempt to dry anywhere else, nor to cover up. Whatever he was saying was unimportant. It could have waited until he was dressed. Quite obviously the purpose of the exercise was to pose naked in front of me and show me his cock and balls. Had the other guy not been a few feet away I would have stood up and had a feel. I just knew David would have been more than happy had I chosen to do that. He was not erect. It was not even sexual. It fell into the category I would call 'posturing'. It was an oblique invitation to see what might happen next.

There was a similar incident with a guy called Paul. He was a few years older. We were acquaintances only; certainly not what you would call friends as he worked with an adjoining group of engineers. He was always polite but distant. Paul was built for a life in engineering: he was a couple of inches taller than me, and he looked strong and confident. It was an usually hot summer that year and the heat was radiating off the exposed rocks focussing it into the man-made crater left by the Victorian slate miners a century ago.

Out of the blue, Paul came into my office and asked if I fancied a quick swim in the lunch break. I was surprised he asked me and not someone else. Maybe word had gotten around of my interest in the masculine form. I had been discreet but people can sense these things. I said, 'OK, why not?'

About half a mile from our temporary offices was an enormous mound of slate waste left over from previous generations of quarrying these parts. These slate tips were all over the place. This one had a bowl-shaped hollow at its centre which trapped the rain. The pool was sizeable, deep, crystal clear, and near the surface, warmed to body temperature. If you swam near the surface it was pleasantly warm but if you trod water, four feet down, you could feel the colder layer.

I followed Paul up the side of the tip and then down into the crater. I was not entirely convinced this was not a trick. At the water's edge he began stripping off. I followed but he was stark naked before I was. He lingered while I caught up and to give me time to properly look him over. For a few moments we both stood unclothed looking at each other. I was taken aback at his physique. Clothes disguise so much. He had broad shoulders, a slim waist, perfectly unblemished skin, muscular arms and legs, and a perfectly proportioned pair of balls, hanging beneath his dangling cock, all set in a thicket of jet black pubic hair.

He waited to give me a few moments to fully size him up. As David had done it was only a few seconds of display. Nevertheless, it was so obviously intentional. Then he dived into the water. I followed. We swam around for twenty minutes or so, bumping shoulders occasionally. That was all. There was no opportunity for me to seamlessly move on to the next stage. I did not know him well enough to make the next move. He had sought me out when there were others in the extended group he could have chosen to skinny dip with. At the very least, he was astute enough to realise I would be the one to appreciate his physique. I was still relatively inexperienced in those days, and of course, very careful how I acted.

While you are young, reasonably good looking, and physically all your kit is at its peak of condition, it is perfectly reasonable to want to show it off - while the perfection lasts. Under such circumstances, very many absolutely straight young men will have absolutely no objection to showing what they have and what they can do.

My final memory of those very happy times concerns a lad called 'Chris'. Having been on site for over three years, this 17 year old newcomer looked to me for guidance in the grown up world. He had not yet passed his driving test, consequently I picked him up from a bus stop each morning to take him to work in the mountains.

One day, one of the senior engineers asked me to return a Land Rover to one of the offices in another town nearby. On my way into work that morning I left my car at this other office and a member of staff gave Chris and me a lift into work. Late afternoon on this winter's day I drove the vehicle to the outstation where Chris was based to collect him and take us both home. It was a cold grey afternoon and we were on a narrow track at some altitude. He asked if he could take a turn driving the vehicle as no one was around for miles. A Landrover is quite a big beast to drive for the first time. Nevertheless I agreed.

Within a quarter of a mile he had driven it off the road and into a drainage ditch. An oncoming car had caused him to pull over too far on the narrow road. Though a four wheel drive, the ditch was deep and the Land Rover was stuck nose down in the mud. I was annoyed. My last words to him before letting him take charge of the vehicle were, “Be careful not to damage it or else I will whip you arse.”

No damage had been done, however, evening was approaching and we were now stuck in the middle of nowhere. Some distance back I had seen a JCB digger doing something. I ordered Chris to sit and wait while I arranged a rescue. I walked the half mile back to where I had seen the machine, hoping it was still working there. It was. I handed the driver a five pound note - a reasonable sum of money in those days - and asked him to come and pull us out, which he did.

It was time for Chris to pay the price for his mistake and in no uncertain terms I told him so. It was dark by now as a negotiated our way down the easterly side of the mountain towards civilisation. This was too good an opportunity to miss.

“Drop your pants,” I ordered.

He raised no objection or excuse. I heard the rustling of fabric as he immediately complied. The Land Rover had no adequate heating and we were both wearing well insulated jackets. When he had finished dropping his jeans to his knees I leaned over to stroke his crotch. To my pleasant surprise he had also peeled down his briefs. Unexpectedly, I now had a handful of prime male warm testicles of generous size. I had not asked him to drop his underpants and I said so.

“I thought that was what you wanted,” he said. “I didn't want to piss you off by not doing as I was told.”

I had no particular plan in mind. I was playing things by ear. “Do you have a pen?”

He took a silver ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket and handed it to me with the words, “You won't hurt me, will you.”

That little heartfelt plea was a turn on and I my dick twitched in my pants. He owed me, was at my mercy, and he knew it. I had half an idea I would write something on his cock, that was all. I think he was worried that I might insert the pen into him, somehow.

I was driving down a steep and narrow winding road, holding the wheel with one hand. I gave him back the pen and instead reached over to feel his balls in more detail. He inhaled sharply, thinking I was going to squeeze them. Instead, I gently kneaded them between my fingers. I told him to spread his legs. I only said this to make him feel more vulnerable. I could feel between his legs easily. He was making no attempt to recoil. I couldn't see anything in the darkness of the cab. If anything that enhanced my sense of touch. I massaged his ample balls, feeling them together in his sack and then fingering each one individually. All the while he sat in silent submission.

I slowly worked my hand up to his cock. Likewise a good size even when flaccid. It soon stiffened within my grip. I had barely stroked, gently, a few times when I felt his warm sticky fluid flowing down across my fingers. He had taken me by surprise, again. I held his cock for a several minutes until I could pull over into a lay-by and extract my handkerchief from my trouser pocket. I wiped my hand and then gave it to him to clean his spunk from between his thighs and where it had spilled on to the plastic seat.

It was a further half hour's drive to the nearby office. I ordered Chris to remain sitting with his underpants and jeans around his knees and legs spread as far as the crumpled clothes would allow. There was street lighting now we were on the main road so I was able to glance over at him from time to time. He sat patiently taking his punishment like a man. No complaint; no request to pull up his pants.

I continued to give Chris a lift in to work for some months until I left the job and moved on. Nothing was ever said about the night he shot his load in my fist. As far as he was concerned it was just one more right-of-passage; all part of the growing up experience that men share.

Next: In 1980 I moved to London, the gay capital of Britain. More importantly, as far I was concerned, it was a city overflowing with young talent of every size and shape, away from their parents for the first time. Let me tell you about Daniel . . .