Date: Sun, 11 Aug 2013 10:52:48 +0100 (BST)
From: Robert Furlong <robert.furlong@rocketmail.com>
Subject: Pantomime Cow

PANTOMIME COW
Part of the 'Butt Monkey' series of stories by Robert Furlong
robert.furlong@rocketmail.com
Find my older stories at screeve.org

===

Jake mentioned over tea that the drama department at his college was
looking for someone to help out with the Christmas pantomime.  It was still
early November but rehearsals were already underway.

"I didn't think you were interested in drama, Jake."

"I'm not actually in it," he replied, through a mouthful of ravioli on
toast.  "I'm just drawing them a few cartoons for their programme."

Jake had always been very skilled at drawing and had remarkable talent for
capturing expression and movement.  For a while, I'd tried to persuade him
to take up art as one of his subjects at school but my advice had, like so
many of my attempts at paternal guidance, been casually disregarded.

"They're asking for volunteers," he went on, swallowing one mouthful of
food and promptly shovelling in another so he could continue to talk
through it.  "They want a parent to take on one of the roles they can't
fill,"

"Come on... you know I'm rubbish at that kind of thing."

"Oh, it's nothing too difficult.  They're just looking for someone to be
the back end of the cow."

I smiled.  "Oh right."

"Mr Barrowman was going to do it but they need him backstage."  He gulped
some of his juice and then announced, "Anyway, I said you wouldn't do it."

"Probably for the best," I chuckled.  "You know what I'm like... I'd end up
falling off the stage or something."

He chuckled.  "Yeah.  And you don't want to have your face in another guy's
butt all night, do you?"

I looked over at him, startled.  "Is that what it would involve?"

"Yeah, of course.  And it gets so hot in the costume, you'd both have to
strip down to your underwear.  I told Mr Roberts you'd be too weirded-out
to do it."

"Well, I dunno, Jake..."  I picked up some of the dirty dishes to take them
to the sink.  "I mean, if they're desperate..."

He shook his head.  "Seriously, dad, it'd gross you out.  I've seen them
during rehearsals... the costume is so cramped that the guy at the back has
his nose stuck right in the other guy's butt... and it gets so hot in the
costume, they were both sweating like a couple of pigs by the end of the
show..."

I turned to look at him, temporarily lost for words at the mental image
he'd just painted.

Eventually, I managed, "But... you know... if they're desperate...."

He shrugged.  "Anyway, the guy at the front is Mr Purves.  Do you really
want to have your face in his backside for a whole night?  I mean, what if
he hadn't wiped himself properly... ugh!"

"Well, no.  No.  Of course not."

I knew Michael Purves from a couple of parents' evenings; he'd taught Jake
Physics since he'd joined the college.  He was in his late twenties and
played football in one of the amateur leagues.  The thought of back-ending
him in the cow costume was already making my cock harden and I turned to
face the sink so that Jake couldn't see the bulge that was starting to form
in my work trousers.

I called over my shoulder to him, turning the hot tap onto the dishes, "I
just would feel bad if it means the play can't run without a volunteer..."

Jake didn't seem too interested one way or the other.  "Well, I'll let Mr
Roberts know.  But I'll say you want to be the front end..."

"No!"  I was surprised at how urgent my voice suddenly sounded.  Smiling in
an attempt to appear more casual, I said, "Er... the back end will be fine,
Jake... honestly..."

He threw me a quizzical look.  "Yeah...?"

"Well... I mean," I muttered, struggling to think of a good reason for
preferring the rear end.  "The guy at the front has to know where to go and
what to do... I'd just have to follow him..."

He shrugged a 'whatever' gesture which made him look like his mother and
then brought the rest of the dishes over to the sink.

Although I tried not to let Jake see how excited I was at the prospect of
being the back end of his Physics teacher's cow, my mind was racing through
the possibilities which the position might present.

Of course, I would have to be very careful not to have too much contact
with the teacher's backside, but, as a once happily-married man, he
probably wouldn't suspect I was actually enjoying having my nose jammed
between his buttocks.  He'd probably be apologetic, repeatedly so, about
the awkwardness of the situation.

I'd reminded Jake twice that evening to tell Mr Roberts that I was
interested in being in the play before his expression told me that I was
venturing into uncool territory.

