The first prolonged periods of this voyeuristic activity had been when we, my married family, had taken on a small shop in the town near where I was born and brought up. Knowing exactly what and where I would be engaging myself to, I had been wrestling with my conscience around the many emotional and physical desires which would rear their beautiful if dangerous heads, before we even moved to the shop; it didn’t stop me though.
Starting with just tentative steps to see what I could get away with, I still managed to fit into the outward normality I had chosen those many years before but it was becoming increasingly difficult to manage on a daily basis. Here in the shop I was faced with the regular reminder of my inner conflicts as the stealthy if innocent fashion parade of my old school uniform wrapped around new, young bodies, passed along the single street which funnelled the students unknowingly in front of me. Time and tendency washed over me in waves of almost painful disappointment and despite knowing I could have avoided these things, I found that I didn’t.
As I had become older, being in my late twenties, I thought I had developed a maturity in hiding my darker side but now, here in the maelstrom which seemed to suck me in, I realised I had only been fooling myself. The sensible part of my brain put it down to the simple impossibility of availability and, although it didn’t change the situation, there was nothing to be gained from the activity so I should keep away and stop torturing myself. One the other side of the argument, the more desperate side wanted to make me take every possible advantage. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, I could accept neither argument and as had become customary, did nothing; I chose to ignore the growing pressure in the back of my head that was expanding towards my heart, and of course my ever-frustrated groin.
Although I never really had it the first-time round, the extremes which youth allows bombarded my fragile resolve and in my mind’s eye I pictured myself with perfectly styled hair, smooth flawless skin, the clothing, the camaraderie, the courage. Torturing myself endlessly every day, I was inevitably falling deeper into the miserable memories of my many fruitless years in this world.
The thoughts of school dragged up specific memories which were both comforting and exasperating. One of them involved a boy named Clive. He was a great looking guy, not exactly top of the range like some others in the class but, close enough for me. Good skin, no sign of facial hair, tidy dresser, smart almost military haircut, fit, but not so that he would be dragged off to join in sport; almost perfect. Unfortunately, he was saddled with the nick name ‘Gypo’. Not because of his looks, as my junior school crush had, but because his father worked on a local motorway construction crew. The lifestyle had them moving around to follow the work so he had never had any real home to speak of. In this instance of their migratory life, it also meant him having to start mid-way through one of the terms which immediately gave him yet further disadvantage. Trying to intervene in my own inept and ultimately ineffectual way, it wasn’t until it was too late that I realised, by association my own low status had rubbed off onto him and he would get picked on almost by default and I could see the signs before the bullying started.
To support him, as well as an excuse to get closer to him, I was very active in retrieving his shoes, football boots, satchel, or anything else that was regularly purloined and hurled over school fences and roofs. He seemed to take it all in his stride but I would lose my temper on his behalf and was not so accepting of the daily ridicule. My heart went out to him and in a way where I wished he could feel in some way, enough at least to appreciate my friendship or possibly more but, it never happened. As a consolation, I had to be content with just his rather distant interpretation of friendship and of course his more attainable good looks.
One morning there was an abnormally long pause in registration which proved to be a sad but silent event.
“Clive Jones, anyone seen Jones?” No one spoken up. “Oh no, sorry, he’s gone.”
My heart sank; I hoped not too visibly.
The only other secondary school chum who came close to any sort of friendship, was not from any degree of attraction for a change but more comrades in adversity. He was also of a ‘large’ build physically and equally uninterested in sports because of it. Academically we were a similar match and often high up the unwritten league tables, together we unwittingly fell to being the class swots. By that age, I knew a little more about how boys worked and certainly enough to know that he didn’t have the same interpersonal interest as me. He was also the only class mate to invite me to his house, after school and occasionally in the holidays which held out some vague if unimaginable hope. Overall, I was grateful for my inclusion and most certainly his friendship. Ultimately it only served to highlight my differences to other ‘normal’ people. Rather ungraciously it also demonstrated how I didn’t want to be the way we both looked externally. Such personal revelations seemed to fix my decision to do without, rather than put up with things, just for the sake of company. If I hadn’t had my regular alternative activities I don’t know how different things might have been but, with my mind seemingly made up that I was destined to be different, I would never know.
