AUTHOR’S NOTE:

This is a true story, told to me by a correspondent and written with his permission and with my gratitude for sharing his story.  For reasons that will become obvious the names of people and places have been changed as well as other details that might identify the person whose experiences are described.  I've taken the liberty of embellishing his story here and there to enhance the story line and to further protect the anonymity of the individuals in the story.  In a very real sense, however, it is more than a mere story.  There are lessons to be gleaned from the events described.  I’ll leave it to you, the reader, to deduce those lessons while hoping they may influence your thinking ... and your behavior.

 

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      Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
      The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
            --John Greenleaf Whittier

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PART ONE: GROWING UP IN A BUBBLE

 

My story begins in the early 1950’s when I was a little boy.  Things were very, very different then.  Only late in life am I able to look back and see clearly how blind I was for most of my life.  Only now can I recognize how different my life might have been.

I was the only child of a fervently religious couple.  The church was the center of their lives as it was for nearly everyone in our small, rural community.  My parents were fine people.  They practiced the principles of their faith and did not, as some do, behave differently in church on Sunday than during the week.  Their every waking hour was woven with the warp and weft of honesty and charity.  Prayer and obedience to the church’s doctrine supported them in rough times and humbled them when fortune smiled on them.  They were excellent parents.  I have no doubt that they loved me.  I can’t remember a spanking as a child but I have ample memories of how, in countless ways, they emphasized proper behavior so that I would mature into a respected member of the community.  The community to them consisted of devout Christians who made up the vast majority of the inhabitants of our town.  And therein lay the seeds of what would become a source of torment in my adulthood.

I’m grateful for many of the values my parents taught me: honesty, self-reliance, compassion, and personal responsibility.  They were proud of me when I did my best even though others my age might have done better.  Because I loved them and wanted them to be proud of me, I nearly always tried to do more than was expected -- in school, at home, and within our church’s congregation.

In retrospect, however, there was a significant gap in what they taught me; there was not a single word uttered about sex or, for that matter, about procreation.  From a very early age I was taught to never ... never! ... let my private parts be seen by others.  As a child, I accepted that prohibition without question.  I even followed their advice to go into a stall in the rest room of the swimming pool to change into and out of my swimming suit.  I was not teased about that because most of the other boys did the same thing ... no doubt because their parents gave them the same advice as my parents had given me.  Needless to say, I never saw my father or any other person naked until I was in junior high school.

The church my parents went to was very conservative; women had to wear ankle length skirts and sleeves below the elbow.  Even Disney movies (other than cartoons) were not allowed.  Movies like Swiss Family Robinson and Old Yeller were deemed not fit to watch.  That was my world.  Unlike today, the cult-like atmosphere didn’t seem unusual to a young boy sheltered from the outside world.

It was in church that I first heard the word homosexual.  I was about 12.  The preacher called homosexuals the tools of Satan and child molesters.  When we got home, I asked my mother what the preacher was talking about.  “What’s a homosexual?” I asked as she prepared the noon meal.

>From the expression on her face, I knew I had upset her greatly.  Her tone of voice confirmed my impression when she said dismissively, “You don’t need to know about such things yet!”

I felt as though I had been chastised but it only increased my curiosity.  I went to my room and got out my dictionary.  The definition didn’t answer my question: ‘one whose sexual inclination is toward those of the individual’s own sex rather than the opposite sex.’  The term, ‘sexual inclination’ in the definition was meaningless to me but I knew that any reference to sex would explain my mother’s horrified reaction to my question.  But my curiosity was unabated.  I knew virtually nothing about sex (only that it was one of those words I wasn’t allow to say) and I knew even less about homosexuality.

As I entered puberty, neither my parents nor any other person told me what to expect.  However, I knew from photos of paintings and statues that my penis would get bigger and hair would grow around it just as it would on my face.  So I was somewhat prepared for my bodily changes.    ‘Prepared’ is too mild of a word.  I was quite eager to become a man and extremely impatient for my genitals to fully develop.  Inevitably, of course, they did but that left me with an intense curiosity about how other boys my age might also be developing.  Was I ahead of or behind their emerging manhood?  Bulges in their trousers and even in their swim suits were an imperfect indication.  Mind you, there was nothing sexual about my interest in other boys’ development; I merely wanted to know if I was progressing normally.  Or so I thought at the time.