===

Needless to say, I lay for a while in my bed that night pondering about
what it would be like to have my face so close to another man's backside
for so long, speculating on how brave I would be with my nose and my
tongue, wondering if the teacher might start enjoying my attentions like
Guy had... and what would happen if he did?

I fondled myself through the fly of my pyjamas, feeling my cock starting to
harden as it always did when my thoughts turned to other men's backsides.

What if he, like me, was harbouring a secret yearning for the male rear?
What if that had been the reason he'd volunteered to take on the role?

Once he'd recognised my interest in his arse – once he'd realised that
I'd offered to spend the evening cooped up in the costume with him for
reasons less respectable than a wish to support performance art – he'd
likely respond by pushing himself back against me.  Perhaps even pull the
back of his underpants down to give his new-found friend better access.

Would I be brave enough to rim him on stage, hidden from view within our
costume but nevertheless in front of an audience?  I imagined myself inside
the dark, stuffy confines, my face level with his pert, sweaty buttocks.
His crack would be hot and ripe after a day of being cooped up in his
trousers and underwear in the Physics lab; the tastes and odours around his
tight, puckered anus ready and waiting for licking and sniffing.

Without a doubt I'd rim him!  I'd have my tongue stuck so far up his arse
that his eyes would be watering!

I gently eased my foreskin down the stiffening length of my cock with a
couple of fingers and my thumb, and then slowly swept it back up again.
Then I did it again, and again, becoming a little bit faster each time as
what had started out as idle fondling gradually developed the rhythm and
pace of masturbation.

It occurred to me that, if Michael Purves was into guys' arses like I was,
he might suggest that we swap places during the half time interval so he
could do to me what I'd so enjoyed doing to him.

For the first time, I considered how it would feel to have another man
rimming me.  Would I enjoy it?  I imagined the feel of another man's nose
sniffing my most private smells, the sensation of his tongue licking around
my most intimate spot.

I wondered if I might be self-conscious.  What if I was a bit smelly down
there or hadn't prepared myself as thoroughly as I should have?  What if he
was disgusted by me?

But I figured that if someone was into rimming, part of its attraction had
to be towards experiencing the natural smells and tastes of the arse: that
had certainly been what I'd found so exciting about Guy's backside.  So
another guy would be just as likely to enjoy rimming me in the state he
found me as I would him.

I imagined Purves behind me in the costume, pulling my underpants down and
pushing his face between my buttocks.  My cock swelled at the thought and I
started masturbating it more quickly, my breathing quickening and a thin
film of sweat forming on my forehead in the darkness.

I hitched my pyjama bottoms down so that I could work my free hand between
my legs and, pushing underneath my large balls, extended a finger into my
hot, hairy arse-crack.  I drew circles around my moist ring, imagining it
was Purves's tongue, and felt my cock hardening to its full size as I
jerked it as quietly as I could.

Grabbing his head, I'd grind my arse into his face, relishing the sensation
of him tasting my hole and inhaling my sweaty, pungent odour.  I imagined
holding his head steady and sliding my arse up and down against his face,
just like I'd seen the men in the park toilets doing.  I'd feel his nose
sweep up and down between my cheeks, and then bend forwards to open my
crack to allow him to fully penetrate my hole with his tongue.

Suddenly I had an idea.  Remembering how much I had enjoyed, to my
horrified surprise, the sensation of Dr Courtney's middle finger entering
me during the prostate examination, I clicked my bedside light back on and
found in my bedside drawer the tube of KY jelly I'd bought in a chemist's
shop.  After squirting a generous gob of it onto my middle finger, I
smeared the transparent goo up and down from tip to knuckle, the way I'd
seen the doctor doing, and then clicked the light back off again.

I pressed my moistened finger back against my hole and marvelled at how
smoothly and slickly it slid inside me.  The sensation was exquisite: even
better than I remembered it had been in the surgery now that I didn't have
the doctor's beady eyes staring at me.  I pushed deep up into my bowels and
gasped at how pleasurable it felt.  My cock throbbed and hardened in
response, as if pleased that its little brother round the back was finally
being invited into the party.