While we had the shop, Andrew came in one day but, after only ten years, he needed to prompt me into recognising him; my embarrassment was a sad testament to my rather selfish solitude.
During this ongoing personal crusade towards adulthood, there were not many significant events and only one came close to fulfilling a long-held dream; a dream being the operative word. During the year when we went over to decimal currency in 1971, I was very lucky enough to be sent on a school trip; a trip with very much difference to the usual day’s out at the local park with a picnic and games. Two weeks cruising around the Mediterranean on a liner with several hundred other school children from around the county was potentially something rather magical; or so my limited experience gave me to think. Previously, my brother had been to Germany for a week in an army camp luck bugger, my sister had visited a pen pal also in Germany but now, I was going on a luxury cruise. In my head, I was cock-a-hoop at the prospect of having something better than the others two just for a change.
The tarnish soon began to show as what we all thought was going to be a luxury holiday, when integrated with the strict and restrictive timetable, it looked more like a fully functioning educational event with only minimal time for fun.
Being at that peculiar age of 13 I had no care for the sacrifices my parents had made to allow me to go. It was my father who amazed the rest of the family when one afternoon he asked if anyone was ever going to notice that he had given up smoking. It had been two weeks and no one had. In the early 70’s it was still socially acceptable to smoke although I was the only one in the family who never had; I hated it then just as much as I do now. The grand disclosure was prompted by my mother wanting her daily, post dinner, inhalation but found she had none of her own left. With suitable mock horror and exaggerated surprise, we all pretended we knew all along, but of course we didn’t. Being suitably uninterested in how my father had managed to give up his 40 a day habit from well before his RAF days, the important result for me was that he had been putting the cash equivalent away and, after a few more months of frugality and healthy living, I got to go on the cruise. He never smoked again, neither did my mother and ultimately only my siblings were left with the disgusting habit; if you discount my grandfather’s snuff taking that is.
Leaving the chill of a very British February, we flew out to Naples and spent 14 days visiting Italy, Sicily, Crete, Turkey, Greece and finally flying back home from a very wet and cold Venice. It was a whirlpool of culture, sightseeing, sea sickness and stupidity. Despite all that or perhaps because of it all, I am left with what is most likely, a rather rose-tinted memory of having a splendid time. Dozens of rolls of film, copious notes and drawings, every daytime minute filled with history and histrionics, trips, and trivia. These generally good things thankfully managed to overshadow the more difficult aspects of mass living which I had never experienced before. Dormitory sleeping arrangements, intense airless sweaty heat, constant crowds, and noise plus the diabolical food managed to cripple my already fragile confidence. While I lost about two stones in two weeks, not which it should have done me any harm, I did decide that if this was being part of society, mixing with fellow humans was not going to be something I could relish.
We were encamped in large dull dormitories far below decks, holding about 30 bodies. Describing them as large is misleading as with bunks four high, every inch of space was filled with pubescent pimply people and their unwashed baggage.
The night times were always the worst nightmare; for me anyway. Having hardly ever had to share a bedroom at home I was not used to sleeping with other people, let alone this company of hormone brimmed boys. As you might imagine, night-time was not necessarily for sleep not with all that fun and freedom to be explored and exploited. The teachers were billeted just across the gangway but only made token attempts to control the mayhem.
My role in this chaos seemed to have been decided very early in the trip, from my dubious reputation I was the miserable one, the too serious one and in the end, because I was constantly told so, I thought I played my part very well. All I wanted was to sleep and not get into trouble, but it hardly ever happened without one big fuss or another. Even the ship’s company in the form of the Chief Petty Officer had difficulty in applying any degree of authority; he did better than our own staff but only with the threat of the Captain. Eventually, very eventually, the self-styled pirate hoards and their merry followers would get just too tired, fall into their bunks, and drift off to the steady rocking of the ship and the background hum of the engines only a few more decks below. It was in this relative quiet of the night when my most feared and yet deeply desired dream nearly happened; it might have been a dream but it was certainly very real at the time.