Before I even knew about such a thing as masturbation, I discovered it by just fooling around.  I was about 11 when I had my first orgasm.  We had an old bathtub and I was just playing around in the tub.  For some reason I pushed myself up under the stream of water and let it fall on my penis. I had a vague sense that it was naughty but it felt good!  My penis hardened and it began to feel even better.  Before I knew it, I experienced a thrilling sensation.  Because it felt so good, I did it every night.  Subsequently, I discovered I could produce the same sensation as I lay in bed by rubbing my penis until it got hard.  It felt good so I continued rubbing until the sensation I experienced in the bathtub was repeated.  For a time, I had only dry orgasms.  Imagine my surprise when, soon after I turned 12, I found a small pool of milky liquid on my stomach.  Without knowing it, I had stumbled upon the practice of masturbation.  No one had ever told me that it was wrong or dirty so I pleasured myself more and more frequently -- always alone, of course, because I knew nobody was allowed to see my private parts.  And I never asked my parents about it because somehow I made the connection to sex and that was a subject not to be discussed.

I was incredibly naïve.  The bubble I lived in didn’t begin to crack until my first year of junior high school.  I was an excellent student academically but socially, I was a loner who stayed to myself (what was called a dork back then but would be called a nerd today).  That didn’t bother me; as an only child I was quite comfortable keeping myself occupied.  Other boys who were not as naïve as I was would make comments that I didn’t understand.  They mentioned something called jacking off.  When I saw them use the up-and-down hand movement I figured out what they were talking about.  It was what I was doing.  I figured if they talked about it, they must do it, too; it must be normal.  It was enjoyable, all boys did it, and it didn’t hurt anybody else; it had to be all right.  With similar clues and guesswork, I deduced the meaning of prick, cock, pussy, fuck, and queer -- none of which I knew could be used in polite company.  I deduced that fuck must refer to a man and woman making a baby.  Being a loner, I had no friends close enough that I could ask to confirm my suspicions.  When I first heard the word cocksucker I thought that was about the grossest thing imaginable and it couldn't possibly be literal.  Who would do anything as disgusting as that?

The one class in which I did not do well was Phys Ed but I looked forward to it.  There were about 50 of us guys in seventh through ninth grades who took PE at the same time.  We all showered at the same time in a huge open shower room with showerheads along two facing walls.  At first, the thought being naked in front of others was distressing; I could almost hear my parents telling me not to let others see my private parts.  But my hesitancy and embarrassment went away quickly for two reasons.  First, none of the other boys seemed to be troubled by being naked together.  Second, it was the first time in my life that I had seen naked bodies and it afforded me the chance to compare myself to others.  I didn’t recognize at the time that there was more than curiosity to my interest in other boys’ bodies.

Because of the number of us, there were three or four guys around each showerhead.  A guy couldn't help but bump butts or have his cock touch another guy's leg.  For the first few weeks, I would recoil when I came in contact with another boy.  Soon, however, it no longer bothered me.  By the middle of the school year, I found myself “accidentally” bumping butts with the others and even letting my penis brush against them.  I rationalized that I was just a boy being a boy ... "pushing the envelope" in today’s parlance.  I failed to recognize the significance of the enjoyment I derived from it.  Toward the end of the school year, a few boys adopted a new form of horseplay.  They would play grab-ass and would even give a quick yank on the penis of an unsuspecting classmate.  I was often the victim but I quickly learned not to protest too much because it only encouraged more of the same.  In fact, I started to enjoy it and even played their game.  Bumping butts, getting grabbed, and grabbing was, I thought, the only way to be accepted as “one of the guys.”  Deep down, I knew it was wrong.  But deeper down (below a conscious level as I now realize), I couldn’t help myself.  At the time, I didn’t consciously associate the horseplay as sexual.  Perhaps it wasn’t ... for the others.  But in hindsight I can’t help thinking that I enjoyed it in a way that was different than my classmates.

Being a loner and a very good student, I was sometimes picked on.  I had the need to fit in so I tried hard to be one of the guys.  In retrospect, I wonder how much of that need was triggered by being attracted to those boys ... and to one boy in particular.  Greg was in the 9th grade and had the biggest cock I had ever seen.  We had an old trough urinal between the gym and the shower room.  It was probably 20 feet long and guys just walked up to it to piss.  I used to follow Greg to the urinal to watch him piss.  His cock was probably 8 inches soft and he had big balls that hung below that.   (Several years later when I was 18 and working in the same place as my dad in a large machine shop, Greg's dad worked there.  It was a very dirty place and men showered after work.  I saw Greg's dad naked on many occasions and noticed that the son was a lot like the dad.  Greg's dad also had a huge cock.)  Greg would walk up to the urinal, lean in a little, let his big cock hang down, and take a piss.  He never touched it, not even to shake off the last drop or two of piss.  I said he never touched it but that’s not quite right.  He caught me looking at his mammoth cock once.  He grinned at me, stretched it out horizontally in my direction, and immediately walked away.  I was humiliated that he caught me looking but I was left to wonder why he pointed it at me.  After some thought, I concluded that he was simply proud of his endowment and was showing off.  Now, decades later, I wonder if he might have had another reason.  Was he teasing me?  Was he implying that it was available to me at another, more private place and time?  If I had not grown up in a bubble, I might have tried to find out.