Taking up a gentle rhythm in and out of my anus, I imagined Purves pushing
his tongue inside me smiled to think of him enjoying it so much he would
push deeper and deeper, hungry for more.  How wonderful it would be to feel
him frantically wanking himself in his excitement as he fed so passionately
on me.  Emboldened by how good it felt, I began fingering myself more
quickly and eventually worked up to the same rhythm as I was using to
masturbate.  I was amazed by how incredible just a single finger could feel
as it slid quickly in out of my tight, slimy hole and how hard it made my
cock throb to imagine it was another man's tongue reaching up inside me.

I lay there marvelling and grinning with glee at the new sensation I was
experiencing; pleasuring myself so delectably with two hands rather than
one.  This was masturbation cranked up to the max: the de-luxe form of the
habit I had so enjoyed since boyhood.  Why had nobody told me about this?
Why had I never had the imagination to discover it for myself?

Increasing my rhythm, I began panting as I realised I was now getting
pleasure from two places rather than one.  I'd always enjoyed the waves of
sensation which rubbing my cock would give me; now I was getting further
stimulation – nearly double the fun – from my hot, tight backside
which had all these years been hungry for me to feed it.

I gasped again in delight; God this felt so good!

My finger was making slurping noises as I thrust it in and out of myself
and imagined it to be Purves's mouth, sucking at my backside and giving me
his own version of the rim-job I had seen in the park toilets.  I opened my
legs wider, both hands growing faster in their separate but co-ordinated
roles.  One expertly circling my cock in its long-established technique;
the other less certain and still finding its way as it plunged in and out
of my long-neglected hole.

A waft of air was expelled from beneath my duvet and I sniffed greedily at
the novel kick my new technique was giving to my masturbatory odour.  I'd
always revelled in the sharp, biting smell of my cock when I wanked it; now
it was joined by a stronger, and deliciously smuttier, smell from between
my legs.  Both my hands quickened in their excitement: this was a welcome
new slant on an old favourite.

I gasped a third time, this time coupled with an urgent grunt.  My whole
bed was a pulsating mass of movement and rhythm.  The manageable to-and-fro
vibrating of my mattress under the motion of only one hand had given way to
a frenzy of pounding and creaking.  In time I'd learn how to restrain such
excesses, or at least limit them to more discreet levels, but for now I
just enjoyed it.  My bedroom door was closed; if Jake could hear what his
father was up to, he'd just have to put a pillow over his head.

He could have no idea where my thoughts were straying to.

And in any case, this was too good to miss.

I focussed on the mental picture of me bending low with another man's face
eating so urgently and hungrily at my backside, the two of us sweaty and
panting with excitement.  I just let the pleasure wash over me, both hands
working as fast as I was able to move them.

With another sniff beneath my duvet at the smell of Michael Purves rimming
me inside the hot, sweaty pantomime costume, I grunted like a pig as my
inevitable orgasm overwhelmed me.  And as semen was erupting in thick,
unending gushers from my cock, I was fascinated to feel my arse squeezing
my finger in time with each squirt.

Had it always done that?  Even without a finger up there?

In the quieting aftermath, as I lay recovering my breath, I decided that
anal-fingering during masturbation was worthy of a lot more investigation
and regular, perhaps nightly, practice to perfect my technique.  Such a
two-handed approach was going to make cleaning up afterward rather more
involved – not only had my huge outpouring semen managed to soak my
duvet and pyjamas without my left hand there with a tissue catch it, but
there was also the unwelcome matter of my bum-smeared finger.

Nevertheless, I figured it would prove well worth the added inconvenience.

===

The next morning I managed to be sufficiently restrained to remind Jake
only once to let Mr Roberts know I was interested in helping with the
college pantomime.

He responded with a curt, "I said I would so I will."

At tea that evening, a response to my offer wasn't forthcoming so I was
forced to broach the subject myself.

"Er... any news about me being in your play?"

He slurped his drink before answering.  "They'd already cast the part.
Luke Ainley's dad is going to do it.  I bet that's a relief, huh?"

"Oh... er... yeah."  I smiled, internally gutted.  "Phew!"

"Everyone thinks it's really funny how Ainley's dad is going to be
brown-nosing Purves all night."

Jake glanced up at me to see how I would respond to the term
'brown-nosing'.

