He'd let out a gasp of "Whoa!" whether at the size of my organ, the shock of finding it so blatantly exposed or the sudden realisation that his dad had been enjoying a surreptitious wank; I don't know.
I'd quickly covered as much of my erection as I could with both hands. For some reason I was most concerned about letting my son see my swollen cock-head which was a dark shade of red and pumped up like an obscene-looking plum – a worry which was silly, really, because he had no doubt seen his own in a similar state of arousal countless times. However, covering my organ had just served to divert Jake's gaze – with another shocked gasp – down to my bloated hairy scrotum straining to contain the massive testicles which had given rise to him; testicles which had been just seconds from issuing forth another outpouring of my seed. I'd ineffectually fumbled to tuck the cumbersome length of my cock and my distended nut-sack back into my pyjamas while Jake's initial surprise had dissolved into a fit of giggles.
After he'd thrown the duvet back over me, he'd said through laughter that showed he shared none of my acute discomfort, "I'm sure Lightwater Valley can wait until you've finished what you were doing, dad!" Then he'd sidled out of my room still chuckling, leaving me feeling that my moment of me-time had probably passed.
There had been no further duvet-snatching during the intervening period and thankfully, on finding me now in a similar predicament, he quickly dropped the edge of my bedding and made no attempt to resurrect the joke. I think he rather liked the fact that his dad was as human as he was when it came to matters of sex, but he appreciated that I had hang-ups about my body and he was, on the whole, very respectful of my need for privacy in spite of us living in such close proximity with one another.
"Football practice starts at ten, dad," he reminded me with a knowing grin, and then, disappearing from my bedroom, called back, "I'll get you a coffee. But hurry up! I don't wanna be late!"
While he was clomping down the stairs, I pushed the duvet from me and swung my feet out of the bed. I realised I must have left the heating on full during the night. My forehead, my pyjamas and the duvet were all wet with sweat.
Getting out of bed, I glanced down at the thick rod lifting the front of my pyjama bottoms from the dream I'd been having. I'd never had such a sexually tense dream before and both the clarity and detail of it had been startling in their intensity. I was especially shocked that such a powerfully erotic dream had been exclusively orientated around men who'd been lurking in such an abrasively masculine environment – a place I assumed to be my mind's homoerotic representation of Guy's oil rig. If only the spate of heterosexual dreams I'd had in my pre-masturbatory pubescent past had had that kind of detail and realism – I'd have been a very happy youth indeed!
Ordinarily, my dreams very rarely drift towards the sexual and those which do are confused mosaics of hazy impressions and indistinct sensations. I might feel like I was inside a woman – my penis gently throbbing in her vagina – only to find that she seemed to be behind me, her nipples rubbing against my back and her hands reaching round to fondle me. Next thing I might have my face nuzzling into her breasts, then to become aware that I was kissing her mouth or licking her pussy or that she had been turned away from me the whole time. The back-story to the scenario and the identity of the woman I was with would both be unclear, or at best vague, and the dream's eroticism would exist merely as a pleasant ambience of fragmentary fantasies.
I enjoyed having such fleeting feminine imagery lapping over me like the gentle waves of a warm, tropical sea.
The dream I'd just had was altogether different. Aside from the obvious shift in its gender-focus, the atmosphere had been almost crackling with an aggressive lust, while the sexual imagery had been crude and explicit. And yet, as surprising as it was to have one's mind throw up such an intensely homosexual scenario – a scenario in which I'd been an active participant – the stiffness throbbing upwards from between my legs was a testament to how much I'd enjoyed it.
I staggered to the bathroom, hearing Jake downstairs busy himself with spooning instant coffee into my mug and opening a tin of food to placate the meowing cat, and locked the door behind me.
I unbuttoned my pyjama bottoms and released my cock from its confines, throbbing expectantly and hungry for attention. Angling its curving shaft with some difficulty into the wash-basin, I ran some cold water over it, thankful when my erection began to subside and the swollen head of it began to shrivel.
I looked at myself in the mirror above the sink while my cock reluctantly responded to the cold water from the tap.
What the hell was happening to me?
Over the previous day, I'd largely accepted that I'd enjoyed my first bona fide homosexual experience – the two of us men had been drunk and sexually tense, and so it was sort of understandable that we'd allowed things to go so far between us. While I couldn't have anticipated how aroused I would get by the smells and tastes of another man – his musky cock, his sweaty balls and that most tantalising area deep inside the moist crack between his buttocks – I felt more able to acknowledge this unforeseen interest as part of my broad sexual make-up.