This night, everyone was settled although you could always find someone getting up or quietly moving about. Thinking it was just another toilet call, I lay there and hoped-for sleep to finally fall. My assessment had been right and I listened and pictured the relieved bladder as it came back into the cabin and padded quietly, feet slapping gently on the hard metal floor. What I wasn’t expecting was someone climbing under my blanket at the other end of the bunk. Peering tentatively over the edge of the covers, the dim night-lights allowed me to recognise one of our own boys. One of our classmates was a sleep-walker. We all knew about it as it had nearly stopped him being allowed to go on the trip altogether. He lived in the same village as me and was unfortunately, one of my early somebodies on whom I fine-tuned my voyeurism; mainly because of his tightly curled beautiful blonde hair. This now unkempt hair settled itself down seemingly with no notion of where he was, I couldn’t help wondering if this was my reward for being patient or if it was just one big sleep walking mistake.
Not knowing what to do nor wanting to miss any chances, I could only lie there and wait to see what might happen. So, I waited; and waited. Nothing really happened. He made himself comfortable and that was it, so what was I going to do now? As I had no frame of reference, I still did nothing. No one else seemed to have seen him get in the bunk or be bothered about it if they had. Silently, although almost forgetting to breathe, my heart and head were getting close to a state of pure panic. Frozen to the sheets rather than animated by my fears I tried to take in what might be happening.
His breathing had slowed and his warm smooth weight had settled comfortably against my legs. He didn’t react as I eventually managed to lift my head up enough to see if there were any clues about what I should, or even could do next. His eyes were shut tight in his angelic face and the blanket gently rose and fell over the contours of his rounded torso, he was fast asleep.
The bunks were narrow enough but long so although we were very snug, lying head to toe there was no other option than to be touching at several points along our length but. Despite my normally fantastical imagination, my fear, if that was what I was feeling, couldn’t contemplate any action.
Someone else got out of bed a few bunks down and went to the toilet, passing right by us as they did, fortunately neither of us moved to attract attention until they had passed. This terrifying moment for me did prompt Owen to roll over, still asleep, to face my legs curling and sliding his one leg up over mine and planting his foot unintentionally in my groin. The move had me completely pinned down. As there was little I could seem to do, I was interested to find that some of my fears were being calmed by this rather intimate contact. To add to the confusion, I could feel my groin expanding at the gentle attention of this soft warm foot. Equally mechanically, I felt the added pressure of his not inconsiderate genitals pressing against my knee; I had no idea what was I going to do with it.
We were both in our fully enclosing night-clothes but this degree of closeness was something I had longed for and had dreamed of so many times, I couldn’t believe that this could be happening, not here, not now! Despite my visualised and now potentially real pleasures, I couldn’t find the strength to make any kind of action. Being so close and yet so, so far from something turned out to be far worse than having nothing at all.
Eventually because of the pain building up in my extremities, I did slowly move my one arm from beneath his outstretched and rather heavy leg. With this one piece of freedom I desperately wanted to reach out to at least make myself more comfortable but the inevitability of touching my soft erection. My rather darker consciousness was pushing for me to reach out further and touch him instead so I did; not being able, or even wanting to resist. A tentative and gentle touch to the back of his enfolding leg didn’t seem to get any negative reaction. He stirred a little but to my surprise, not very much. He rocked a little from side to side to settle himself further and he was now facing down over my outstretched legs and I felt the twitch of his penis against them which in turn stimulated mine even more.
After what seemed like a lifetime, I slid my arm further out into the covered darkness and it met with the firm but relaxed roundness of his buttock cheek. Beautifully warm, it clenched up firm and round to the almost feather light touch of my palm and finger tips. The minute but perfect movement moved more than the earth of my obscure erotic fantasy and I had to quickly grab my now solidly erect member to stop it from exploding its sticky mess over both of us.