I just smiled and said, "I bet they do."

"Better than them saying that about you, huh?"

"Well, of course.  I was only offering to help out... you know... for the
sake of keeping the play going."

Picking up a forkful of the spag bol I'd almost literally thrown together,
he nodded and went on, "Well, you can always be the prompter because Mrs
Fielding has gone off with the flu."

"Oh... er... I dunno about that."

"Go on," Jake insisted through a mouthful of food.  "It won't be as bad as
having your face in Purves's butt!"

"Well, there's a lot of responsibility to being a prompter.  I'll have to
say no to that one, Jake.  Sorry."

Assuming he had already gone ahead and volunteered me, I expected a
harrumph or something similar but to my surprise he didn't push it any
further.  And when I glanced over at him I thought I saw him quickly
concealing what looked like a self-satisfied smirk.

===

The next day, in my office, I left a message for Mr Roberts, the Head of
Drama at Jake's college, to give me a call when he had a free period.  I
didn't really know this particular teacher – not even his first name –
because Jake had never taken the subject.  Jake's interests at school had
fluctuated between English some days and science others and now he was
completing an IB in science and maths.

Mr Roberts called me back just after eleven.

As I explained that I was Jake Furlong's father and why I'd called, I
glanced around the office to see who might be listening to me.  I didn't
want people my whole floor knowing that I was volunteering to be in a
pantomime.  Fortunately, the coast was fairly clear: Cameron, the guy from
accounts I'd had a run-in with a few weeks earlier, was leafing through a
file from one of the cabinets but otherwise people were occupied in
conversation or away from their desks.

"Er... you realise Jake isn't in the production?" asked the nasal-sounding
voice on the other end of the line.

"Yes, of course," I replied, picking up a pen to doodle on my Post-It pad
as I always did when I was on the phone.  "But he mentioned that you were
looking for parents to help out."

"Ah, yes.  We need someone to be the prompter.  We had a member of staff
come down with flu.  It'd just be a matter of –"

"Well, I don't think I'd be much good at that," I interrupted.  "But Jake
also said that you needed someone to be the back end of the pantomime cow."

"The cow?"

I glanced back over at the other people in my office.  I got the feeling
that Cameron was eyeing me but when I turned around he seemed absorbed by
whatever it was he was reading in the file.

"That's right... the cow.  He said someone's dad had already volunteered
but I just wanted to let you know that I'd be happy to help out... maybe,
you know... the two of us guys taking turns."

I hoped my turn of phrase had not triggered the same mental image for Mr
Roberts as it had for me.

"The cow?" he repeated.  It occurred to me that you mustn't need to be too
bright to get to be Head of Drama.

"That's right – the pantomime cow.  Jake said you needed someone to be
the back end of it."

The line went silent for a few seconds before the pinched voice said: "But
there isn't a cow in the play, Mr Furlong."

I was confused.  Why had Jake mentioned a role that didn't exist?

I said, "Well, er... is there a horse or something?"  Perhaps Jake had got
mixed-up.

"No.  We're performing Dick Whittington, so the only animal in it is a
cat... and that part is a single role and has already been cast."

I felt rather embarrassed.  "Well, er... I guess Jake got the wrong end of
the stick."

"He was probably having you on," Roberts chuckled.  "I mean, who wants to
be the back end of a cow?"

I felt a little rattled at his amusement.  "I was only volunteering because
I thought you needed someone."

"Yes, indeed... it's always good to have parents helping out.  I'm sure we
could find something else for you to do... perhaps you could paint some
scenery, or –"

"Look," I cut in again.  "I just thought the play might not be able to go
ahead if you couldn't find someone to help with that part.  But since it
was clearly a mix-up or a joke or something..."

We said our goodbyes and I hung up, wondering why Jake had suggested that I
might want to be the back end of non-existent cow.

I kept mulling it over throughout day.

Jake clearly had an inkling that I was developing a sexual interest in
other men's backsides; that much was clear.  He had casually presented a
plausible scenario which would put me in a position which most men would
find unpleasant so that he could watch my reaction.  And I had well and
truly fallen for it; blatantly revealing my enthusiasm for getting my nose
wedged between his teacher's buttocks while he'd feigned disinterest and
seemed more concerned about eating his tea.

