Two's Company

This story takes place in Cambridge and begins just after the Second World War., in the late 1940s., By my normal standards, it is a very, short story.  The town of Huddersfax and the Cambridge college, New College, together with the Angel public house and the narrator, Guy Pettigrew and his lover. Daniel Szigeti  are all entirely figments of my imagination. On the contrary Trumpington and Pembroke street and the oddly-named Tennis Court Road, do still exist in Cambridge.

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CHAPTER  1

In the late 1940s. the Angel public house in Trumpington Street in Cambridge was notoriously known to dyed-in-the-wool, young, gay men like me, as the prime place to pick up a like-minded, young man, for a no-questions-asked, impromptu, one-night stand, of then illegal homosexual sex. It was not until the mid-1950s that the word gay replaced previous, derogatory descriptions of people like me, such as faggots, queers, bent, indecent, unnatural or amoral, by its today’s, quasi-exclusively, accepted meaning to describe homosexual men, as gay. At long last, homosexual men had an acceptable, non-offensive designation – even if arrived at by default - comparable to that of their female, homosexual homologues, who had long been known as lesbians, and whose sexual activities were, for some, idiosyncratic quirk in the law, not classed as illegal.  Society, even in a democracy is, alas, in some cases, not very egalitarian –

One evening, feeling in need of compliant, gay, male company for the night, (when did I not feel like a fuck?) after dinner at my college, where at just 22 years of age, I was the youngest fellow, I went into the bar of the Angel public house to assess the talent the wind had blown in and to see if there was, on first sight any young man, who raised my flag. I should point out that the Angel had the reputation as a place to which you went, only if you were a willing and available young, gay male. Imagine my delight, when my highly experienced eye, immediately focused on the most alluring pair of buttocks I had ever seen, clothed only in skin tight pants without pockets, the owner of which, was propping up the bar and had his back towards me. On first sight, I knew that I wanted him, as that substantial piece of uncontrollable flesh that resides between my legs, and which I have to say is my most cherished and much used possession, had already signaled its amenability to play ball, by beginning upward journey inside my pants.

But I see that I am already getting ahead myself, so let me introduce myself to readers of this story. My name is Guy Hugh Pettigrew, a pretty impressive, upper-class name (portent of a brilliant future?) for someone of my humble origins. I am a Yorkshireman, born in 1935, as the only child, to working-class parents, in one of those dismal, non-descript, dirty, gritty towns – let us call it Huddersfax – somewhere in the ambit of Huddersfield and Halifax, in what used to be, until knocked for six by competition from countries in the far east, the woollen district of the West Riding of Yorkshire, centered on the City of Bradford.

My father was a woollen weaver: a loom-minder – hardly a trade – minding an automatic, power-driven loom, as he did, day in, day out, in a family-owned mill in my home town. My mother worked in the same mill as my father, as what was known as a “mender”: one of the hand jobs, involved in finishing the cloth from the loom; a much more skillful job than that of her husband, for which – sign of the times – as a woman, she was, of course, paid less.

I was educated at the local council school where, not to blow my own trumpet, I was considered by the teachers, as quite the brightest pupil in my year. Seeing no further than the tip of his nose, my father had no time for education in what he saw as my future career– if you could call it that – in the mill.  So, when I passed the 11+ exam, with flying colours, he rejected the place offered to me at the local grammar school, thereby potentially condemning me to life of boring drudgery in the mill. His only interest was that I start earning as soon as possible and make a contribution to the hand-to-mouth way in which we lived.

Luckily, the headmaster of the council school, which I attended, thought differently. To cut a long story short, he saw my potential and, with his guidance, I secured a scholarship, all expenses paid, to a public – how we English have an aptitude misleading names –school, called Frogmore School for Boys, located in the village of Frogmore near York, about 50 miles from Huddersfax. Frogmore allowed me to shake of the shackles of my hitherto, working-class life and thick Yorkshire accent.  Academically speaking, I wiped the floor, with all the boys, every single year in my time at Frogmore and won a scholarship to New College, Cambridge, to read mathematics. As a matter of record, I received not only a starred first in both parts of the mathematics tripos; but an additional distinction that had never been awarded before, nor, to the best of my knowledge, since: a “double starred” first.

On the strength of that, the University Department of Mathematics offered me a lectureship in mathematics to work on “number theory; in particular, attempting to develop a proof of Fermat’s Last Theorem, which had lain around unsolved for 300 years and was seen as the greatest, intellectual, mathematical challenge of all time. My college, New College was new in name only, as it was the second college to be founded, by the then Archbishop Canterbury, in the year 1300, sixteen years after Peterhouse, which itself was founded in 1284 by the Bishop of Ely.