With my legs tensed against the possibility of ejaculation I hoped the immediate danger was ebbing, Owen rolled back off me with a soft groan. His hand brushed against mine as he searched for and then stroked his own tented pyjamas. Knowing I was closer than I had ever been to another fully erect and seemingly compliant contemporary, I couldn’t move the last few millimetres to touch the enticing member. He moved again and I pulled my free hand away as he slipped sideways silently onto the floor from under the blanket; fortunately, we were on the bottom bunk. Even in the dim light I could just make out the shadowy outline of his still distended pyjama trousers. With the coldness of the floor his eyes flickered open momentarily before closing again as he made his way silently back to his own bunk just opposite mine. All I could do was lie there, disappointedly gazing out into the gloom as he settled into a deeper unknowing sleep, leaving me with improper hopes and dreams dashed and a puddle of now cold seamen sitting in my hand.
The following morning, I didn’t get up too quickly not wanting anyone to see my still expectant morning-glory with its halo of damp expulsions. It wouldn’t have taken much to prompt comment. With some relief, it seemed my fears of hell and damnation were unfounded and the subsequent days passed without incident or accident in the now normal confused mix of tedium and exuberance.
A few days later, for some unknown reason the subject of sleepwalking came up in conversation much to my horror although tempered with just a little unrequited hope. In my head, I took the opportunity to speak to Owen about his night-time outing but of course, in the real world I did no such thing. Nothing relevant was said about anything and it turned out Owen and I were not the basis for the laughter and derision which was being heaped on some other poor hapless soul. Seeing Owen many years later with his wife and family, I knew I was right not to have been so familiar, even if I could have made myself do the things I dreamt of; would there ever be an appropriate opportunity?
The only other school time experience was, unfortunately, on another school trip. This time I was 15 and it was a long week-end walking and camping trip to North Wales.
It was one participant who swung it for me as I uncharacteristically signed up this being the new sports teacher that year, the delectable Mr Sewell. He was constructed with a tall, faultless, sculptured body, exquisite ginger blonde hair the sort that looked like feathers lying flat against his perfectly domed head. A flawless face blushed with freckles surrounding his vibrant pale green eyes; I had an instant crush so deep it almost made me sign up for sports teams! Although I still actively avoided any activities in games periods, there were no complaints from me anymore about being told to clean the changing rooms or sort the kit out. A few times I even managed to barge into the staff changing room on some stupid pretence but only ever managed to catch him in his underwear, never the shower; not for the want of trying.
The outing unsurprisingly was not the holiday experience I had pictured or hoped for, knowing it was probably some sort of penance for being so devious. There were no proper toilets, some questionable camp fire cooking, typical wet Welsh weather and somehow, I seemed to get the only part of the tent to sleep in with an uncomfortable hole underneath it. The other lads were not taking any aspect of the trip seriously and spent most of the time showing off; and not in a clever way. Consequently, Mr Sewell and the other member of staff were constantly grouchy and I for one just wanted to go home; the Sunday afternoon just couldn’t come quickly enough.
By the time, it eventually did, we had all quite rightly decided it had been an all-round disaster and took the decision to make the last afternoon as fun as we could, for a change. A game of British bulldog was instigated with the targets, obviously, being the members of staff. They seemed to fall into the spirit of the game and didn’t notice or mind as it moved closer and closer to the river. Closer and then, too close. In they both went amid a hail of expletives and laughter. Most of the other boys were straight in after them but not me; I couldn’t swim. all I had to do was sit back and enjoy the magnificent view. Clothes were stripped off to make the fighting and tom foolery easier and safer; I gathered up some of the clothes to prolong the pleasure
Some of my class mates were more than acceptable to look at but it was Mr Sewell now just in his very transparent ‘Y’ fronts which made my day, and the trip, if not the year. As I had hoped and expected, he had nothing less than perfection in his near naked magnificence. No-one seemed to take any notice except me and during the journey back I could wallow in my memories as the others slept off their excesses; memories were all they were ever going to be. In my last year of school Mr Sewell moved on, a sad loss.
