Date: Sun, 21 Mar 2004 16:38:01 +0000 (GMT)
From: Oliver Jennings <southwest_ollie@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: Hayle (Part 1 of 4)

Hayle (Part 1 of 4)
(c) Oliver Jennings, 2004

===

If I had to be specific, if you were to force me to express a preference, I
guess I'd have to say that when it comes to women, I'm probably a tit man.
But it'd be a pretty close run thing - the whole package is pretty nice.

As far as my attraction to other men is concerned, though, I'm definitely
an arse man.  Nothing else even registers on the dial when it's competing
against the firm, round, tight buttcheeks of another guy.  Maybe it's
because guys' arses look a little like girls' tits - I don't know - but I
do know that, from a fairly early age, I've been fascinated by them.

There's something really satisfying about lying chest-to-chest with another
man, staring into his eyes and running your fingers through his hair.
There's something wonderfully elegant about the sweep of his back; a raw,
masculine beauty in the muscles of his forearms and thighs.  I love the
feel of his cock, poking into me insistently; and of his balls, slamming
against me while he pleasures himself inside my body.

But all those fade into insignificance in comparison to the pleasure of
turning him over to find he has a good, solid arse ripe for exploration.
All those are just window dressings.

The seduction of another man's arse has to be one of life's most exquisite
pleasures.  Running your fingers up and down his crack, enjoying the tickle
of his wiry cleft hair.  Then finding his most precious spot and hearing
him gasp at that first touch.  Feeling the slight wetness to it; puckered
and opening; slick and inviting.  Smelling him; licking him; tasting him.
Being so intimate to such a personal area of him and hearing him whimper in
pleasure.  Then, slowly so as not to alarm him, climbing onto him; pressing
your aching, swollen cock into him and feeling him tighten around it.  The
two of you sweating as you writhe and buck; his arse slurping on your cock
like it was a lollipop.  It's pretty much as good as it gets!

I find my mind wandering into areas like that, areas which perhaps it
shouldn't, in the most mundane of places.  My girlfriend's brother turns
and bends to pick up a dropped napkin at a family meal and I'm wondering
what it would be like to rip those tight black trousers down, yank his
briefs down to the tops of his thighs and fuck him over the table.  Whether
he'd scream and call out my name like his sister does; whether he'd cum
before me.  Or my mate from work stands in front of me in the bus queue in
the late afternoon drizzle and I'm checking out his buttcheeks bulging
pertly in the seat of his chinos; imagining my tongue snaking between them
through the leg of his baggy boxers, tasting his hot, wet hole, pungeant
and sweaty from his day sitting in front of his computer.

I guess it shouldn't happen but it does.  And when it does - boy - is it
enjoyable!

I think it all goes back to my days going down to Hayle for the rugby.  Not
the games themselves - although there are plenty of opportunities for ones
mind to wander during some of those scrums when guys' arses are pointing at
you from all directions - but more the nights I had staying over at the
Youth Hostel there when we'd driven down to watch a match.

We must have started staying there when I was really young - five or six,
maybe - and, of course, I don't think guys' arses did a lot for me in those
days.  I was interested in them, I guess, just like every kid stares over
at naked people, but I don't think I really focused on arses as being
anything special and definitely not ones belonging to other males.

I think my first awakening must have happened when I was about thirteen.  I
was staying in the Youth Hostel with my dad, my brother Charlie and a
cousin of mine from Bristol called Martin.  Martin was a couple of years
older than me and we didn't really get on that well.  Aside from the age
difference, which seemed like an impassable gulf back then, there was the
fact that he had this thing about being from the city while I was a country
lad.  He regarded me as an inbred yokel; I regarded him as an arrogant
tosser.

So it wasn't the most promising of starts.  And, in fact, nothing really
happened.

What did happen took place early one morning when everyone was waking up
and starting to get ready to head off to a rugby game.  As the hostel
started to slowly come to life, I was sitting on the toilet in one of the
bathrooms on the middle floor.  Like I said, not the most promising of
starts.

Martin walked in, grunted something incomprehensible over at me sitting on
the toilet, then pulled off his teeshirt and shorts and stood waiting for
the shower to warm up.  There was nothing odd about that - the hostel only
had two bathrooms and so on rugby match days when there's only guys staying
there and everyone's in a rush to get ready at the same time, there's a
kind of open-house atmosphere about the place.