CHAPTER 2

When did I first realise that I was gay? Well, from the age of twelve. I knew that I liked looking at photos of scantily clad bodybuilders in their, by the then standards, what were considered by the general public, outrageously skimpy bathing-trunks, showing enticing looking bulges. Like many towns, Huddersfax had a covered market hall, which became My Jerusalem, “builded there, among those dark satanic mills” to echo William Blake’s poem, Jerusalem. Whenever I was down-town, I never failed to pay a visit to the market half, in which was a newspaper and periodical stand. At the time, I regularly used to ogle the front covers of such bodybuilding magazines, which were tantalizingly out of my reach, suspended, as they were, on a rail, which ran all around the island-like stall. I did not know then that my future sex life would be with other men, but I suppose that was the first intimation of my own sexual orientation.

But my first with real live encounter with sex was at Frogmore, a leading public, boarding school near York, which I entered at the age of thirteen. For a lad from the lower working-classes, initially, Frogmore was like jumping into a freezing-cold swimming- pool; I felt myself a square peg in a round hole.

At home in Huddersfax, I had had, as an only child, a room to myself and from the age of ten, no one – not even my parents – other than myself, had ever seen me naked; I took to admiring my own reflection in the bedroom mirror and praying that, one day, I would develop an attractive muscularity, and that my cock would grow to a length and girth, of which I could be proud. At Frogmore I was forced to sleep in a dormitory, where nudity among my fellow students was commonplace. Two showers a day; one before going to bed each night and one before dressing each morning, was a regime, in which I was initially embarrassed to show my burgeoning credentials to my dorm-mates, but to which I soon became accustomed.

To say that I was already more interested in boys than girls, I was embarrassed by the apparent, insouciant lack of propriety among my companions, who thought nothing of flaunting their sexual wherewithal in front of the entire dormitory. Most them had been at some preparatory boarding school, prior to coming to Frogmore and had been indoctrinated there into the joys of communal living, where nothing is private for long, I felt I was definitely not one of them; my heavy working-class, Yorkshire accent stood out like a sore thumb among the cultivated way, in which most of my companions already spoke; I felt like a fish out of water.

However, the most difficult adjustment, which I had to contend with, was the regime of strict discipline practised at Frogmore. I was no stranger to the sting of the cane across the palms of my hands. I should remind readers that we were then in the 1940s and schools, both council and public, embraced whole-heartedly the maxim; “spare the rod and spoil the boy” and often used the cane with considerable vigour. In spite of my council-school headmaster in Huddersfax having singled me out for my academic potential, pushing me ever onwards to compete for one of the then few public-school scholarships available, in every other respect he treated me in the same brutally, sadistic way (in the eyes of his male pupils, including me) as he treated all the boys in the school.

Not a day seemed to pass, when, at the assembly of the whole school, which took place every single day, after the lesson for the day, read from the Bible by some boy or other, chosen, only God knows how – I was never thus honoured – and the hymn of the day, the Headmaster made his announcements for that day, at the conclusion of which he announced the names of those boys, whom he wished to see in his study immediately following assembly. The phrase “to see” was a euphemism for “to cane”. More often than not, there was a group of boys, including, unfortunately, occasionally me, who could look forward, before classes started for day, to having the palms of both their hands seriously warmed by the Headmaster’s cane. He never gave less than four cuts of the cane – sometimes more – on each hand and I can assure readers that he was an expert at delivering exquisite pain, which, after all, is the object of the exercise.

But familiarity with the cane on the palms of my hands at the council-school in Huddersfax, in no way prepared me for the horrifically, painful attacks with the cane, applied to my bare buttocks, with an astounding frequency, which I was forced to endure at Frogmore. At the council-school in Huddersfax, only the Headmaster had used the cane. Here at Frogmore, as I was soon painfully to discover, in addition to the Headmaster, all the housemasters, the head-boy of the school and the house prefects regularly used the cane on the students. 