It was also the end of my own school days not long after and it all ended with very little fanfare and was, for me at least, rather dismal. Some people had over inflated emotional partings whereas I just slipped silently back to where I had come from. Looking back, it was more likely that I didn’t give anyone the chance to include me, but it didn’t really seem to matter, I was still the odd one out. Whether it was real or just self-effacing it didn’t seem to matter, I could look after myself and needed no-one; it was the insular side of my divided mind which won any internal discussion on the subject.
The normal school holiday delivered its usual pleasantries, but they were cut short by the reality that school did not actually existing for me anymore. After a brief respite and a token holiday period, the more serious matters of the rest of my life had to be addressed.
My exam results were very average and well below expectations but when asked the question what I was going to do next, I simply had no idea and realised I hadn’t given it any consideration at all. Unlike my siblings, I was somewhat of a let-down although no-one had ever said it aloud.
Being marginally good at a lot of things, but not good enough at any one of them, I was hard pressed to see how I would make a career out of any of the things I really enjoyed. My sister had gone to catering college, my brother into an engineering apprenticeship, I was good at ironing, making Sunday lunch and staying out of the way. Narrowing my sights to the few options which were left, it came down to what I was most reasonable at and that was something to do with art. It was true I did enjoy it but had no idea as to what you could do to make a living from the medium. After being led along this route rather than take any sort of initiative, I somehow ended up with an interview for a place at a local Art School; I have little recollection of how it all came about which was a testament to my enthusiasm at the time. I was duly taken to the place by my father, I went through the haze which was the interview process and I won myself a place.
The next task and probably the most exciting so far, was to go shopping for the myriad of things I would need to start whatever it was I was going into. In a couple of marathon sessions, I had all the drawing and painting products from the long lists which was supplied. With heavy impractical tool boxes to put it all in, oversized folders to store and carry the work I would be expected to produce and even, to my great surprise, some new clothes. For a change, they were of my choosing, although I had no idea if they were suitable for the big new world of grown up life. If all that wasn’t enough, my first moped. Without me knowing, my brother had been tasked with the job of procuring it for me, my parents paying for it and me trying not to kill myself riding it.
The teaching style in this new academic environment was very different of course, which came as rather a shock after the strict timetables and formal structure of the years before. For those of you who haven’t been in higher education, it was more a case of this is what you must do, now go and do it. If you do you do, if you don’t you will most likely get moaned at but ultimately, it’s up to you. Being fair, that is a rather over simplification but of course you can imagine how I only did just enough to stay off the radar.
In a class of 8 people, seven boys and one girl, it should have afforded some sort of chance for feeling part of a team, but it didn’t seem to work; again. Although I could appreciate the girl being the focus of attention for most of the group as she was the first female who most of us had been in regular company with who didn’t ever wear a bra, I would have been in the shadows anyway. She was stunning to look at and knew what her attributes were and from what I could tell, used them to every advantage. She was a very intelligent and an all-round ‘nice’ person but just not the right gender for me. The self-appointed class stud was quick to stake his claim on her the very first day and they seemed to be a couple even before the first coffee break. He had never been good-looking and not even that nice a person, I knew him from school. As it happened, their families’ relative bank balances were well suited and they would no doubt eventually sail off into the sunset on either of daddy’s yachts.
With an otherwise mundane group, there didn’t seem to be any other ‘buddying up’ likely to happen, the closest I got to making a friend was one guy, Steve, who at least seemed to have the same work ethic as I did; minimal. We had little else in common and he certainly didn’t have the same personal or social preferences as me but, I would never say never just in case. At least one afternoon a week we would skip lunch and head off across the wilderness of the park. If the weather was good it was a wonderful place to be and the two miles to his house for an hour or so of relative freedom became a welcome respite from the academic melting pot. We only ever had food and drink at either his house or in the local pub where he worked at weekends so why I put myself through the agony of expectation and the certainty of disappointment, I would never admit to myself. Although I did enjoy the exercise, he was as quiet as I often was but there was never any tension between us which was nice; if nothing else. We would chatter about things which might have constituted flirting by the more experienced but, I certainly didn’t recognise it. Disappointingly nothing else ever happened but, I didn’t know how to initiate anything and he was obviously not inclined that way anyway.