I just sat on the loo watching him - funny how you've so little
self-consciousness about that kind of stuff when you're young - and
noticed, while he stood there, that his cock stood upwards from between his
legs.  He had what looked like a pretty full-on erection.

Again, there was nothing odd about that - when you're staying over at youth
hostels with groups of other guys, you're going to get used to seeing
morning woodies pretty soon - but I was kind of impressed by how large he
was down there and I guess I must have stared over at him.  His cock seemed
so much bigger than mine - it must have been six or maybe even seven inches
long.  Even with two years head-start it seemed quite a remarkable organ.

He gradually became more uncomfortable as he waited for the water to become
warm and scowled over at me.  I just sat on the loo and stared back.

He made like he was acting busy, rinsing the base of the shower cubicle and
then grabbing his soap and stuff, with that swollen cock swinging around
between his legs like a branch in the wind as he did so.  It was beginning
to lose some of its stiffness but none of its impressive size.

When I kept staring, he turned to me and snapped, "Stop looking my arse,
weirdo!  D'you wanna bum me or something?"

I didn't know what he meant so I shrugged.  "What do you mean?"

He laughed scornfully.  "Don't you even know what that means?  Bain't they
be doin' that down thar in Devon?"  His mock country accent grated on me.

But I just shrugged again.

He sneered.  "It means you're looking at my arse because you want to stick
your dick up it..."

I was confused.  "Why?"

His grin became broader and more triumphant.  "Because you want to fuck
me."

He emphasized the words 'fuck me', intending to shock.

I was still pretty confused but starting to understand.  "Your arse?"

"Yeah.  You want to fuck my arse.  That's why you were staring at it.
You're a gay..."

Now I understood.  I shook my head.  I considered telling him that I had
actually been staring at his dick but I thought that might be a bad move.

So I just stood up, wiped myself and flushed the toilet.

As he got into the shower, I said, "I wasn't looking at your arse, Martin.
I wasn't looking at anything..."

He grunted, "Yeah, right."  And closed the cubicle door.

I walked over to the sink and got on with brushing my teeth.  Martin began
washing himself in the shower, his back turned toward me through the glass
door.  I looked over at him through the mirror above the sink and saw that,
after he'd quickly washed his body and rinsed himself, his elbow began
moving rhythmically alongside his right hip.  He was attending to his
erection under the spray of the water.

I wasn't much interested in that - I'd kind of expected him to wank himself
off under the shower just as I probably would have done if I'd awoken in a
similar state - but my eyes were drawn back to his arse time and again,
despite my attempts to ignore it.

What he'd said simultaneously fascinated and disgusted me: the idea that I
might want to have sex with his bum was revolting in that it was such a
taboo and dirty place, and yet surprisingly attractive for exactly the same
reason.  A guy's arse couldn't really be used in a sexual way, could it?
My eyes were drawn back to his again and again as if the answer would
somehow be revealed by it.

I realised that I must have been brushing my teeth for three or four
minutes, staring hypnotically at his bumcheeks repeatedly visualising and
then dismissing the image of working my cock in between them, when Martin
turned around to glower at me over his shoulder.  His hand was working at
full whack against his cock and he obviously wasn't too pleased that I was
hanging around a little longer than necessary.

He snapped, his voice breathless from his exertions, "Quit looking at my
arse, pervert!"

I hurriedly spat into the sink and picked up my towel.  "I wasn't..."

He glanced down at my crotch and saw that my cock was now fully erect and
arching upward in front of me.

He sneered.  "You really do wanna bum me..."

"Fuck off!  Everyone gets a morning hard-on... it doesn't mean anything..."

He turned back around to return to working his own, muttering, "Yeah,
whatever... like I'm so convinced..."

I flushed scarlet because he was right.  I had been imagining what it might
be like to have sex with his arse and I had developed an erection thinking
about it.  That wasn't such a good sign, was it?

I think I must have blushed every time I saw Martin sneering over at me
that day.  I think, actually, I was pretty hung up about what had happened
that morning at Hayle for a couple of years afterward.