My son was a lot more devious than I would ever have given him credit for.

At first I wondered if he still suspected that Guy and I had been
'bumming', as he'd crudely put it, on the night before the Everton match.
He'd seemed convinced by the story I'd put to him at the time, but perhaps
he'd harboured doubts which he'd wanted to put to the test.

But no.

The picture he'd painted for me had been very specific.  Far from setting
me up to think I might get the chance to penetrate another man, he had
instead had presented the very real-sounding opportunity that my face might
come intimately close to his teacher's backside.

I felt sure that Jake didn't suspect that I wanted to bugger other men: it
was more alarming than that – somehow he knew that I wanted to rim them.

During a particularly tedious afternoon meeting, I tried to figure out how
he might have come to guess that his father had developed such a peculiar
fetish.  I was surprised that my son would even know that men got up to
such things, never mind be able to recognise such an interest in me.  He
was bright but he wasn't particularly perceptive, and the signs that I must
have betrayed would surely have been far too subtle for him to pick up on.

I wondered if maybe I had been talking in my sleep.  I was almost sure I
didn't do that: if I did, my ex-wife would certainly have added to the
already expansive list of my shortcomings which she had always been so
eager to share with me and anyone else who would lesson.  And, in any case,
what could I have called out which would have exposed my interest so
unequivocally?

I thought of other clues I may have inadvertently left.

He'd picked up on the fact I had been far more sexually active – albeit
solitarily – recently.  But then, how could he know what sort of
fantasies were driving my heightened sex drive?

Maybe I had aroused his suspicions with the underwear I'd been buying from
e-Bay.  But he would have no idea what... how should I put
it... 'arrangements' I'd come to with the sellers and, in any case, all of
my dealings with them had been via e-mail which needed a password for
access.

As the meeting droned on, I wondered if Jake could have noticed me checking
out other men's backsides as I so frequently did these days.  It was a
habit which I had found surprisingly easy to pick up but nigh-on impossible
to break.  I remembered that he'd thrown me a quizzical look in Tesco when
we were shopping there at the weekend, after I'd become distracted almost
mid-sentence by the heavenly pair of peach-like buttocks straining against
the black trousers of one of the young shop assistants who was stacking the
shelves.  Jake could hardly have failed to notice my reaction as the lad
had bent down to pick up some groceries from his pile of boxes, especially
when his blue checked shirt had ridden up to reveal the back of his gaudily
coloured underwear which tightly cupped his pert buttocks.  Perhaps I'd
done more than just stare: perhaps Jake has seen me drooling as I'd fixated
on the young guy's gorgeous arse and that I'd had to adjust myself at the
thought of what lay just beneath the confining material.

But even that was too much of a long shot.  It was one thing for him to
notice that his dad had – for whatever reason – started eyeing up
other men's bums, but it would take a pretty serious leap of imagination
for him to guess that I was fantasizing about pressing my face into them.

Later, back at my desk, I began to wonder if Jake could have seen me
enjoying occasional physical contact with guys' arses when opportunities
were presented.  I'd realised early on that I could take advantage of
crowded places – the market in the centre of town on Saturday morning
was a particularly good spot – to squeeze past other men and
'accidentally' rub the palm of my hand against their backsides as I did so.
As long as the place was sufficiently busy, they'd rarely even glance in my
direction and if they did, a brief "Sorry, mate" was enough to downplay my
indiscretion.

More recently, I'd refined my technique to include an upwards flick of my
middle finger just as my hand was sweeping from one buttock to the next.
Nothing too obvious: just a quick poke into the guy's arse-crack which
could be explained as an ill-timed spasmodic twitch if things ever turned
nasty.  If I could position my hand so that my outstretched fingertips were
skirting the crease between his thighs and cheeks and was able to push my
finger into him quite deeply, I might get a result.

A few paces on, hopefully out of view of the guy whose arse I'd
'inadvertently' prodded, I'd have a casual sniff of the offending digit.