The closest we ever came to the key subject was during a field trip to the city canal system for a term project. When he told me about it being part of the city’s gay cruising area I found myself a little on edge despite my many hidden hopes. Naturally I pretended to know what all that meant but had no actual picture in my head of what it signified. It was probably another lost opportunity but it was just that, lost. It might have been that we were both waiting for each other, but if it had been the case I felt sorry for having wasted his time. Despite these shortcomings, the freedom, and the best company I had had so far kept me going back, more in vain hope than real prospect.
It was another rather more significant event which made that year one of the most unsettling and yet superb. That year’s intake was the first to use the brand new shiny building and state of the art facilities, rather than the elegant but old building wherein I had received my interview. There was everything you could think of to produce art, including a large darkroom, deep in the bowels of the building. Although I enjoyed most of the subjects on the syllabus, the most interesting of them was photography. It was years before the digital age but we still had the use of expensive cameras, full reproduction facilities, creative freedom, the complete works. We had a free range of the facilities if it was on genuine college business, and I used that as a regular smoke- screen for not being part of any popular clique. Using the darkroom as a regular refuge during lunchtime I was working in there preparing film to produce prints for my part of a group display. It was completely dark as I was processing film so not even red safety lights, I paid little attention to the light-proof revolving door as it scraped noisily round, presumably for someone to enter.
Speaking out more as common courtesy, I didn’t want the person to be surprised, or worse, turn on the safety lights. There was no reply but it was nothing new. What did take me by surprise was the closeness I felt from my silent, unknown companion. There was just a warmth and the almost indistinguishable sound of their breathing but enough to make me pause and listen more intently; my curiosity was pricked but I carried on. Going back to winding my film, I almost dropped the canister when something touched the back of my jeans just below the waistband. By the time I had recovered control of the expensive instrument I could feel it was a hand and it was starting to explore the topography of my right buttock. Stunned into silence, I froze on the spot as all the things I should have done passed through my mind in one light-less blinding flash. This, whatever it was, could be anything but possibly not what I had dreamt of, longed for but had absolutely no idea how to react to. The exploration continued across to the other, now slightly less tense mound. Of course, if I knew then what I know now, I would have reciprocated, probably mirror the attention, and hopefully enjoy wherever it took us. Indecision was my friend that day and by doing nothing I now know I must have signalled my acceptance of the initial touch. A second-hand joined the first and now had both cheeks cupped. Reacting to the squeeze I clenched my reply without consciously knowing what I was doing. Common sense would have dictated I at least acknowledge the move or make some attempt to find out who it was, but I found I had nothing to offer; language hadn’t featured in my encounters to date and I had no natural inspiration for anything relevant even if I could have been able to breath.
To be safe I put the film equipment carefully down on the work top but my movement prompted a tightening of the grip. Confidently but carefully I was spun round by the hands which moved deftly to the front of me holding my hips. Despite the bizarre circumstances, even this small intimacy was having a most productive effect which manifested in the growing mound between thumbs which pressed gently but confidently into the creases on either side of my thickening groin. I braced myself against the work surface behind me.
It was obvious from the first touch that we were not simply bumping into each other in the dark and this was a deliberate move on their part and, from what I could tell they must have greater experience than me; which wouldn’t be difficult. While the automatic reactions were going on down below, I found my brain desperately wanting to know who it was feeling me up. Thankfully, the distraction of such pointless thoughts was frightened off by my now raging hormones. Taking the opportunist option, I just stood there, steady, and expectant.
From the size and strength of the hands I had assumed it was a man, but still didn’t know who, what or even why; I tried to stop the questioning distraction but it was difficult. There was no smell to give the game away but not all teenagers were interested in aftershave. It might not have been a student, perhaps it was a tutor? There were any number of trendy bright young things as well as the usual grumpy old men. The pleasant prospect which some of the potential candidates brought, helped to drag my attention back to the event in hand.