It was only when I came to accept that I happen to have - how shall I put
it - an appreciation for certain aspects of other males' bodies, which in
no way undermines or challenges my heterosexual attractions, that I managed
to look Martin in the eye again.  It took a few more years for me to
realise that his harsh comments in the bathroom that day had inadvertently
awoken a side of me that I might otherwise have never have experienced, and
from then on I could sneer back at him.

But to get that far meant wading through a lot of guilt, and much of that
guilt was felt in the dorm rooms at Hayle in the months and years following
Martin's confrontation.

>From then on visits to the youth hostel became sources of endless
opportunity followed by relentless self-reproach.  I'd find myself looking
desperately forward to trips down to Hayle and at first I'd try to convince
myself that it was because of the anticipation of seeing a rugby
game. After a few visits, though, I had to acknowledge that the main
enticement was the possibility that might get a glimpse of a couple of
guys' arses.  I'd feel dirty about myself for wanting that but I'd want it
anyway: I'd know I wasn't supposed to think of other males in a sexual way,
but I was unable and ultimately unwilling to stop myself.

I must have checked out a succession of thirty or forty naked men over the
following couple of years.  I'd chat to them while they were undressing at
night in our dorm, while they were showering the next morning and while
they were pulling on their underwear, all the time peering over at their
arses and becoming more and more fascinated by the differences and
similarities between them.

There was this guy Darren from Walsall who had a firm, round arse that
almost drove me crazy.  He spent ages between showering and dressing,
checking out his muscles and obsessing over the scar of a tattoo he'd had
removed, and I just lay in my bed staring over at him, gently rubbing at
the wet tip of my engorged cock beneath my duvet as my eyes feasted on his
amazing backside every time he turned it towards me.

There was this Italian guy called Dianno from North London who seemed
reluctant to get dressed.  He had an animated conversation with my brother
Charlie, standing with his back towards me and his legs wide open, while I
lay in my bed and gazed in awe at his incredible muscular arse and his cock
and balls dangling between his thighs beneath it.  When Charlie stood up
from his bed, Dianno took a step backward to give him space and those
magnificent bumcheeks were literally inches from my face.  I could actually
smell the soap he'd washed himself with when he'd showered a few minutes
earlier.  My cock was pounding against the tight grip of my fist.

Then there was this guy called Ian from Reigate who had one of the roundest
arses I've ever seen.  He made small-talk with my mates and I while we all
undressed to turn in for the night and, when he pulled off his jeans to
reveal the paired spherical mounds of his straining cheeks inside his tight
dark red briefs, I became mesmerised.  Thank God I wasn't involved in the
conversation at that moment: I'd have been totally lost for words.  Then,
when he peeled off his briefs, unfurling them down those tight, round
buttocks chatting away obliviously, I was reduced to grunting something
like, "I need the loo..." and slunk out.

By the time I'd finished my rapid and silent bout of masturbation, he'd got
into bed.  I've always been pissed off with myself that I slept through his
alarm the next morning and that by the time I'd awoken he was already
dressed.

Throughout the time these brief encounters were happening at Hayle, I was
dating girls and working my way through first and second base just like all
the other lads in my year.  I wasn't gay - I still don't think I am - I
just had this fascination for guys' behinds that didn't seem to fit with
any of the other, more traditional, attractions I was developing.

During some of my many moments of anxiety about what I was feeling, I'd
visit the town library and leaf through encyclopoedias and medical
textbooks to see if this was one of those "normal part of growing up"
things.  I quickly realised that none of them said anything that was
relevant to me.  This wasn't a phase I was going through - it had been
going on for three years now.  Nor was it a teenage crush - how can someone
have a crush on a part of the every other guy's body?

I even tried making tentative, joking references to "bumming" or to the
shape of other lads' backsides to my mates, but they seemed to lack my
interest and would just throw me odd, uneasy glances.

So I figured I must be pretty unique in this and, at sixteen or seventeen,
decided that it might be time to stop worrying about it or trying to
justify it: why not just see what it would be like to enjoy it?

===

In the second part, a visit to Hayle with my dad helps to ease some of the
guilt I was feeling about my fascination for other men's arses...

===

Comments/suggestions always welcome: southwest_ollie@yahoo.co.uk
Ollie's group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ollies-group/
Ollie's website: http://stories.remoworld.com