And to my horror, as I was soon painfully to discover, at Frogmore, all beatings were applied to the bare buttocks of the offender, in multiples of never less than six cuts: six, twelve, eighteen; and horror of horrors: a mind-bending 24 cuts on the bare. On one occasion, for what the Headmaster obviously considered a particularly, egregious offence: scrumping apples from a local orchard, I, with my two companions, who had been caught in flagrante, were each awarded a full 24 cuts of the cane our bare buttocks by the Headmaster, who added with considerable relish, the admonition: “I hope that that painful experience will teach you boys not to steal.”  In his mind, the time-honored, traditional pastime of scrumping apples was equated with stealing, which I suppose it basically really was. But I ask you: “Did scrumping of apples, which were anyway too green to eat, really justify a 24-cut beating on the bare buttocks for us three offenders?” But that is how discipline was then administered at Frogmore; the slightest misdemeanour, if detected, was painfully punished to hilt; no matter who was wielding the cane.

My first, horrifically, painful experience of a beating at Frogmore was not long in coming. It was only my second day at Frogmore when the senior boy of the dorm, who had, for some unknown reason, been singled out for the doubtful “honour” and had been nominated, by our house-master, to switch of the dorm lights. On only his second day in office, he had inadvertently failed to do his duty and switch off the lights, after the fatidic lights-out-time, which was half past nine, at which time we, thirteen-year-old boys were supposed to be in bed.

I was soon to learn that at Frogmore the use of the cane was frequent, very painful and de rigueur. The head-of-house (our house-captain, whose word was law,), aged 18 was the most senior of the house prefects, all of whom were authorised to use the cane on their younger brethren; which privilege, they exercised all too regularly, in the view of the recipients of their largess. No misdemeanour, however small, if detected was overlooked; and the culprit was shortly thereafter the unfortunate recipient of a painfully, well-beaten sore arse. As I was quickly to learn, the present house-captain of my house was a snobbish, sadistic sod, who delighted in making us lesser mortals suffer under “the rod of justice” as he called it.

It was only my second day at Frogmore, when the house-captain was prowling the corridor outside the dorm. Seeing, from underneath the door that the light was on in my dormitory, he burst in on us, ordered us all out of bed, to drop our pyjama trousers and to kneel at the foot of beds and present our bare bums for punishment. He went away to his own study – as head-of-house, he was the only boy to have a study bedroom to himself – to fetch his cane. When he came back, he proceeded from one boy to the next, around the dorm, giving each of us one cut of the cane across our bare arses. Thinking that that was it, I innocently stood up and was preparing to put back on my pyjamas, when he snarled, pointing his cane at me: “You, scholarship boy, what do you think you are doing?  Get down back on your knees, as I have not yet finished with you yet, All of you, including you, scholarship boy, will get up only after I say so.”  

He then repeated five times his round of the dormitory, giving, each one of us, one cut with his cane; a grand total of 72 cuts of the cane for the entire dormitory, before ordering us to put back on our pyjamas to make ourselves decent again and get back into bed. Even then, he singled me out and my heart almost missed a beat, as he pompously, in a sneering tone of voice, wagging his cane menacingly in front of my nose: “Not you Pettigrew! As the first scholarship boy ever at Frogmore, you have great deal to learn about the habits and good manners, which befit any boy at Frogmore; things are done quite differently here, at a public school, than at the council school from which you too obviously come. I would not feel I was doing my duty as your present head-of-house, if I let go unpunished the appalling lapse manners, which you showed by getting up without my permission in the middle of a completely, justifiable, whole dormitory beating, which I had barely begun.”

He then proceeded, in front of my eleven dormitory companions, to give my already, painful, bare buttocks a further six, swingeing strokes of the cane. In retrospect, I can but say one thing in his favour; he really did know to handle the cane, The Headmaster’s canings, which I had formerly, frequently endured on the palms of both my hands at the council school in Huddersfax, were like insignificant midge bites, when compared with the excruciating pain. which my poor, bare bum had just experienced at the hands of my head-of-house.

As I endeavoured to sleep with my painful arse, I could not but ask myself, that if that was a beating given by my house-captain, which was already excruciatingly painful, how painful would be a beating from the Headmaster. I could not suppress a shiver of fear a running through my body at the thought. That was how I was introduced to the painful reality of discipline in a public school; a bare arse full-dormitory beating, with myself singled out for additional punishment, basically because I was a working-class scholarship boy, who did not fit in the general scheme of things, at least as envisaged by the bastard, who was then house-captain.

