[Here's the other missing episode.]

Time flies when you're having fun. I didn't realise that a year had flown by until Martin told me he was cooking a special dinner to celebrate the first anniversary of our meeting.

He told me this during the course of a phone call. That was fortunate as it spared him the look of amazement on my face. Of course I responded enthusiastically - after all, Martin is an excellent cook - but I also found myself obliged to think about his use of the word "anniversary".

I am not cold-hearted and I am not totally without sentimentality, but, when I took stock of the situation - twelve months of good companionship and mind-blowingly awesome sex - I realised that Martin was romanticising our relationship and focussing on the companionship, whereas I had been more inclined to appreciate getting blown or laid regularly by an obliging friend. To put it bluntly, Martin obviously allowed his heart to rule his head; on the other hand, I - like some virile stud bull - had allowed my dick to rule my head from puberty onwards.

It was on a Thursday that Martin spoke of an anniversary dinner the following Saturday night. So I had two days in which to sort out my feelings. At age twenty-seven, I had seldom thought about the long-term future. I had been briefly engaged for a while, but this level of commitment became burdensome once my fiancée started talking about children and her dream home. I like kids well enough, but I'm always happy to hand children back to their parents once I've done my bit to entertain them.

To be truthful, however, my chief concern when Martin talked of an anniversary dinner was that it sounded so gay. Or, more to the point, it seemed to confirm that I must be gay, and I wasn't comfortable with that thought at all.

Saturday night arrived and my thinking was still all over the place. I arrived at Martin's cottage dressed to the nines, carrying a bunch of red carnations and sweetened by the combined aromas of Listerine, deodorant and eu de toilette. Basically, I was determined to tell Martin that I did not want to be in a gay relationship with anniversaries and lovey-dovey stuff; that I was uncomfortable with anything that approached commitment, anything that required me to come out as being gay.

So, why - you might ask - the flowers and the extra efforts to look and smell good? Let's just say my thoughts were a muddle. In any case, I seem to specialise in giving mixed messages.

Anyway, Martin opened the front door and we went into our usual tight hug but, when he moved to kiss me, I was reluctant to respond as passionately as I usually did. I didn't think he'd notice. He did. He definitely noticed. But he said nothing. He simply ushered me into his lounge room, thanked me for the flowers and went off to put them in a vase. When he returned, he was carrying two glasses of chilled white wine.

Once we were seated either side of the fireplace, I started up the idle chit-chat routine that I use at work to make clients feel at ease. I prattled on about weather and traffic until Martin brought me to a halt.

'What's wrong?' he asked.

'Wrong? Nothing's wrong? Why do you ask?'

'Because I can read you like a book, Andy. You're hopeless at hiding things. So I ask again, what's wrong?'

'I think maybe I'm a bit tired' I began. 'It's been a busy week and I ...'

'Stop it' Martin commanded. He didn't sound angry but he certainly sounded serious. 'I hate it when you go all superficial on me. It's like the first time we met. You were all tensed up then and you're all tensed up now.'

It was an ideal moment for me to speak my mind. Unfortunately, my thoughts were so scattered that I almost had no mind to speak of.

'I'm not gay' was the only response I could come up with.

'Well, who said you were?' he demanded.

'No one. I'm just not thinking clearly. Anyway, let's not have a debate. Let's eat. I'm famished and we don't want the meal to spoil.'

Martin got out of his armchair and stalked off to the kitchen. When he returned, I was informed that he'd turned down the oven and the hot-plates. He replenished our glasses and then sat down and treated me to a pitying glance.

'Is all this because I used the word anniversary?' he demanded.

'No. Of course not' I lied, my face averted.

Martin stood up and walked towards me with one hand extended.

'Get up' he commanded.

I stood and he took me by the hand and led me to his bedroom. Once there, he removed every item I was wearing and then knelt down before me.

As usual, my dick had sprung to full erection and jutted upwards, almost parallel to my stomach. He took me into his mouth. It was delectable. He nibbled and probed at my foreskin and sucked on each testicle in turn.

It wasn't long before I felt my sap rise and I warned him that I was about to blow.