 

PART TWO: FIRST INKLINGS
 

 

I was not very good in sports but I admired those who were and wanted to associate with them.  As a result, I volunteered to be the trainer and equipment manager for my high school’s football team.  I was usually treated like a lackey by the team; they were the athletes and I was the guy who did the menial work.  I got to see all the guys undress to put on their uniforms and then undress to shower after practice or a game.  I was grateful that none of them seemed at all shy about being naked.  Nor, for that matter, were they upset when I stood around and watched them.  I can still see images of many of their athletic bodies (and, of course, their cocks) in my mind today.  I remember one guy, Rusty, who had a nice thick uncut cock that hung down from his red pubic hair in front of a big, hairy ball sack.  He stands out in my memory because he had an interesting way of getting dressed.  He would put on his socks first, then his shirt, then his underwear.  I knew I would get to see his cock longer than the other guys.  I rationalized my special interest in watching him by convincing myself it was just the oddity of his red hair.  I assumed he wanted to show off and to be more like one of the guys.  Looking back, I wonder.  Was he getting an exhibitionist’s thrill?  Was he baiting any other guy who might want more than a prolonged view?

Most of the work was taking care of the equipment but there were times when I had to rub down the players’ arms and often their legs.  That was the best part of my duties: rubbing my hands all over their muscles.  I recall one time with particular clarity.  The captain of the team came to me in the locker room after his shower.  He was naked.  He wanted me to rub some "atomic balm" on his inner thigh just below his penis.  He was a muscled god with a nice hanging cock.  I told him to stretch out on the cot and went to get the balm from the medicine cabinet.  When I returned, I saw him lying on his back with his eyes closed.  His arms bulged with muscles.  His thighs and calves were solid muscle.  His cock lay across his right thigh.  I paused long enough to get a very good look at his manhood, including his relatively large balls in a wrinkled, hairy sack and the thicket of curly black hair that formed a mound above his cock that tapered into a finer but distinctive trail up to his navel.  His nipples peeked out through abundant chest hair.  He was only 18 but had the most masculine body I had ever seen.  Now, more than 50 years later, I can still recall the image as though it were yesterday.

I was shaken out of my admiration for him when he opened his eyes and said, “Come on, get to work, will ya?”

I started rubbing his inner thigh with balm but my eyes were riveted to his crotch.  Soon, my hands got to within just a couple of inches from his cock.  My nose was close enough to his big dick that I could smell his maleness in spite of his recent shower.  I moved back and looked at him and suggested that he hold his cock back because if I got any atomic balm on it by mistake it would be worse than Ben Gay.  He did.  Although I was disappointed that his hand was now covering his cock, I began to feel strange as my hands rubbed the inside of his thigh.  When I finished, I had a huge hard-on and was glad I had to move some dirty towels to the washer and could cover my crotch.  Why did I get hard?  I know now but I didn’t then.  The image of him lying naked on the cot recurred to me often over the next several days.  I rationalized that I was just admiring his physique and, I had to admit, wishing that I was in as good a shape as he was.  The hard-on I sprouted was more difficult to rationalize away.  So I conveniently forced myself to ignore it.

Although I was almost a non-entity to them, when they needed a rub down, they appreciated my skill.  And I found the rub-downs to be the highlight of my duties.  Nearly every evening as I lay in bed masturbating, recalling those rub-downs heightened my pleasure.  I deliberately chose not to wonder why because that would lead to a conclusion I dared not face.