However, I was not alone in receiving a supplementary beating that day The boy, Armstrong by name, who was supposed to have switched off the light, but had failed to do so, was hauled out of his bed by the house-captain, who gave him an additional six on the bare for what he pompously termed “dereliction of duty.”  I suppose there was some justice in it, for the whole dorm had been beaten, thanks to Armstrong’s forgetfulness.in

CHAPTER  3

However, life at  Frogmore was not without its compensations for a boy of my academic ability and potential sexual orientation. At the end of my first month at Frogmore, I, the scholarship boy, from a council school in Huddersfax, easily came top in every subject, including mathematics, at which I excelled. But I was a lonely figure, who was just not accepted by my classmates as one of them; I had no one, whom I could call my best friend. All that changed when I started visiting the gym regularly to develop what I saw as my puny body.

Twice a week at Frogmore, we were forced to participate in formal PE classes; however, boys were permitted to use the gym to work-out, in their own time, once classes were finished for the day at 4 p.m. It was there that I met Lionel Talbot, a boy in my house, who was one year ahead of me; consequently, as we did not share any classes together. I knew him only by sight; different years of boys did not normally fraternize with boys younger than themselves. However, Lionel and I were the exception that proves the rule and, thanks to our meeting in the gym, we formed a deep and enduring friendship, which was radically to influence both of our lives. When we first met in the gym, neither of us knew at the time that we were both of the same sexual persuasion.

At the time I met Lionel, I knew nothing about sex, homosexual or heterosexual; I doubt that then I even knew those two words. We were in the late 1940s, when discussions about sex were proscribed in polite society and sex education in schools was non-existent. The first intimation of the joys of sex came when I started having wet dreams, which woke me up. With my nocturnal emissions, I experienced what I later learned were my first orgasms, which I found extremely pleasant; so much so, that like most boys, I automatically began playing with my growing penis, which led me to discover accidentally the undoubted pleasures of masturbation.

No one taught to me how to masturbate; I lighted upon wanking, as I later learned it was commonly called, as an initially, private way of giving myself, what I rapidly came to view as the greatest pleasure known to me: orgasm. After lights-out each night, in my bed, like most boys in my dormitory, I wanked myself to sleep, catching my emissions in my handkerchief, which, sopping wet with my copious emissions semen, I threw, each morning, into the dorm laundry basket.

Masturbation, wrongly accused of deleterious effects on its regular practitioners, which we all were, was obtusely called “self-abuse” by the Headmaster of Frogmore, in his Sunday homilies, in the school chapel. He regularly firmly admonished us all not indulge in such unnatural and dangerous practices, which could endanger our future well-being, without being specific on the dangers. He thereby, in spite of his dire warnings of damage to our future health, encouraged those of us, who were not yet hooked on the exquisite pleasure of self-induced orgasm produced by wanking, to try it out. I guess that all twelve of us boys in my dorm, each night, after lights-out, regularly wanked, in private, beneath the sheets.

I was fourteen going on fifteen, when I first became close friends with Lionel. Apart from wanking in secret under the sheets in bed at night, neither of us knew anything about sex. However, as time progressed and we grew sexually closer to, and fonder of, each other, I think we both realised that prior knowledge about the physical aspects of sex was not a prerequisite for a successful initiation into what was destined to become our sexual obsession with each other.  I think that we both knew that we were attracted to each other in a sexual way – at least, speaking for myself, I did – and that it was not if, but just matter of time, before we would physically consummate our sexual attraction for each other. The fact that Lionel was a year older than I, and we did not even sleep in the same dorm or sit in any class together, made matters more difficult for us, So our sexual relationship – if you could call it that – began by our each ogling the other’s naked body in the showers, after our joint gym sessions, which quickly became a daily ritual.

Visual ogling soon gave way to fondling and kissing of each other, which, under the running water of the shower, quickly turned into joint wanking sessions, with each of us, in turn, sucking the other’s cock. With the sexual tension between us mounting to the boiling point, one day, the inevitable happened; Lionel whispered into my ear the magic words, which were music to my ears: “Guy, let’s go the whole hog and fuck each other.” And that is precisely what we did: I first ceded my anal virginity to Lionel, by allowing him to fuck me; then he allowed me to do the same to him. That is how Lionel and I both lost our total virginity to each other, in our initial session of ultimate, sexual intimacy. It was a case of the blind leading the blind, as both of us were totally inexperienced virgins before we first penetrated each other.

The miracle was that we each managed to fuck ourself through to our own orgasm and deposit our semen in each other: two truly spectacular achievements, of which we could each be proud, considering that it was the very first time for both of us. To me, at heart, ever a true romantic, in my mind, this sharing of each other’s semen served to create a fanciful spiritual bond between us; Lionel had part of me inside him and I had part of him inside of myself.