He lifted his head momentarily and said 'Blow then. Shoot your load down my throat. Drown me!'

I'm an obliging guy. I grasped the back of his head and pushed it down until my cock was firmly against his throat muscles. I held him there. I didn't care whether he could breathe or not. I was too intent on the rush in my balls and the impending torrent of cum. I felt a slight convulsion in his throat muscles, a spasm; and then my load gushed forth. Only then did I let go of Martin's head. Only then did he catch a quick breath before once again accommodating my pulsating shaft to the max.

He stayed that way until the very last dribble of cum had been teased out of me. And then he stood up, gave me a very cum-filled kiss and left the room.

'Get dressed and head for the dining table' he called over his shoulder. 'Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.'

If my thinking had been muddled earlier, it was positively befuddled by this stage. What the hell was going on, I wondered. Perhaps he's angry. Perhaps he's treating me like a cheap trick in order to put me in my place. I was partly relieved by another notion too; perhaps he was confirming that this really is all about the sex and nothing to do with commitment and relationships.

Dinner was - as usual - delicious. I wish I could tell you what we ate but I can't remember. With my head in a spin, I surrendered to gluttony - something in which I am expert when the cuisine is good.

Nor can I remember the conversation over dinner. I am dimly aware that we spoke but I doubt either of us said anything meaningful. I think we both displayed our expertise at idle chit-chat. After dessert, Martin suggested we have coffee and liqueurs in the lounge room.

Once seated either side of the fire again, Martin told me he had something to say and he asked if I would hear him out without interrupting. I agreed to keep my mouth shut. I didn't feel capable of speaking fluent English anyway. I was full of food, drained of cum and almost incapable of thought.

'Andrew' he began - and I inwardly shuddered at this point; Martin usually called me Andy; in fact, he was the only person on earth permitted to call me Andy; so I knew this was serious.

'Andrew, you already know I love you. You just choose not to think about it. Right?'

'You said I mustn't interrupt.'

'OK' he continued. 'You don't have to answer. I know you prefer not to think about the past or the future. You live for the now. You're happy to fuck me or have me siphon your balls empty because that feels good in the present; and once you've shot your bolt, you enter a new present, a present where you're Andrew Charles Tait - a guy, and definitely not gay or even bisexual.'

'I don't like labels' I muttered in protest.

'You're the one doing the labelling' insisted Martin. 'I didn't ask you over for a gay anniversary dinner. I asked you over for a dinner to mark one full year of friendship. Can you understand that?'

I grudgingly grunted that I understood.

Martin continued on:

'I'm gay, Andy. OK? I'm 100% and unashamedly gay. I don't wear a bell around my neck like a leper. I don't screech my sexuality to the rooftops. But nor do I keep it a dark secret. I don't loathe myself. I don't despise what I do in bed with another man. Just because I'm circumcised doesn't mean I'm not comfortable in my own skin.'


'That was a joke, Andy. Not very funny, but I'm trying to lighten up a little.'

I sighed deeply and decided it was time to unburden myself.

'You're probably right' I said. 'In fact, you're always bloody right. Has anyone ever told you how annoying that is?'

'Yes' he replied, and chuckled.

'Martin, I'm incredibly confused. I have been since the day we first met. I never wanted some guy to love me. I never even thought about fucking a guy or having his mouth all over me. I enjoy what we do together. And I have to admit it's not just the sex - I always enjoy your company, but I swear it never crosses my mind to have sex with any other guy. Only with you.'

Martin chuckled again, but I could tell he was not making fun of me because he moved to kneel in front of my chair.

'Andy' he said, 'What you just said is exactly what I'd want a lover to say to me. I very much want a guy who never thinks about sex with any other guy but me.'

'Yeah, but I haven't finished yet.'

'Go on then' he encouraged.

'I know I'm not 100% gay, Martin. I still look at women. I still enjoy sex with girls. I just don't feel gay.'

'Avoid the labels' Martin advised. 'Don't think stereotypes all the time. Anyway, I don't ask you to be 100% gay. You've gone out with a few girls this year and I haven't minded at all. I'd be happy to be your exclusive guy and - if you feel you must - you can pork every woman in town when the urge arises.'