In college, I joined a fraternity.  I was surprised to find the same kind of uncaring attitude toward nakedness as the football team.  The living quarters were on the second floor of the fraternity house.  Guys would frequently get naked in their room and walk to the shower.  A few would wrap a towel around themselves but most would just carry it, exposing themselves to any who cared to look.  Being older and more mature, their cocks were better developed.  I wondered anew at my parents’ strong admonition never to let others see my private parts.  I also began to wonder if my extreme interest in their naked bodies was abnormal.  But my increasingly strong powers of rationalization kicked in.  I convinced myself that it was just an example of what a high school teacher had taught me.  The attention of any species, including humans, is captured by the unusual.  It provides an evolutionary advantage because any change in the familiar environment might be a threat that must be noticed and evaluated.  In my case, I concluded, having never seen a naked body as a child and rarely in junior and senior high school, the sight of one was unusual.  I was, therefore, merely following survival instincts.  I irrationally extended that reasoning to explain away why I always seemed to visualize one of my friends naked when I jacked off.  But a nagging thought persisted.  Why was I not equally intrigued by fantasies of naked females?  I dismissed that kind of thought by reasoning (conveniently) that I had never seen and therefore could not recall the image of a naked female.

Life in the fraternity house was transformational in many ways -- so completely different than the puritanical bubble I inhabited as a boy.  The most relevant perhaps to the story I now tell is that sometimes the guys would horse around and pull down another guy’s underwear, exposing each other's cock and ass.  The victim of this assault would berate the attacker but his objections often lacked sincerity.  Could it be, I wondered, that they enjoyed it?  Was it just innocent playfulness or was there something more sinister behind exposing somebody else or being exposed?  I decided that it was horseplay and nothing more -- one of many ways to challenge the boundaries imposed by the older generation.  As I look back on those days with the perspective of many years, I wonder if there might have been at least a few cases of attraction between the hormone-saturated young men.

We lived two or three in a room at the fraternity house.  I slept in the top bunk bed above Chad in the lower bunk and across the room from Tom in a single bed.  Tom was an extremely personable and handsome guy.  I had seen him naked several times, including one morning when he woke up with a woodie.  It was the first time I had seen another guy’s hard-on.  Although I caught just a brief glance, it fascinated me and provided a number of jerk-off fantasies.  Was I bothered that it was always another guy who dominated my fantasies?  No.  That would imply something that I could not accept and I conveniently didn’t worry about it.

One Saturday night, Chad had gone home for the weekend; Tom was out on a date with an attractive girl.  I fell asleep about midnight but was awakened around one in the morning by Tom coming home.

“Are you sure it’s all right?” I heard a female voice whisper.  “I mean what if your roommate wakes up.”

“He won’t,” Tom replied.  “As long as we’re quiet.  He’s a very sound sleeper.”

I watched them kiss and caress each other.  In the semi-darkness it was possible to see their hands roaming all over each other.  Tom was squeezing her ample breasts; she was squeezing his ass cheeks.  They were rubbing their crotches together.  Before long they were undressing each other wordlessly and very quietly and not bothering to check on whether or not I was asleep.  It was the first naked female I had seen.  My dick was stiff and throbbing but I didn’t dare move to jerk off.  That might signal to them that I was awake and watching.

I had seen Tom hard and now I was about to watch him use his manhood.  He wanted her to suck his cock but she refused.  Perhaps she thought that was as disgusting as I did.  I thought it was a little demeaning how he begged her to do it.  They fucked for 10-15 minutes before she said she couldn't take it anymore.  He obviously didn't get to cum with her.  They dressed and left.  I seized the opportunity to jerk-off and it was an awesome orgasm.  I lay awake for a very long time thinking about what I had witnessed.  My imagination took flight.  I developed a kind of fantasy where I would be a guy in the house and hear another guy walk in.  I would hear him complain about having blue balls or how he didn't get any.  In my fantasy, I would turn into a beautiful woman and go to him.  I would undress him and fondle his cock until it was erect.  He would beg me to suck his cock just as Tom’s date had done.  In my first fantasy like this, I would refuse as Tom’s date had but would masturbate him until he came.  In subsequent fantasies, however, I would yield to his begging and take his cock into my mouth.  (That didn’t seem as disgusting as it once had.  After all, I was not actually doing it.  I was imagining myself as a woman and it seemed that’s what women did to men although Tom’s date had refused.)  I would suck on his cock and listen to him moan.  I would let him cum in my mouth.  Through all of this, I still did not come to terms with the fact that these thoughts had to mean I was gay.