Neither of us knew anything about the mechanics of anal sex; we were just performing, what was to become a completely natural act, driven by the sexual driving force, which compels a gay man to want to have anal sex with another man, rather than with a woman, as is normally the case. What for us was normal, other heterosexual men found abnormal; an abomination, for which they called us perverts. Luckily for us, knowing nothing about the desirability of lubrication for anal intercourse, having sex under the running shower, both our cocks were sufficiently slippery with warm soapy water to allow each of us to enjoy a comfortable and successful, first fuck ever.

Lionel had the extremely good idea to invite me to spend two successive summers with him in his parents’ luxurious, art-deco, modern house, overlooking the sea at Scarborough on the Yorkshire coast; a far cry from the dismal house, in which I was brought up in Huddersfax. His parents slept downstairs and Lionel and I shared intercommunicating rooms upstairs. With no live-in servants to disturb us, through two summer holidays together, each evening, we copulated with each other like rabbits.  In time, we both became great followers of Eros, the Greek God of sex, possibly in response to our devotion to his precepts. Both our cocks grew to resemble that of the Roman God of Fertility, Priapus, who is always depicted as having an enormous phallus.

I am on the left in the photo, with my cock resolutely erect. I think readers will agree that Lionel and I both had enviously large cocks of which any young man could be proud. 

The pity of the situation was that there we were, a pair of attractive, well-muscled, experienced, gay men, both magnificently equipped where it counts, who were not able as young men in to enjoy the fruits of their two-year apprenticeships to the not-so-gentle art of gay copulation, both oral and anal. We were about to go off to universities miles apart; Lionel, a year older than I, to Oxford and I, a year later, to Cambridge. And, as so often happens to close friendships, when we each left Frogmore, we promised each other that we would keep touch; but, of course, neither of us ever did. And so gently died a truly close, gay friendship; we parted as best friends, but we never again saw each other, as we each made our way in life with other partners; I, for one, never looked back on what might have been. had we remained together; and I sincerely hoped that Lionel did likewise.

In later life, looking back on this phase in my life, I realise, in retrospect that Lionel and I were just close, intimate friends, who needed the immediate relief that the mechanics of physical sex brings with it. I realised much later that the relationship Lionel and I had had together lacked one key ingredient: love; I did not love him and he did not love me. Our relationship was not spiritual, but merely physical. Long term, it was probably doomed to fail.

CHAPTER  4

When, aged 18, I left Frogmore, for New College Cambridge, to begin my university career– to coin a phrase – I was FUCKloose and fancy-free: an all-round, physically, attractive, gay, young man, with a good size, attractive cock, who was well-versed in all aspects of gay sex: an achievement. of which I was justifiably proud. I saw myself as an available, well-rounded, gay, young man, who enjoyed equally all aspects of gay sex; that toy, which, no matter how often played with, whether acting as top or bottom, never fails to please.

I had become particularly adept at the not-too-obvious-art of bottoming.  I found that I had the relatively rare ability to flex my anal muscles the entire time that my partner was fucking me, thereby gripping his cock and making him, as the saying has it: “sing for his supper”. The net effect of this was that most of my partners usually reached their climax and deposited their concomitant semen inside me, instead of having to withdraw and masturbate themselves to orgasm externally, which was more usually the case. In the gay fraternity, because of my unique ability to induce orgasm in my top partner, I quickly thereby quickly became, known, when bottoming as: “the nec plus ultra of a good fuck”.

This is not to say that I was a slouch when I played the role of top.  I usually managed to hold myself back long enough to fuck my bottom through to his orgasm, simultaneous with myself my own orgasm: a phenomenon hitherto unknown to most of my many partners. My undoubted prowess as a sex partner “extraordinaire” spread rapidly by word of mouth. Not surprisingly, therefore, in my three undergraduate years at Cambridge university and my first two years as the youngest fellow ever at New College, I had no trouble at all in attracting an endless stream of different partners.  At the age of 22, I felt that I was being treated like some “grand old man of gay sex.

The very numerous gay fraternity in Cambridge, both town and gown, was alive and well, in spite of the fact that homosexual acts between males, defined, in the words. under the then law, as buggery and sodomy,– two such evil-sounding words – were illegal under and were punishable, if found out, by imprisonment. And so, in spite of the law, I had no difficulty in finding a stream of acceptable male partners to feed my vigorous appetite for gay sex.