'How did you know about the girls I've been with? I never told you.'

'Firstly, Andy, you're totally transparent to me. I can tell when you've been with some woman. You make weird excuses not to catch up and, when you return, you always look a bit sheepish and you're always even more vigorous than usual in bed. Besides, I've spotted you a couple of times in cafes and bars.'

'You never said anything.' I responded.

'No. Why should I? It's your business. I wouldn't want you to think I was spying on you. But it's a small enough world so it's not surprising that I might encounter you on a date with some girl.'

'And you don't mind?' I asked.

'Of course I don't mind. I don't want someone to feel they're in a cage. If it was the other way round, how would you feel?'

'How would I feel if I loved a guy and he had occasional flings with women? I'd probably kill him.'

Martin laughed at that.

I asked him what the earlier blow job, the quickie was all about.

'I wanted you to think with your heart and your head. I thought if you got rid of a load you might stop thinking with your dick and be able to talk from the heart.'

'I do not think with my dick' I protested.

'Never' he asked.

'No, never.'

Long silence.

'Well ... hardly ever' I confessed.

Martin laughed at that too.

Anyway, that anniversary dinner was nearly three years ago. Since then, Martin and I have come to an arrangement which satisfies us both.

I eventually moved in to share his cottage. My parents were a bit puzzled at first. It seemed odd to them that I would want to live so far out of town, but they're happy that I'm happy.

I still date a girl occasionally, but such dates are few and far between lately. Nothing has ever been said about my sexuality. If my family knows, then they're obviously content to leave things unsaid.

My parents visit occasionally and Martin and I have been to their place for dinner too. When she rings, my mother always asks how Martin is and I know they chat and share recipes when in the kitchen together. My father enjoys Martin's company too and they occasionally go fishing together. I'm never invited to come along because everyone knows I loathe fishing. My contribution is to devour whatever they catch.

I have never met any of Martin's family. It's not that he keeps me secret; it's more that he is an outcast because he's a homosexual. He occasionally gets a call from his mother or his elder brother, and they send him greetings cards on appropriate occasions, but it seems the family breach will never be healed.

Once or twice a year, Martin feels the urge to go to synagogue. I accompanied him once and wore a funny little yarmulke. I didn't enjoy the head honcho's singing or chanting or whatever it was. And I got a bad fit of the giggles when Martin whispered:

'Look around. You're surrounded by surgical savagery. You're the only guy here who's uncut.'

I guess I've grown up a bit. I was still very much a boy when I first met Martin. Now I'm a 30-year old man and Martin is approaching forty. Nowadays, I don't worry about dining out with another guy or even doing the weekly shopping with him. I no longer think about labels. I'm comfortable in my own skin. Speaking of which, Martin continues to glory in my foreskin - something that amuses me a lot; after all, I was born with it and can't see the magic - but I continue to allow him to worship it.

We occasionally go far afield to visit a nude beach to our north. It's not exactly a gay beach. There are straights and families there too, but most of the population is male and almost certainly gay. I was nervous the first time. Now I'm not so shy. I'm not hung up on dick size but I guess I'm glad that I stack up well against the other guys. I'd hate to be an object of pity for having the smallest cock on earth. Anyway, I'm a shower rather than a grower, so my dick looks more promising than it really is.

I think Martin is the only circumcised guy on the beach who is under fifty! Martin is in foreskin-spotter heaven. He also likes the fact that my balls still hang low even after a long, cool swim. His own scrotum seems to shrivel up to the size of a little girl's purse! He says I must be genetically immune to shrinkage.

Last night - before I sat down to write this account - I surprised Martin while he was at the stove cooking. I crept up behind him and pushed my groin against his buttocks. I was instantly hard. He calmly turned off the burners and turned to face me. And he was instantly hard too. I helped him strip off his clothes and we kissed as passionately as ever.

Martin went to his knees and licked my balls until I was frantic to do more. He then sucked on each of them - just as he always does - before flicking his tongue around the head and shaft of my cock. I knew he would eventually lavish attention on my foreskin but it seemed like ages before he did so. My urgency was increasing all the while. I wanted to mount him and fuck him till he screamed for mercy.