I just couldn't believe that my natural curiosity to find out why I had been so excited by what Guy and I had done together had ended up with me whacking off in front of websites of men tonguing each other's backsides. Couldn't believe that those pictures, which really ought to have appalled any guy who professed to be straight, had instead brought me to the most powerful climax I could remember for many years. Couldn't believe that while I'd taken a bath, I'd thought of how the men in those pictures had looked together and had ended up jerking myself again, running the tap noisily so Jake couldn't hear my rhythm. Nor that, after I was sure Jake was asleep, I'd lain in bed and beat myself off a third time imagining Guy's hairy arse-crack being pushed down onto my eager, tongue-extended face.
As well as feeling troubled that I was getting so aroused by such lurid subject-matter, I was surprised that I'd felt compelled to masturbate three times in almost as many hours and had subsequently, if Jake hadn't awoken me, been well on the way to having a wet dream – both feats having been virtually unknown to me this side of turning twenty. Whatever had been triggered inside my brain by the events of Friday night had, at the same, given my penis a new lease of life.
I'd never been interested in women's backsides – not in the slightest. If I had to apply a label to myself – as one sometimes did to appease other men in the bawdiness of the group – I would state simply I was a 'breast man', even though the concealed treasures to be found lower down held a far greater erotic appeal for me. There was nothing I found more sensual than to lick around and inside a woman's vagina and to smell and taste her most delicate and feminine scents.
While showering, I wondered if my fascination with rimming was the homosexual counterpart of the same desire to taste of the secret and carnal; an expression of my salacious need to probe the bodily with my mouth and tongue. But whereas having one's face between a woman's legs was arousing because her juices and pheromones contrasted so subtly with one's own sexual smells, having one's face between a man's cheeks was – as I had found – a far more powerful and more electrifying experience. Indeed, the two were hardly comparable. The graceful sweep of a woman's smooth pudendum was heavy with eroticism and mystique, at complete odds with the lewd frankness of a man's hairy buttocks which seemed more like an expression of the vulgar. The secretive folds of her vagina seemed almost homely in contrast to the barren simplicity of his hole. The gentle aroma of her womanhood paled into the predictable alongside the intoxicating array of powerful sensations I'd experienced as I'd explored Guy's sumptuous male rear.
Such thoughts of Guy's backside as I showered – and of the more general attraction of other men's arses – led my penis to begin to recover its earlier glory and start its inexorable ascent upwards. I looked down at it, watching it thicken and harden as my foreskin slowly eased back to expose the fattening head and its single slit-eye was revealed to peer back up at me. In spite of its insistent demands for gratification as the water splashed down on it, I refrained from attending to it a fourth time so as not to stoke further waves of guilt about the rightness or wrongness of my burgeoning fascination with that most sordid of places.
In any case, Jake would be banging on the door at any moment, asking what I was doing in there and eager for us to get going.
===
My feelings of guilt gradually eased as I drove Jake to football practice and we chatted about mundane matters like where he might have left his best trainers and whether he wanted fish-fingers for tea.
We had to stop at some temporary traffic-lights while they did some emergency work on a water main and, as the engine idled, I distractedly watched one of the workers using a pneumatic drill to break up the tarmac. He looked like he was in his late twenties and had a roughness about him which suited his luminous safety jacket and yellow hard hat. My attention was caught, though, by the back of his dirty jeans which were tight enough to reveal his round and muscular backside as he bent forwards to handle the juddering drill.
An involuntary sensation of how it would feel to have my face burrowing between his cheeks flashed into my mind and I quickly looked away from him over to the busy chip shop on the other side of the road.
But then I looked back at him.
I wondered how his arse would look nude, flexing below the hem of his work jacket. He'd have a lovely pair of pert cheeks and a deep sweaty crack sprouting coarse black hair, the same colour as that on his head but curlier.
I looked away again – back to the lights, willing but at the same time not willing them to change colour.
I was developing yet another erection, right there in the front of the car with my son next to me. I was thankful that my swelling organ was directed down one leg of my jeans, giving it the space to expand inside my loose boxers without me having to awkwardly adjust myself.
I looked back at the worker. Oh god – that arse!
How exciting would it be to push my nose between those amazing cheeks; to inhale the sweat of his morning's exertions condensed like dew on his wiry butt-hair? And to extend my tongue deeply into him, to taste –
"Pretty good, huh?" said Jake. "You really want to get stuck into that, don't you?"
I swung round to face him, feeling myself start to blush. "What?"