However, no matter how many different partners I had – and in five years I had plenty – I never found a single guy, with whom I shared a relationship other than physical. There was no communing of spirit between me and any of my numerous partners. The concept of finding another man, with whom I could make love, as distinct from just physically fucking him, constantly eluded me, That was until I saw that superbly-sexy, alluring pair of buttocks, owned by the young man, with his back towards me, propping up the bar in the Angel Public House. I had gone into the Angel, with the express intention of finding sex partner for a one-night-stand. Little did I dream that I had just set my eyes on the very man who would become my partner for life.

There is a saying that “beauty is in the eyes of the beholder” Well, let me just say that, in my eyes, even when clothed, this young man had the most beautiful, fuckable arse that I had ever seen; so much so, that, within seconds of seeing him, I felt that incontrollable piece of flesh between my legs stir itself and become ready for sex. I knew instantly. from the first moment I saw him, that I wanted him. His trousers, without back-pockets, were glued to his buttocks like the tights of a male ballet dancer. If he was wearing underpants then they had to be in the form of a cock string to support his operating genitalia, as there was no tell-tale, show through marks of the elasticated legs of normal underpants to interfere with the superbly, alluring, engineered presentation of his arse, of which he was clearly proud, as he was obviously not afraid to show it off to allcomers.

Other than his tight-fitting trousers, the rest of his clothes were skimpily alluring and were those a young man who had no embarrassment in making the most of, and showing-off his well-muscled body. He suddenly turned to face me at the bar and my heart jumped for joy, when I saw the bulge in his crotch, indicating that he was sexually well-equipped to play an active part in all aspects of gay, sexual gymnastics. He flashed an instant smile at me, when he saw that my eyes were fixed on his crotch. He was obviously available; like most young men in the Angel that evening; he had clearly come into the pub to find a kindred soul for a one-night stand.

As I knew I wanted him, from the first moment I had seen him, I walked smiling, resolutely towards him, stopped in front to him. He gave his tacit compliance to our as yet unnegotiated union, by uttering the words: “Your place or mine?”  To which I replied only one word: “Mine.”  And that was how I found the man, who was to become the love of my life; and I of his. As we left the Angel pub and headed to my rooms in New College, we did not even know each other’s names.

New College is located, diagonally opposite to Peterhouse on the other side of Trumpington Street. Thus, the two oldest colleges in Cambridge, dating from the thirteenth century, are located within hailing distance of each other and the main entrances to both colleges give onto Trumpington Street. By a curious coincidence, the infamous Angel public house is about 150 yards past New College, towards Trumpington village itself. So, my prospective lay for the evening and I had ample time to exchange names and give each other a thumbnail sketch of ourselves. I deemed it prudent to enter the college discreetly by the garden entrance, to which I had a key. One could not be too careful about sexual relationships with other men, which were then illegal, and if detected by the police, could lead to terms of imprisonment for the guilty parties.   

Better to be safe than sorry and not give the porters’ wagging tongues anything talk about. We walked past the main entrance to New College, on past Pembroke College, where we turned right into Pembroke Street and then first right into the oddly named, Tennis Court Road; a mere slip of a street, running parallel to Trumpington Street:. Tennis Court Road is  a street of small, terraced houses, a far cry from the glorious architecture of the college and university buildings, only a stone’s throw away. Here we took a pedestrian alley in a break between the houses, which led us to the back wall of New College gardens.

My set on the first floor in the oldest part of the College, consisted of three rooms: a main living room/study, a bedroom and a bathroom and was blessed with the traditional two entry-doors: a normal door, opening into the main room, and a more massive door, opening outwards onto the landing. Once we were inside of my rooms, I assiduously closed both doors, sure that in “sporting my oak” as closing the outer door was referred to in university speak, we could conduct our business undisturbed. We automatically both went into my bedroom

During our walk from the Angel to my rooms, I had learned that my companion was called Daniel Robert Zoltan Szigeti, a dual national, born in London in 1935 – the same year as myself – to an English mother, which explained his first two Christian names, and a Hungarian father, who had been the commercial attaché at the Hungarian Embassy in London. At the outbreak of war he had moved, with his parents, back to Budapest, where, during the war, he had received his basic education. He was perfectly bilingual in Hungarian and English, which he spoke  flawlessly, without a trace of a foreign accent.

 After the war – his parents had been killed in an automobile accident in 1945, aged then ten years old, he had returned to England to live with his maternal grandparents, an affluent London couple, who had sent him to a public school, Churton, located in the City of Hereford. From there he had gone on to Gresham College, Cambridge,  where he had read physics and had shown is aptitude  by graduating with a starred first.  In site of his appearance as a young swinge, he was, at present,b a third year, doctoral, research student in X-ray crystallography, at Gresham College.

