BEN IS SHOWN THE ROPES?
This is a stand-alone sequel to "Ben is taught about discipline", and like that one, it's a tale of the early nineteen seventies, with an eager young man leaning lessons about man-to-man sex.
Until my first term at a provincial English university, I'd been a naïve virgin, aware of my homosexuality, but unable to express it. But soon after the beginning of term, I'd become friendly with another student and through a happy accident we found out we were both interested in bondage; he in tying me up and me in being tied up!
That mutual interest eventually led to a wild and wonderful weekend of gay sex with four different guys who got me to suck their cocks, to fuck me, tie me up, spank me, torture my nipples, beat my balls and shower me with piss. Unfortunately, to my great regret the weekend was a one-off, leaving me with no means of contacting the blokes concerned again.
This was in 1971 and I didn't know how to connect with other gay men in either the university or the town, and there were few gay clubs even in much bigger cities than this one in those days, and there was obviously no internet and no Grinder. My fellow male undergraduate seemed overwhelmingly heterosexual, and every public mention of homosexuality just repeated the worst pseudo-scientific lies about it. After all, this was happening a mere three years after the repeal of the punitive Victoria-era British laws that criminalized homosexual acts. Gay men had been forced into a penal closet for a hundred years and were only slowly making their way out.
So, after that wonderful weekend, I kept my head down and concentrated on class work for the rest of the term, afraid I'd never get another chance to live out my newly expressed sexuality. It was the same story at home on the Christmas holiday, where I didn't dare talk to my family about any of this and could only sit quietly as my old school mates boasted about the hot girls that they claimed to have hooked up with at their new work sites or university parties.
The answer to my prayers didn't arrive until the fourth week of the new term, in the persons of two chatty cleaning ladies that I sat behind on the bus from college. Ignoring their conversation while staring glumly out of the window at the rain, I suddenly tuned in.
"Oh, Jimmy's a nice enough boy, and he does my hair just the way I like it. Mind you, if I was his mother, I'd tell him to stop acting so fruity. I know this homosexual business is legal these days, but still, he's asking for trouble with that long hair of his and those outfits he wears, not to speak of that naughty mouth of his."
I sat there, pretending to concentrate on the view from the window, while longing to hear more about him, which luckily her friend also did.
"Jimmy's really bad sometimes. Last week I told him my nephew Eddie had moved to a new place on Merton Street. Well, right away he says, 'Maisie, he'll be around the corner from the Queen Alexandra pub. Tell that adorable boy not to go there on a Saturday night when the queens are there. They'll be lining up to tear him away from that pretty girlfriend of his,
I must have looked shocked because he starts giggling and says he's just joking. But when I got home, I made sure to warn Eddie, I don't want my poor nephew to get a reputation."
While the ladies got on to another topic, I got off at the next stop and walked a mile back to the Public Library, checked in the city directory and found the address of the "Queen Alexandra". I swore to myself I'd walk through its doors that weekend.
But back in my room in college later that day, I wondered how easy would it be to attract other men, particularly those older, dominant types that I longed for? After all, I'd been innocent before that first weekend, when I'd been taught by older, more experienced men. The thought of actually going out and finding other men for sex was daunting. I didn't know what to say or how to act: I was shy; I lacked the ability to make small talk in social situations and preferred to meld into the background. How would I compete with less awkward and possibly cuter looking boys?
I stared at my naked, six-foot tall self in a mirror, wondering what guys would think about me. My wide shoulders and long torso, dark brown hair, and blue eyes looked OK, but what about the sticking-out ears, prominent nipples, outsized balls and a fat bum that must look out of place on my skinny frame?
Then there was the matter of man's most important body part! From my admittedly small experience of erect penises, I didn't think I had too much to be ashamed of. I was a "grower" rather than a "shower" but I was at the age where my dick was half or fully hard most of the time.
As I looked at my naked self, I occurred to me that one of the blokes from the sex weekend had sent me to the bathroom to clean myself out with an enema hose before he'd consider fucking me. With no such thing to hand and sharing a college bathroom with three other guys, I lived on thin soup for the next few days until Saturday evening came around. That night I waited until the other guys had left for the dining room, then headed to the showers and stood under the hot water for minutes on end, shoving soapy fingers up inside me to ensure I was as clean inside as out.
There couldn't have been any one more nervous in the whole of the south of England than me as I walked through the doors of the "Queen Alexandra" later that night. At first I thought it looked like any other local pub on a Saturday night, but soon enough, even though I was no expert on gay life, I noticed subtle differences, proof that Jimmy the hairdresser hadn't been pulling the cleaning lady's leg.
In most pubs, men will take a quick glance at other men as they enter. But, by the time I'd reached the bar, most of the male customers (and there were no women) subjected me to serious looks of appraisal, frankly checking out this brand new face. This was the first time I'd been so aware of being openly cruised, and I responded by putting my head down in embarrassment and staring at the floor, raising my eyes only long enough to order a pint of the house bitter.
As the landlord pulled my pint, I was surprised by the directness of his glance.
"I don't remember seeing you here before, sonny, welcome. A nice young man like you shouldn't have any trouble making friends here tonight."
Then he winked and wished me a lucky night as I edged my way into the crowd, carrying my beer into a quiet corner before daring to glance up at the crowd. It was a diverse group by age; a few younger men while the rest ranged from their late-twenties to quite elderly. Aware of some of them continuing to stare, I dropped my eyes to the floor, nervously gulped down my beer and before I knew what I was doing, I'd swallowed the whole pint.
I edged further out into the room and found myself standing next to a well-dressed older gentleman sitting at a table. He smiled up at me, and asked me if I'd been there before. When I confirmed that this was my first time at the pub, he looked sharply at me and asked if I'd noticed anything unusual or different about the other customers. I said yes and admitted that those very differences were the reason for my being there.
