"It's Ben Davis, right? From Professor Bolt's History class? I thought it was you."
I turned at the sound of the voice behind me and was surprised to see Bill Hughes, a fellow student who I didn't think was aware of my existence. I said hello back, expecting him to walk past me, and was surprised when he slowed to my pace and began to chat.
"You look like you're enjoying the walk."
"Yea, I couldn't stand sitting at my desk for a minute longer, I had to get out. I've spent so little time in town since coming here that I don't know it very well, so I thought it was time I looked around."
Bill had caught up to me on the hill leading away from the English university that we attended. This was the Friday night of our third week of classes back in 1970 when I was nineteen years old; away from home for the first time, living in a college dorm in a small, ancient city, a shy boy, uncertain of my looks and unsure how to make friends.
A late teenaged growth-spurt a few months before had added a couple of inches to my height but left me rail thin in the process. I'd been told by my older sister that I had "a nice bum that the girls will like" but looking in the mirror, all I could see was a thin, gawky six-footer with brown hair and big ears staring back at me. Was there really someone out there who'd appreciate my sexy bum or like my wide shoulders and bright blue eyes?
That "someone" was the problem of course: since I was a homosexual virgin, with no interest in girls, and too frightened to approach boys. I'd had no sexual activity whatsoever in my life so far, other than using my own hand. I was nineteen physically and intellectually, cursed with the gawky looks of a sixteen-year old and the naïve virginity of a fourteen-year old!
Bill on the other hand, was a sexy, fully mature man, the same height as me but outweighing my scrawny self by a good thirty pounds. He had a big torso, well-muscled legs, arms and shoulders, with wiry black body hair poking out of his shirt at the neck and wrists.
He was in his mid-thirties, a decade and a half older than the rest of his fellow students, but age wasn't the only difference; he had a completely different look about him that marked him out from all the other males in our class. This was the seventies, so they mostly had long hair, with mustaches or beards and wore t-shirts, jeans and sandals: my own hair was longish, though I hadn't grown a beard. Unlike the rest of us, Bill's dark wavy hair was cut short, he was clean-shaven and always came to class in a crisply laundered white shirt, black trousers and highly polished black boots.
Just looking at him made me feel scruffy, and I did a lot of looking! In our seminar class, with everyone sitting around in a circle, he and I always seemed to end up sitting on the opposite sides of the room. He caught me staring across at him a few times, causing me to instantly glance away in embarrassment. He seemed so confident, handsome and mature; unlike me, a quiet kid from a small town, with no experience of the world.
Earlier that same week, with the South of England enjoying an unusual and unexpected spell of late autumn sun and high temperatures, Bill had walked into class in his usual crisp white shirt and boots, but wearing a pair of dazzling white shorts that revealed a pair of tanned, heavily muscled legs.
That was all it needed to turn my vague attraction into a major crush! Here was exactly the kind of take-charge, mature man I mooned over on TV or in magazines and he was right here in my Approaches to Modern History class! But what was alarming was that he seemed to be deliberately trying to catch my eye every time I looked in his direction, making me blush and forcing me to spend the last two thirds of the seminar looking down at the floor.
Meanwhile, in order to get to know her students better and to encourage the silent ones in class (like me!) to speak up, our professor asked us to tell the class a little about ourselves. I mumbled out a few details about the school I'd attended and my home town, then lapsed back into embarrassed silence as Bill proceeded to tell the class about spending the previous decade working for the Colonial Police in what was now a newly independent country in southern Africa.
I was bedazzled. I was a shy gay boy who'd never travelled overseas or spent more than a few days away from his parents before starting University, while the object of my desire was not only sexy and handsome but was experienced and well-travelled.
Now, only two days later this seemingly perfect example of attractive heterosexuality was walking alongside me, asking a bunch of questions about me and about college life; and seeming to actually listen to my answers.
Despite being shy and quiet, I was fairly knowledgeable in what would now be called a nerdy sort of way, and all I needed was someone to pull me out of my shell. We started having a real conversation, and when he suggested we stop in for a drink at his favourite pub I jumped at the chance.
He turned out to have four "favourite pubs" and insisted on treating me to a pint of beer at each. Since I was drinking on an empty stomach, the beer soon had an effect and my conversation got more and more animated as a result. It was after work on a Friday night, so the pubs were packed and at the fourth one on his list the two of us were forced to squeeze onto what was really a single seat in the corner.
As we drank our pints, Bill's body movements became more and more expansive; he spread his legs so wide that his knee constantly touched mine while his hand kept "accidentally" dropping down on my thigh for emphasis as he talked. Anyone watching us would have assume we were just a couple of straight buddies forced to sit close to each other in the overcrowded bar; but the close proximity to him drove me to distraction.
Uncomfortably aware of springing a hard-on, I tried to tell myself that he could have no idea of his effect on me and that all this careless touching was proof of that. After all, you could see confident straight men like him touching and grabbing each other all the time, just look at the hijinks in locker rooms after a game!
In a desperate attempt to get my mind off sex, I asked about his stint as a policeman in Africa. At first, he told a few funny stories about catching "normal" criminals, but then he started to talk about how "political" prisoners were subjected to corporal punishment; either caned for minor offences or flogged for more serious ones. The constables under his command usually handled the punishments, though he'd done it himself at times. When I naively asked if it was painful, he laughed and said yes, of course, that was the point.
He lowered his voice to a whisper to spell out the details about how the prisoners were handcuffed and shackled to keep them still during punishment sessions with their trousers pulled down, so they wouldn't soak them with their own frightened piss. He grinned when I looked shocked and leant in close to whisper in my ear.
"Of course, since they were naked from the waist down, we could see if they got excited, if you know what I mean. It always surprised me how many did. A couple of them came while being flogged! That was a real shocker, but then people get excited at the strangest things, eh Ben?"
He looked at me with an odd smirk on his face as I nodded at him with what I hoped was a non-committal look, hoping he couldn't tell how aroused I was. He went onto other topics and then surprised me by inviting me to have a look at the little row house that he'd rented for the school year, which was just around the corner. I breathed a sigh of relief; surely he wouldn't invite someone he suspected of being a "pervert" into his home.
Five minutes later, sitting on his sofa, I glanced around his living room and caught sight of a pair of handcuffs sitting on his bookshelf. Seeing my startled look, he turned his head to see what I was staring at and laughed.
"Oh, those cuffs! When I left the force, one of my constables packed up everything in my office for shipment back to England, and those got included. It's funny how many people are fascinated by them."