No sooner had I close both doors to my rooms and moved into my bedroom, the hitherto unspoken desire for sex, in both of us, which had immediately attracte55d us to each other in the Angel, manifested itself and took over completely our actions for the rest of the evening. Without any embarrassment at all and with no encouragement from me, Daniel, as I was to come to call him, showed himself highly decisive and commenced to strip of his clothes. Wanting the same thing as he did, I followed suit. We both stood there completely naked, looking at each other.

Speaking for myself, physically Daniel, in the buff, was everything he had promised to be, when I first saw him fully clothed, in the Angel, barely an hour ago. Of course, I was viewing him through rose tinted spectacles, willing myself to think that he was everything I had believed him be on first sight. I only hoped that he had the same sexual desire for me that I had for him. Any doubts that I had had concerning our compatibility for each other were dispelled when, without uttering a word, he suddenly stepped forward, embraced me warmly, pulling me to his bare chest and  planting a resounding kiss fully on my lips to which  of course I responded passionately.

That kiss was worth more to me and turned me on sexually in a much more serious way than the fact that, as were both naked, our semi-erect cocks inevitably touched for the first time as we hugged each other.

I responded warmly in kind. Of course, I was transported over the moon, by his precipitate, bold action of Daniel kissing me on the lips, an act, which, in my eyes, was the most intimate expression of love between two human beings, whether heterosexual or homosexual. This is not to say that I did not enjoy enormously the orgasm produced as the physical climax of the anal sex act between two men. But in my mind in my mind, the extremely agreeable climax of anal copulation took second place to the spiritual feeling uniting one’s lips with those of one’s lover; and I was not alone in holding the view that kissing was the most spiritual act between two individuals, whether homo or heterosexual.

But that first embrace was only the prelude to Daniel’s decisiveness, for he quickly disengaged himself from the long, passionate kiss of our first union, and dropped onto his knees in front of me, where he took my cock, which was, by now, fully erect and was leaking copious rivulets of precum, into his mouth and proceeded to suck me off. I was personally sent to seventh heaven by his actions, with which he persisted, until he had brought me to an explosive climax, in which I ejaculated, with great force, enormous gobbets of my viscous semen, all over his face and into his mouth.

After that first introductory orgasm to what turned out to be a long, initial night of sex together, I now felt the immediate need to exercise my cock on Daniel, as I had already come to think of him, to show him that he had not picked up a wimp of a partner,  but his sexual equal in every way. I hauled him to his feet in front of myself and we passionately renewed our kissing embrace, after which I manoeuvered him to the bed, onto which I pushed him, flat on his back and prepared to penetrate him for the very first time, in what was my favourite position; the so-called face-to-face, mission position. He showed himself to be ready for what was to be our first fuck together, with me as top, by invitingly, spreading his legs as I knelt between them.

Before beginning, I placed a pillow under the small of his back to raise his pelvis to the best position to allow my cock clear access to penetrate that all-important entry port: his anus. I was delighted to see that his anal pucker was small and tightly closed, indicating powerful anal sphincter muscles, one of the two prime requisites for a good fuck; the second being for the top to have a big thick cock, which, with no false modesty, I can safely say, I possessed.

With several years’ experience of fucking many different men, – to use an American western film metaphor – I had already notched up to my every-ready, six shooter of a cock a sizeable number of victorious engagements. However, I was acutely aware of the importance not only adequate lubrication of my invading shaft, but also of my bottom partner’s back passage, for he also had to be satisfied with the outcome of our union. In my view, sex was a two-way affair and both top and the oft-forgotten bottom were equally important to a successful union. To this end. I always carried with me a tube of Durex lubricant, as one never knew when an interesting opportunity would turn up. In those halcyon days before HIV and AIDs reared their ugly heads, no self-respecting gay ever used a latex condom to protect himself from infection. All gay fucking was done bareback, as it was called. However, thanks to the Daniel’s initial act of fellatio, so copious had been my emission that I realised that I had no need of artificial lubrication as I approached my cock to Daniel’s anus and prepared to penetrate him for the first time                                                                                                                                                     

The moment of our first union had finally arrived; and as the tip of my cock touched Daniel’s entry port, I felt the usual automatic reflex of his anal sphincter muscles tightening to protect his innermost depths from invasion by what they considered to be a foreign body. Nevertheless, I pressed on regardless, and the resistance quickly subsided enough to allow me to slide the full length of my rock-hard cock to the hilt inside of Daniel. I accomplished this task in my usual manner, in one, powerful, unhesitating smooth thrust, bottoming my pelvis against his buttocks,  My partner gasped his delight at the unexpected, decisive firmness of my approach; for myself I could not have been any happier.