An hour later, as I was finally about to fall asleep, Tom came home.  I watched him undress and lie down on his bed wearing nothing but his briefs.  Almost immediately, he began to fondle himself.  Even in the very dim light, I could see that he was erect.  He glanced my way briefly, I suppose to see whether I was asleep, and stripped off his briefs.  He immediately began to stroke his cock.  My hard-on returned.  Within a very short time, he moaned and ejaculated.  Several volleys of cum shot up to his neck and down his chest and stomach.  Then he astounded me.  He repeatedly wiped up some of the cum with his fingers and sucked it off.  He ate his own cum!  I thought that was gross but it wasn’t two days before I tried it myself.  I didn’t like the taste but nevertheless tried it a few more times over the next two weeks.  Not only did I become accustomed to the taste but found that it added to the pleasure of masturbation.  Plus, it solved the problem of what to do with the evidence.

 

PART THREE: OPPORTUNITIES DECLINED

 

I managed to get through college as a virgin.  Over the course of my high school and college career, I dated many women but nothing ever happened.  There might have been opportunities and I could have scored with a little effort but I chose not to try.  One opportunity stands out in particular.  I had a summer job before my sophomore year in college.  My boss was Mormon.  He was a great guy and I learned a lot from him.  He invited me to attend a Saturday evening potluck dinner at his church and suggested that I take a young woman that his family knew well.  I thought that was safe enough; after all, Mormons are very religious.  What I didn't fully realize is that Mormons must have sex quite a bit to have such large families.  My boss must have put in a good word for me because when I phoned the young woman she was very agreeable to going to the potluck supper with me.  I picked her up in my car and she immediately sat very close to me with her arm around me.  It made me very uncomfortable that she would be so immediately familiar when we had only just met.  My discomfort grew during the evening which included dancing.  As we danced, she clung to me as though we were long-time lovers.  Especially during a slow waltz, she would press her breasts into my chest and lay her head on my shoulder.

When we got in the car to take her home she snuggled up to me again.  We got to her house and she wanted to sit in the car and talk for a while.  Within a few minutes, she leaned over to kiss me and at the same time put her hand on my thigh.  By the time we broke the kiss, her hand had inched up and was resting directly over my crotch.  She moved one of my hands to her breast and started massaging my cock through my trousers.  Most guys would find that tremendously arousing and think they had an easy piece of ass.  But I was scared shitless.  We were parked in the driveway of her house.  Her parents were no doubt inside the house.  What would they think if they caught some stranger fucking their daughter in the driveway?  I wasn’t sure what to do and put up with her advances for too long.  Her fondling me was giving me a boner.  I surely didn’t want to fuck her right there outside her house.  At least that was what I thought at the time was the reason for being frightened.  It never occurred to me -- nor for many years afterwards -- that the idea of fucking a girl was what triggered the fright as much as the possibility of being caught.

I withdrew my hand from her breast and pushed her hand away from my crotch, saying, “We’d better not.  What if your parents catch us?”

“It’s quite all right,” she said.  “My parents have never bothered me before.”

I was stunned and blurted out, “You mean you’ve done this before?”

“Sure,” she said with a disgusting tone of pride.  “I like you and I’m horny.  I want you to fuck me.  Don’t try to tell me that you don’t want to fuck me.”

“Well, I don’t!” I exclaimed emphatically as I started to get out of the car, planning on walking around to open the passenger door for her.

She pulled me back into a kiss.  Her tongue probed into my mouth.  I quickly broke it off.

“Okay,” she huffed.  “If you won’t fuck me, let me give you a blow job.  If I can’t have your cock in my pussy, let me have it in my mouth.”

Her begging for sex made me half-sick and half-furious.  I wrestled free from her grasp and got out of the car.  I opened her door and she got out scowling at me.  “You’re a goddam wimp,” she hissed before she stomped toward the front door of her house.

I caught myself before shouting after her, “And you’re a slut!”

That experience soured me on women for a long time.  Where I was previously indifferent to them, my attitude became palpable dislike.

There was one exception to my dislike of women.  In my senior year of college, I befriended Judy, a classmate and the only female in an advanced physics course.  We became good friends and often studied together.  Early one evening, I stopped by her apartment to compare lecture notes, which was not unusual.  She invited me in where I found five other female students and a female professor having what I perceived to be a hen party.  They had been drinking wine all afternoon and several of them were quite tipsy, including my friend.  There was laughter among the women as they looked at me.  I didn’t know but that they suspected I was Judy’s lover coming by for some lovemaking. I said I would come back another time but she said the “party” was winding up and urged me to stay.  Within about five minutes, it was just the two of us.  Judy was probably the drunkest of them all; I had never seen her like that nor had I thought that she would ever drink to excess.  She asked me to help her to the bedroom to lie down.  I guided her as she stumbled to her bedroom and fell into her bed.