Finally, I had Martin leaning over the kitchen table and begging me to fuck him. I was happy to do so. Now that we no longer need to worry about condoms, I can simply use my own pre-cum as a lubricant, especially if the fuck is totally impromptu and one where we both feel like animals. Proper lubricant is for gentle, leisurely fucking. Last night we both wanted it fast and furious.

I usually enter Martin gradually; gently easing my way up his tight, warm ass. Last night, I positioned the head of my dick at his ass-hole and let him feel it nudging at his tight, pink pucker. Then, I savagely thrust to the maximum, all the way in until my balls slammed against him. I stayed there for a while, enjoying the warmth and the contractions as he clenched his arse-chute; and then I started moving fast and rhythmically; harder and harder. I could hear his gasp each time I slammed into him. He began to vocalise.

'Oh, fuck yeah. Oh, shit yeah. Harder. Faster. Fuck me. Fuck me. FUCK ME!'

I pulled my cock all the way out. The tip nodded between his ass-cheeks. I pretended to enter him several times but only allowed him a half-inch or so before withdrawing. He began to moan in a mixture of agony and ecstasy. He enjoyed the teasing - as did I - but he also craved to be penetrated fully and repeatedly.

Finally, when Martin was almost howling with frustration, I plunged my dick all the way inside him once more. I stayed still for as long as I could. He squeezed and clenched and spasmed around my shaft. It was incredible. It was like being milked. Ejaculation moved from the possible to the inevitable. Martin began to beg.

"Oh, fuck! Fill me up. Give me your cum. Pump it into me. Rape me. Split me in two. FUCK ME HARD!"

So I did.

I pulled all the way back and then started pumping away like a dog on a bitch in heat. I was slamming into him so hard that the table moved across the tiled floor. Martin and I moved with it.

Just as the table came to a stop against the kitchen bench, I felt that fantastic anticipatory rush that overwhelms me when I'm about to blow. Usually, I stop at that point and leave myself deep within him while the cum gushes out of me. Not last night though.

No. I kept slamming away until I'd discharged my load everywhere. There was cum deep within him. There was cum decorating the entire length of his ass-chute. And there was jizz that had been displaced by my jack-hammering dick. It dripped out of him. It covered his thighs and my balls. Some even landed on the floor.

I reached around to grasp Martin's cock but he told me not to bother. He'd already blown his own load all over the tiles and a kitchen cupboard. It doesn't happen often, but occasionally I hit Martin's prostate in just the right way to cause him to ejaculate spontaneously. Last night was one of those occasions.

We stayed in position, sweating and gasping for breath, for quite some time. My cock didn't really go soft. I began to think I could do it all over again. I really wanted to do it all over again. But Martin complained that he had cramp so I withdrew, not gently as I usually do, but abruptly, creating an audible plopping sound and adding a few more droplets to the mess on the floor.

'That was fantastic' Martin said as he stood upright.

Turning him around, I gave him a long, lingering kiss and told him it had been fantastic for me too.

'Has it made you hungry?' he asked.

'No. Just sweaty and almost satisfied.'

'Only almost?'

'Yep. I want to take a shower and then rape you all over again in the bedroom.'

'What about dinner?' Martin asked.

'Fuck the dinner. I want you.'

We showered together - something we seldom do because I'm obsessive-compulsive about the way I wash myself and the way I shampoo and condition my hair. Martin generally showers in about three minutes flat, whereas I annoy him by practically taking up residence there!

Of course, I grew hard again in the shower. I nudged my cock against Martin's buttocks and pushed insistently. He turned and went down on me for a while. I returned the compliment but felt as though I was drowning in a deluge of warm water. I complained. Martin laughed at me and pulled me to my feet.

'You're such a wuss' he said.

I couldn't argue. I probably am. Instead, I turned off the water and we took turns towelling each other dry. As he often does, Martin insisted on inspecting my dick once I was dry. He claims to be looking for little bits of fluff that may have lodged under my foreskin, but we both know the truth; he just adores manipulating the prepuce back and forth over my glans. And he loves tonguing me there once I've been declared fluff-free. He says he's so glad I'm not Jewish!