Thanks to Daniel’s act of fellatio, which had brought me to orgasm, I was more than fully aroused wanting to fuck him, Thus, by the time my cock had stretched his anal sphincter muscles and entered into his innermost depths, I was myself on the brink of my second orgasm of the evening. I realised immediately that if I was to give my partner s truly memorable first fuck, which was my intention, as I wanted to impress him, I must hold back my own, imminent, premature climax, which would ruin everything I had planned. I took thirty seconds to compose myself; a long time to remain immobile, with my rampant cock deep inside my partner, urging me to go on. Had I acceded to its wishes, I was quite sure that it would have led me to an immediate second climax, giving me instant gratification, but leaving Daniel high and dry, which was not at all my intention.

And so, I steeled myself to hold back from reaching my own climax too soon, before my partner had had the time to appreciate that he was having the best fuck of his life. (No false modesty here , as I considered myself an expert in the art of anal copulation – and it really is an art.  As an experienced gay with an unusually big cock, having had serious anal sex with countless different men over the last few years, I had developed my personal technique, both when topping and bottoming, for both of which I usually received flattering compliments from my partner, whether top or bottom. When acting as top, I always gave my partner the benefit of long, full-length strokes of my formidable cannon, commencing initially gently, but as time progressed, and I became increasingly more aroused, more powerfully and at greater speed, until I sensed that I had brought my bottom partner to within a knife edge of his own orgasm. I then withdrew my cock completely from his anus, before immediately, in a “carpe diem” moment, plunging it back brutally and with greatest force I could muster, hopefully taking my partner and myself to the exquisite few seconds of the nirvana of the simultaneous orgasms.

The simultaneous orgasm reached by two males copulating together, achieved by the top alone, by sole use of his cock on his bottom partner’s anus, is as rare as a hen’s teeth.  But I can safely affirm, that an orgasm arrived at by the top alone, fucking another man, is infinitely more satisfying than that arrived at by solo-masturbation. As for the rarely achieved simultaneous orgasm, by both top and bottom, but achieved essentially, solely by the action of the top alone, words cannot describe the feeling experienced. by both parties to the joint act, of those sublime, celestial few seconds of orgasm. when they both reach their explosive climax simultaneously, and ejaculate their semen together. I imagine it to be the equivalent of a man fucking woman through to her own orgasm, simultaneously with his own.

The fears of my premature ejaculation, by the grace of a God, in whom I found it hard to believe, did not materialise and I was successful in inducing in Daniel his first orgasm as a bottom, with only my cock as prime mover. From thereon, the evening went from strength to strength as we explored every nook and cranny of each other’s body, during which Daniel proved himself to be a very competent cocksman. At the end of our first evening of vigorous sex together, which terminated only after an exhausting five hours, so convinced were we both that the “fickle finger of fate” had destined us to meet and to be together, the upshot was that I moved out of college and went to live with Daniel in his small apartment, which he rented.

Writing this in my 88th year in 2023, I am happy to report that both of us are alive and well and still as much in love with each other, as when we first met over 60 years ago.  We moved to more spacious apartment in the centre of Cambridge, which Daniel generously bought outright for us with a legacy that he received when his grandfather died. Every night, we still sleep together in the same double bed and are each able to raise the flag, when the spirit moves us, as it still, all too often, does. Having lived through most the early part of our life together as a couple of homosexual men, we mutually breathed a sigh relief, when in 1967 the law was changed in England and decriminalised acts of homosexuality, by males over 21 years of age, if conducted in private.

When, half century later, in 2017, same-sex marriage was authorised by law, Daniel and I were the first, male couple to be married in the Cambridge Register Office, on Thursday March 30th 2017.  We registered our married surname Pettigrew-Szigeti and styled ourselves as Guy and Daniel Pettigrew-Szigeti.

Too conclude this narrative, I was pipped at the post in proving Fermat’s Last Theorem.  That honour went to an English mathematician, Andrew Wiles, who, at that time, was working at Princeton University in New Jersey in the USA, but who was to become my colleague in the Mathematics’ Department at Cambridge. Later my own publication of proof of the theorem was hailed as more elegant. However now, in retirement, no one remembers the name of Guy Pettigrew-Szigeti and his groundbreaking achievements in pure mathematics.

 THE END