I sat on the edge of the bed wondering whether I should leave her in a drunken stupor or if there was any more help I might provide.  When she unbuttoned the front of her blouse, I decided it was time for me to leave.  I was shocked when she pulled me down beside her, gave me a silly smile, and placed one of my hands on her breast.  I thought to myself, here I am: a red blooded 21 year old male in bed with a very attractive female who has just placed my hand on her big tits and who seems to be asking me to have sex with her.  But I was scared -- scared of what sexual relations would do to our friendship and, I suppose, subconsciously scared of intimacy with a woman.  I lay there with my hand inside her blouse just resting on her big tit while she babbled on about how much she wanted this to happen.  After about 20 minutes she fell asleep.  I removed my hand and left.  Our friendship was never the same again and we drifted away from doing things together after that. 

Partly as a result of that experience, I started to question my sexuality.  Not in the sense of heterosexuality versus homosexuality but just that I was one of those rare people who did not like sex.  I was meant to be alone.  The feeling would trouble me for years and no doubt contributed to my being a loner.  I was yet to realize that it is very important to find someone to confide in -- someone that you trust with even your innermost thoughts because you cannot always do everything alone.

Years passed and I made excuses to anyone untactful enough to ask why I was not interested in women.  I claimed to be more intent on making sure that my career was on track.  The ugly truth, which I refused to acknowledge at the time, was that I was more attracted to men.  It was men who consistently fueled my masturbation fantasies.  It was men -- or at least some men -- in the office or on the street who drew my attention.  At rare times, I faced the implications of that but instinctively launched into a denial that I might be homosexual.  It became increasingly easy to convince myself that I was not a queer.

Many people tried to set me up with women.  My mother, in particular, questioned me on when I was going to get married.  “A man your age ought to be married,” she said. 

My response, “I will when the time is right ... when I find the right woman,” did not stop her from nagging me about not getting married.

There’s no question that I was a lonely person, especially at night when I went to bed.  I needed a companion to talk to, to have fun with, and to just be by my side.  I also needed to touch and to be touched.  That, more than my parents’ nagging or my friends’ insensitive questions, built my resolve to marry.  I wanted someone to share my life with.  I wanted to have children.  I wanted to fit in to society.  I even convinced myself that marriage would overcome what I finally admitted to myself was an abnormal attraction to men.  However, I was still too shy to date women.

I started going to porno films to see what it was like to have sex.  I had seen many of them while in college and seen guys tent up while watching them.  I had even been with a group of guys to strip clubs where women stripped naked.  I watched my friends try to put their nose or their tongue in a pussy and watched naked women sit on a guy’s crotch while his cock tented.  Actually, while interesting at first, this became boring to me after a while.  Even then I did not realize -- or would not admit to myself -- that I paid more attention to the bulging fabric in the guys' pants than to the gyrating woman who pretended to grind her pussy into his crotch with her tits dangling in his face.

At 32, I was very lonely.  And depressed.

I had lived most of my life in houses with guns and I used to go duck hunting with my dad.  I had a fully camouflaged shotgun in my apartment.  One evening, I was very depressed about being alone and cried myself to sleep sitting on the floor with my back to the wall in the living room.  The next day, I did not go to work and moped all day.  It crossed my mind to commit suicide but I knew that it was a coward’s way out.  As a solution, it was far worse than the problem.  I knew I would not do it but it crossed my mind and that scared me.  I went to see a preacher in a neighboring town.  (I was ashamed to let my local preacher know about my mental state.)  When I met him in his office, I had already decided not to say anything about my attraction to men.  I knew what advice he would give me: “Pray, my son.  Pray to be cured.”  Instead, I talked only of my depression, my shyness in meeting women, and my compelling need for companionship.  Surprisingly, he gave me very useful advice on combating depression and on meeting women.  I hadn’t mentioned my one fleeting thought of suicide but his help convincingly dissuaded me from ever thinking about it again.

Some time later, on a Saturday night, I went to a porn theater that was showing three films.  One of the three was a lesbian film.  I remember specifically thinking that it was really boring to watch women rub pussies against each other.  Why was I bored when other men in the dingy theater seemed so intently interested?  I rationalized that I preferred the heterosexual sex between a man and a woman.  Wasn’t that the “normal” way to feel?  The other two films had both men and women.  I watched most closely when a woman would suck off a guy.  These were the days before the AIDS epidemic, so there were all kinds of barebacking going on.  Most of the time, a guy would shoot his load on the woman’s stomach so we could see the "money shot."  I liked seeing those more than the lengthy scenes of fucking the woman’s pussy or ass.  A cumming cock was far more interesting. 