Should I be doing something here? Speak? Touch? Indicate my fear? How about showing my acceptance? What was it I would be accepting anyway? This might be a mugging. Although it was a reasonable enough consideration, the unzipping of my jeans suggested that it was not my wallet they were after, but another rather more intimate package. With most of the other options quickly dispelled, I concentrated on the matter in hand or rather in his or her hands.
One of these was fumbling through my clothing for the rather enlarged organ caged in my underwear and it would have been easier for me to do it, but by moving in that direction, the other hand had started to gently rub my bottom again gripped what I took as a silent admonishment. By the time my brain had registered the notion, my arm had already brushed against a combination of short, spiky curves and soft silk locks of hair around an even softer ear. My overriding reaction was to want to run my hand over and through what I clearly pictured as shaved short at the base, sculptured up through the neck line and stepping out to longer flowing bouncing silky waves of chemically enhanced blonde; beauty personified. My imagination was fully captured and my thoughts could only go in one direction now. The soft cushion of their head moved away from my touch and although rather disappointed by it, I took the hint and put my roving hand back on the counter top out of the way.
During this brief event, my semi erect manhood had been released from my rather mundane, functional, but thankfully clean underwear. The rather paltry gap in the ‘Y’ had been slipped tightly behind my testicles which I found to be a new sensation, the gentle forward pressure helping to maximise the now full rigidity of my erection. In my head, I could see it in full and glorious Technicolour; the stuff of dreams; the terror of nightmares. Although I knew I should have been doing more than just standing there, neither of nature’s fight or flight instincts seemed to be working, here in the darkness all I could see were the imaginary stories of my various privations playing out. Garishly illuminated by my imagination and fuelled by a yet unrequited expectation, my brain went into slow motion and the sensations lingered in graphic but uncontrolled awe.
The darkroom was never a cold place but I certainly wasn’t prepared for the warm wet cocoon which enveloped my now rigidly twitching shaft. The envelope slid with firm lips right down to the base in one long smooth motion. As it did I could feel the tantalising flicking of a tongue along and around the sides, it rolled off, not quite to the end but locking in behind the now solid bullet head. More vigorous and varying actions followed this initial thankfully gentle incursion both up and down, in and out, all around and back again. My erratic and laboured breathing was making my head spin from a lack of oxygen. Fearing I might spoil the event, I managed to hold back some involuntary thrusting hip movements but the hands grasped both of my buttocks again, kneading and pulling at them in time with the avid attention being plied at the front. Tense and trembling I reached a point of needing to move in unison and I tried to time my own action to those of my aggressor; they didn’t attempt to stop me this time.
The pressure continued to grow in my groin and the urgent need to push the pregnancy of my ejaculation out into the void was becoming almost too much to contain but my twitching and pushing against the human suction machine eventually created the glorious response I had pictured oh so many times. That moment arrived.
As I was taken deep into the soft wet warmth for what would be the last time, it felt as if I was falling, falling too far, falling further into the still strong vacuum, deeper than I thought I could or should have gone. Despite being well endowed, the energy of this glorious excitement seemed to magnify my already ample length and girth to bursting point. The end was close, closer but never quite there, hanging on, grinding ever closer to its peak by the ridges deep at the back of the over accommodating gape. Seeming to go further, higher, and deeper than could possibly be safe. I had little regard for any consequences as I burst my thrusting ejaculation down the hot, wet, accepting throat. My hands gripped onto the edges of the counter to stop me grabbing at the now fully impaled head, wanting desperately to keep it in place to prolong the ecstasy but afraid of the outcome if I did.
Our synchronised moments ended abruptly except for some residual but pointless pumping of my hips. This appeared to be more annoying than productive as the once enveloping entity quickly retreated leaving a chill to settle along my wavering and quickly failing erection. An almost eerie silence fell over us tinged only with our breathless exhalations. The sounds we had made, the slapping combination of breath and suction echoed on, but only inside my head.