If my victim had been wearing jeans or chinos, I'd probably get nothing for
my troubles, other than perhaps a glare from him (although a couple of
times I'd been warmly smiled at and, one occasion, followed).  If he'd been
in football shorts or tracksuit bottoms, though, my finger would often bear
a tantalising trace of the man's rich and earthy scent.  And sometimes it
was significantly stronger than that: sometimes – not often, but
regularly enough to make the effort worthwhile – my finger smelled so
powerfully of the pungent musk of his backside that it was like having my
nose stuck in there.  When that happened, I had to quickly dart into a
toilet and take full advantage of my prize while it was still fresh.

Could Jake have seen me having a 'flick and sniff'?  And even if he had,
was he astute enough to realise why such a thing would excite me – that
it wasn't the act of fingering another guy that was turning me on but the
fantasy of rimming him?  I thought it unlikely; virtually impossible, in
fact.

It was towards the end of the day when my 'eureka' moment came.  I almost
laughed out loud with the simplicity and obviousness of it.  There must
have been an occasion on which I hadn't deleted my browser history.
Perhaps I'd been in a rush or my internet explorations had been
unexpectedly interrupted.  Whatever had happened, I'd left a trail behind
me and my son had dutifully followed it.

He must have thought that the images he had found – images which must
have shocked him in their explicit lewdness – had been stumbled on by me
in error.  Or maybe that I had been curious to find out the meaning of a
word I had seen written somewhere.  He must have assumed that the images
didn't depict something I would actually fantasize about doing, something I
might actually do...

But he'd wanted to know for sure.  So he'd come up with the rather
ingenious story about the pantomime cow.  Just to see how dad would react.

The sneaky little bugger.

===

A few evenings later, when I was getting ready to go out for an hour to
meet up with Adam for a drink, Jake came in the bathroom to have a pee just
as I was about to start shaving.

"Have you got a lot of stuff to do for college?" I asked him, squirting a
thin snake of shaving gel into my palm and working it into a lather.

"Yeah," he replied glumly and directed a stream of urine noisily into the
toilet bowl.

Working the lather onto my face, I thought I would mention the woman I was
meeting up with the following week.  I'd tried several times to engage Jake
in conversation about her – the first woman I'd had a date with in far
too long – but on each occasion he had chosen not to respond.

"I'm quite looking forward to meeting Debbie," I offered brightly.  "She
seems quite funny from her e-mails and she's quite nice looking."

Once again, Jake didn't offer any reply but instead just stared down at the
toilet.

I got on lathering myself up while he shook himself and tucked himself back
away.

After flushing the toilet, he came over and watched me make the few strokes
with my razor in the mirror.

"Do you shave with the hair or against it?" he asked, curious to see how I
was doing it.

I smiled.  "Both.  I shave in the direction it grows first and then against
it to get the last bit of stubble that's left."

I offered him some of my shaving gel and a clean razor from my pack.
"Here, have a go.  You've got quite a bit of growth there."

He rubbed his chin, feeling the light fuzz of fine hair which had only
recently started to become noticeable in between his occasional shaves.
"It's not much.  Hardly worth it."

"Go on, Jake.  It'll be good practice.  Let your old dad teach you a thing
or two."

He smiled and took a squirt of gel and rubbed it into a white beard shape
on his face.

"Looks like Christmas has come early," I said and he smiled more broadly.
His teeth looked unusually yellow in contrast with the stark whiteness of
the foam.

He took the razor and said, "Normally I shave the moustache first, but
where do you start?"

"It's probably best to start on your neck.  Make upward strokes, gently
pressing the razor into your skin."

He laughed.  "I don't want to slit my throat, dad!"

I smiled back.  "You won't do that.  Not if you move the razor like I show
you."

I demonstrated to him how I shaved my neck and he followed my lead, taking
care not to snick his bulging Adam's apple which had made his voice drop
about an octave in the last couple of years.  Then he moved up to his
cheeks, first shaving in one direction and then the other as I was.  He was
getting very little hair off his face but the practice was good for him.
I'd been meaning to do this for a while, actually.

As he continued following what I was doing, I said, "There's no cow in your
college pantomime, is there?"

He stopped shaving and stared at me through the mirror, his eyes full of
surprise.

I smiled.  "I'm not going to have a go at you for lying, Jake.  I think it
was a very clever way of finding out what you needed to know."

He asked, "Who told you?"