Only now, many years later, can I explain why it didn’t bother me to be more interested in cocks than pussies.  At that time, my fear of being queer was so strong that I unconsciously suppressed any thoughts of being a sexual deviant.  When the possibility arose in my mind, I had a finely honed skill of rationalization to explain away my interest in men and their genitalia.  That skill silenced the dark thoughts of being queer and made me comfortable.

 

PART FOUR: CONFORMANCE AND DISAPPOINTMENT
 

 

My good friend at work decided that I should meet his wife's best friend, Shirley.  I was (and still am) a good cook so I fixed dinner for the four of us.  Shirley was no beauty queen but was reasonably good looking.  During dinner she was effusive in her praise for the meal as were my friend from work and his wife.  Shirley also complimented me on my house, especially the panoramic view from the balcony that looked out over acres of a National Forest.  She even said she admired my sports car she saw as they arrived.  Somehow, however, her comments seemed more like flattery than sincere admiration.  She was pleasant enough but I was not impressed with her and I was certainly not attracted to her.  I was more attracted to my friend’s wife who had a thoroughly engaging personality and was stunningly beautiful.  Perhaps my attraction to her was because my friend had told me previously -- when he was trying to persuade me to marry-- how much he and his wife fucked and how much she enjoyed sucking his cock.  I frequently tried to visualize them having sex.  If I had been honest with myself at the time, I’d have realized that it was the image of my friend’s cock that excited me more than his wife’s naked body.

Shirley called me the next day to meet her for dinner, her treat.  I agreed mostly because she was the best friend of my good friend’s wife.  I thought there was no harm done to meet her for dinner although she lived 100 miles away.  After that dinner, she started calling me all the time.  Every day.  I started avoiding the telephone (no caller ID back then).  She would call me at work, which was particularly bothersome.  After about two weeks of this, I called her and said I would meet her at a restaurant close to her house.  After work, I drove the 100 miles to her city for dinner.  The purpose of my trip was to tell her that I didn't think it was going to work.  When I broke the news to her over desert, she was clearly disappointed but not, as I had feared, angry.  She tried to change my mind but I resisted her arguments.  I left feeling very relieved.

For a couple of weeks, I was happy not having to deal with an obsessive woman.  I hit a difficult time at work with a lot of stress and mounting problems with a project that was seriously behind schedule.   I worked all Saturday with little improvement in the progress of the project.  I went home exhausted and feeling the pressure.  After a light dinner, I got very lonely.  To take my mind off work, I went to a porn film and got very horny.  I really wanted sex -- more than solitary masturbation.  While I would subconsciously prefer a man, the stigma of a homosexual relationship was so strong at the time that I never seriously considered how to find a male partner.  Then, in probably one of the weakest moments of my life, I rationalized (there’s that word again) that I could do no better than the woman that my friends introduced to me.  Shirley liked me a lot and I'm sure she would want me.

This woman, who I did not love, became my wife.  My new wife was happy.  My mother and father were happy.  All her brothers and sisters were happy.  My friends were happy.  Everyone was happy but me.  Sure, I had a companion and was no longer lonely.  I had real sex whenever I wanted it instead of friendless masturbation.  I had gained the acceptance and respect of family, colleagues, and society but I was not happy.

I was a virgin at 33 on my honeymoon.  I certainly knew what to do; porno films had taught me how to have sex.  At first, I was a sexaholic.  I had my cock in her pussy every opportunity I could get.  Not wanting to get her pregnant so early in the marriage, I wore condoms every time we had sex.  I wanted her to suck my dick but she refused.  I was eating her pussy (and not enjoying it) but did it so she would reciprocate.  When she wouldn't suck my dick, I quit eating her pussy. That was soon after the honeymoon.

After a few months I was no longer lust starved.  It became more and more difficult for me to have sex.  Since I was never really attracted to her, I couldn’t get hard spontaneously.  I had to masturbate during foreplay to get an erection.  Fortunately, she never asked why.  It didn’t help that I found her pussy to be loose.  While my cock is not huge, about 6 inches, it is thick.  Still, it felt loose in her pussy. 

Strangely, we never talked about previous sexual experiences.  I was grateful for that.  I did not want to volunteer the information that I was a virgin when we got married.  She may very well have had experiences that she didn’t want to reveal.