Still not knowing what I should do now the event seemed to be over, a lick from a still warm sticky tongue gathered up the last drips from my now flaccid penis and sent a final shudder of ecstasy and pain around the hyper sensitive head. With a soft kiss, up on my damp pubic mound, perhaps to calm the pain or perhaps to thank me for the pleasure, the still firm hands released their hold behind me; there was a soft groan, a brief shuffle of feet and then silence.
Silence. How was this ever a time to be silent? How could I not share even the commonest of courtesies? How did I not do something other than just stand there limp and used? If I had been fitter, my breathing might have slowed more quickly at least enough to pull my thoughts together but by the time that had happened, the door had spun its rather noisy rotation and the experience was most over.
It seemed like ages before I could think what I should do next while at the same time not really wanting it to have ended. A chill reminded me of my still exposed genitalia and I felt the need to tuck myself away. With the vivid images already fading, I managed to hang onto some of them to store away in a hurriedly formed mental box. Feeling the remains of the day still oozing from the eye of the member now safely back in its cage, I reached in and picked at it, transferring the droplet, and allowing it to linger on the corners of my mouth; the taste of paradise. Popping the film cassette safely into one of the many draws, checking for a second and third time my jeans were safely zipped up and still in total darkness, I left.
Wanting to look for clues for who it had been but at the same time desperate to be alone, I headed straight outside. It was bright, blindingly so in comparison to the darkroom and I closed my eyes while sitting on a bench as I tried to relive what surely must have been a dream; fortunately, the remnants of an ache between my loosely crossed legs signified it had been all very real. Although still only early afternoon, I didn’t want to go back to any classes but desperately wanted to find out who had just been so generous to me.
Why did I think it had to be someone from my group? Why did it happen at all? What would I do if they made themselves know to me in some way? Thinking through how I might handle any sort of confrontation, confirmation, or conversation on the matter, in the melee of confusion I did what I usually did when I was unsure of anything, I ran away; literally.
Fortunately, it was one of the days when I was supposed to stay for an evening class and I had gone on my bike, but lessons were the last thing on my mind. None of it seemed as important as getting away from there. Once I was, the journey back was taken very slowly, even less than a 50cc moped normally manages. When I eventually got home, a not fictitious headache took me for a long walk through to the furthermost solitude of our fields where I could focus on what had gone on and what I was going to do about it; if anything at all.
Having to go back to college seemed to be difficult as I was torn between someone knowing what had happened and knowing someone must know, but was not saying anything. Did they know it was me? Was it just a chance encounter? Could it have been a beautiful mistake? Yes, that had to be it, a peculiar but impressive mistake. Once I has sorted it out in my head as well I as could, after I had run through as many scenarios as I could picture, I wandered back to the farmhouse generally unnoticed and life seemed to continue quite unaware of the enormous leap in my sexual evolution.
There were many more expectant lunch-times spent in the darkroom, just in case the mistake might be repeated. It never was. Interestingly, there were no other significant changes in the day-to-day happening of college life either. My sense of observation was strong enough to have noticed anything, or anyone around me might have changed their routine, have a look, or display a level of embarrassment. No one treated me any differently, not even a sore throat to give me the tiniest clue. At least there would always be something to look back on and even work towards in however many years it might take for me to be presented with any similar opportunity.
The cell door swung open and I jumped, visibly I think. My absence from the present had missed the normal preamble for unlocking the door. Quickly checking I was both descent and hadn’t embarrassed myself again, I was relieved to find everything was tucked away and dry before the wheelchair was pushed back rather roughly into the small space. Its occupant didn’t bother thanking the officer for the help, but I didn’t expect him to somehow. He was too busy trying to contain himself in some sort of excitement.
Once he had rather easily, if a little over animated, thrown himself back onto the bunk he couldn’t wait to share the details of the morning’s outing. If I had hoped for a positive recitation I was to be disappointed. The rather vacuous ranting, liberally coloured with expletives, concerning the unsuitability and ineptitudes of the medical centre and its staff. Once in full flow, his accent deteriorated into almost unintelligible babbling and I switched myself off again, having already got enough of the gist after only the first few words. Fortunately, the workers had come back at the same time as he had and there was not long to suffer before lunch was served.