We hit the bed with a vengeance in the sixty-nine position, slurping on cocks and ball-sacs. After that, Martin rimmed me with his exquisite and talented tongue. It's not something I've been willing to do for him, but he accepts that and seems to enjoy doing it to me. Every now and then, he paused to lap at my balls too. I enjoy that feeling. We once tried fitting both balls in his mouth at once. It was not a success. It hurt. And, after all, I am a wuss!

This time there was no rape. Nothing animalistic. Just a long and loving union. Yep - loving. I am no longer ashamed to admit that I love the guy.

I applied some lube and positioned Martin on his back with his legs locked around my shoulders. The ceiling light was on and I gloried in watching Martin's face as I slowly entered him, inch by gentle inch until he was fully occupied. He smiled up at me and I leaned forward in order to meet his lips. As I said before, this was a truly loving union of two men enjoying each other's body.

It was more of a glide than a fuck. We adjusted to the same gentle rhythm. Looking downwards, I could see my dick slowly disappearing inside my man and then slowly reappearing. There was not the usual flapping sound as my balls hit his coccyx - this was so slow and rhythmical that my scrotum landed softly against him and almost stuck to his skin each time I withdrew.

It was obvious that neither of us wanted a faster pace, but even leisurely movements eventually lead to that point where there is no going back; that point where I know a blast of cum is just a heartbeat away.

Martin was jacking himself off in a leisurely way too. I warned him that I was about to blow.

'I know' he said. 'I can always tell.'

A few more glides in and out and I erupted deep inside him. At much the same moment, he blew his load too. It was almost agony to feel his sphincter clenching on my still-hard cock. Once the clenching stopped, I withdrew slowly.

As my dick left him, a small trail of cum came out of him too. The rest was lodged deep inside him. Some thirty minutes later, that cum was the perfect internal lubricant for our final fuck of the night.

I woke up this morning with a sense that I was starving. We never did get around to having dinner. I also woke up this morning with my erect cock still buried in Martin's arse. I remembered that we'd fallen asleep after the last fuck with my dick still inside him. I moved gently back and forward until Martin began to move too.

'You're insatiable' he said.

'You're right. I'm starving. I'm having you for the first course. And after I've had you I want to have a huge breakfast.'

And I did.

I have journeyed a long way with my fellow traveller. And I've learned a lot in the process. I no longer worry whether I'm gay, bisexual or Mongolian. I just know I'm content to share my life with a person I love; a person who loves me too.

By the way, I never told you what Martin does for a living. He's independently wealthy - courtesy of his long-dead grandparents - so he has no real need to work at all.

He works part-time as a counsellor with the Rainbow Foundation in the big city, giving advice and support for young people struggling with their sexuality. He is usually rostered to work just one day each week.

I once asked him how it was that he was on the train to the city so often when I first met him. He confessed that he actually worked just once during that period - the other times he caught the train just to stalk his prey ... Me. The other times, he just mooched around all day until it was time for me to travel home again.

For him, it was lust at first sight. For me it was diffidence at first sight but he eventually wore me down. And I'm glad.

I still manage a chain of gyms. I want to work even though Martin says there's no need. I don't want to be "kept" by anyone; I want to feel some level of independence and to contribute what I can to household costs. But I don't get to contribute much - Martin won't let me, but he assures me that my dick and its cute little hood is a huge contribution as far as he's concerned.

To everyone who takes the time to read this, I want to say that happiness can come in the most unexpected ways. It doesn't seem to matter whether you're gay, straight or bisexual.

It doesn't matter much whether you're young or old; tall or short; fat or thin; cut or uncut; well-endowed or hung like a mouse; white, black or polka-dotted.

The trick is to be open to the unexpected; to be willing to at least try things you'd never previously considered. So far, the old adage "suck it and see" has worked out well in my case!


Andrew Tait

[email protected]


Rate Story Choose rating between 1 (worst) and 10 (best).

Bookmark and Share

blog comments powered by Disqus