I walked over to the sink and rinsed my razor, and then back to the mirror
to start on my chin.  "You obviously saw how keen I was to... well... get
involved.  So I phoned Mr Roberts and asked him to keep me in mind if that
other guy, the one who you said got the part, had to drop out."

Jake nodded.

Carefully getting to work on my chin, and after warning Jake that this was
an area where you were likely to cut yourself, I went on, "I'm guessing I
didn't delete my browser history after a session on the internet...?"

He became defensive.  "I wasn't trying to spy on you, dad.  I just found a
good website about my biology assignment – some stuff about bottom
feeders – and then the next night I couldn't find it again.  So I looked
in the history and then... well, I found..."

I smiled again, trying to keep things friendly between us.  I really didn't
want this to turn into a confrontation.  After all, I was the one who was
more in the wrong.

"I'm sorry you found that, Jake.  At your age you shouldn't have seen that
kind of –"

"I'm not a little kid, dad," he cut in defensively.  "I am eighteen!"

He had a point: I often did have to remind myself that he'd be going to
university next year.  I supposed that to some part of my brain he would
always be little Jakey – the name his mother and I used to call him when
he was small until he'd abruptly decided, perhaps after being teased at
school, that he'd outgrown it and we'd had to adapt, with considerable
difficulty, to calling him plain old Jake.

"Well, regardless of that," I went on, "I should have been more careful."

He looked at me with puzzlement.  "But, dad... what those men were
doing... do you actually like that stuff?"

I nodded, feeling disgraced.

"And does it... you know... make you excited when look at it?  Do you jerk
off?"

I was surprised by his candour but I thought it best to be honest with him.

I said, blushing a little, "I do, Jake.  Yes."

"And do you want to do it with another guy?  Put your mouth
on... well... his butthole?"

He looked incredulous at the prospect that I could want to do something
like that, but I nodded.  I said, my voice betraying my shame, "It probably
seems disgusting to you."

He shook his head.  "It's not that.  I mean, it's not my thing, but if
that's what you like... I just can't understand why you're getting ready to
meet up with this woman... Debbie?  You're not being fair to her... you're
not telling her that you're gay..."

I finally understood why Jake was being so weird about Debbie.  I suppose
it should have been obvious as soon as I'd realised that he knew about my
fetish.  Sometimes I could be so stupid.

I said, "I'm not gay, Jake.  I still fancy women and I still want a
girlfriend.  I certainly don't want to hook up with a guy, but for some
reason – and I don't really understand why myself – I really want to
do that with another man."

Jake nodded.  "I wouldn't mind if you were gay, you know."

I smiled and gave his arm an affectionate pat.  "Yeah, I know.  But I'm
not."

I started shaving my moustache, showing Jake how to be careful not to let
the blade nick his lips and how to angle his razor to get at the awkward
hairs at the base of each nostril.

"Maybe you're a 'metrosexual'?" he ventured, more brightly, as he tried to
follow my lead.

"What's a 'metrosexual'?"

"I dunno... I just heard it somewhere.  It sounds kinda cool, though."

I smiled.  "Cool or not, I think I'd want to know what it entailed before I
stick a label on myself, Jake."

When he'd made a good job of shaving what had been a fairly wispy
moustache, he asked, "How can you want to lick another man's... you
know...?"  He made a disgusted face to finish his sentence.

I shrugged, turning to shave my left cheek.  "I don't know.  But I'm pretty
sure I'd enjoy it."

"But it's his bum, dad!  I mean, he shits through it!"

"Well, that has occurred to me, Jake.  But it doesn't really bother me.
Not enough to put me off."  I thought it best not to tell him that the fact
it was such a base and taboo area of the body was a significant part of its
intoxicating allure.

He asked, "And would you want him to do the same thing to you?  Put his
mouth on your backside?"

"If he wanted to, yes."

"And would the two of you do other stuff?  Get on top of each other
and... you know...?"

"I don't really know, Jake.  I haven't got it all worked out in my own head
yet, to be honest.  This is still pretty new for me."

I smiled at him, wiping the excess smears of foam from my face with a
cloth.  "I really didn't want to be having this conversation with you."

He nodded.  "I just needed to know, dad.  I couldn't figure it out what was
going on."

I chuckled.  "Join the club."

===

Next story: The Right Trousers

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