After a couple of years, sex was very sparing.  Although I continued to masturbate frequently, it was becoming increasingly difficult to achieve an erection so I could fuck her.  I got to the point that if she wanted sex (which was not that often) I would masturbate her and not even put my dick in her.  She thought that was strange but allowed me to do it so she could climax now and again.

After about five years, we decided to have children.  I dreaded the thought of having to have sex consistently for a long period of time until my sperm impregnated her.  I read quite a bit about the menstrual cycle and when she might be fertile so as to strategically fuck her to maximize the potential for her to get pregnant.  For both children, a daughter and then a son, I only fucked her five times before she became pregnant.

I doted on the children.  Still do.  They became my life.  Despite the fact that my marriage is a sham and I have never loved Shirley, my children are a joy.

 

PART FIVE: EPIPHANY

 

A sexless marriage suited me fine and Shirley seemed equally content.  Whether she masturbated herself I don’t know but my sex life consisted of frequent masturbations accompanied by fantasies that always involved men.  I would occasionally entertain the possibility that I was gay (the term having recently replaced homosexual and the more derogatory terms of queer and fag).  But I habitually dismissed those thoughts because of the lingering and potent sigma of same-sex inclinations or relationships.

I had been promoted several times at work and one promotion required relocation to the East Coast.  Shirley welcomed the news, mostly because of the substantial increase in salary, although my daughter and son resisted because of the need to change schools and assimilate into a new circle of friends.  It didn’t take long for them all to adapt to the new environment.

I rode the train between where I lived on Long Island and downtown Manhattan.  I shared the ride most mornings with a man who I worked with, David Templeton.  We got to be good friends on the train and we worked well together.  We talked about everything.  I can’t remember whether there were any subjects we didn't discuss.  Except sex.  All of our conversations were perfectly clean -- often controversial but never anything that could not be said in front of most people.

One Saturday, I went to the office early to take care of some paper work.   David arrived about an hour later.  We were the only two in the office.  It was mid-morning when I heard another person arrive.  Moments later, David introduced me to his friend, Mike.  Nothing strange about that.  About an hour later, David's friend Mike came into my office and started talking to me.  As it was Saturday, I was not too keen on conversation.  I just wanted to finish and get out of there but I thought I should be polite to David’s friend.  Mike was quite the talker and I was about to break off the conversation when he caught my attention with a surprising comment.  He said that I had awakened him when I called David on a recent morning.  I hope I didn’t show my surprise but as much as David and I had talked about, he had never mentioned a roommate.  He then said that David was in a bad mood at the moment because he, Mike, had not done the laundry and they had to share a towel when they got out of the shower.  My imagination leaped into overdrive.  “They” got out of the shower!  As I considered the implications of what Mike had said so casually, I had an image of David and Mike naked in the shower together and drying each other off.  Might that mean they were more than roommates?  If so, it would explain why David had never mentioned Mike.

Just after noon, Mike came into my office again, accompanied by an older couple.  He introduced them to me using the phrase, “David’s parents and my in-law parents," and added that they had come to the office to pick up David and Mike to take them to lunch and an afternoon matinee of a play they wanted to see.

I was stunned.  I sat in my office for probably 30 minutes without breathing much.  Here was this man, David, with whom I was very impressed as a co-worker and a very straight acting man.  But he was gay.  That challenged all my concepts of what “normal” is.  Could gay be normal?  Why not?

All the rationalizing in my life to that moment came crashing down.  I thought about my own experiences: looking at Greg's cock while in junior high school, all the naked football jocks in high school (especially the thigh and cock of the nude hunk I gave a liniment treatment), my fraternity brother fucking the girl and my paying more attention to his big dick rather than the girl, watching all the porn films with women sucking guys’ cocks but mostly interested in the guys’ cocks. 

All my mental defenses shattered.  I was left with only one unpleasant but inevitable conclusion: I was gay.  I had been for a long time.  But suddenly, I felt that was okay.  If David could be gay, there was no reason I couldn’t be.  It was as if the smothering blankets of homophobia had been lifted away and I could breathe fresh air.  My thoughts turned to my respectably straight life.  It was a charade!  I had been an imposter, a fake, a liar even to myself.

Finally coming out to myself was painful and traumatic but eased somewhat by the fact that my good friend, David, a very straight-appearing and religious man and not the stereotype of a queer, was gay.  Moreover, he seemed, as far as I could tell, comfortable with being gay.  True, he did not reveal the fact to me in our many conversations but it was obvious that he was happy with his gay partner since Mike had mentioned they had lived together for five years.

I could no longer concentrate on my work so left the office.  Being in New York, I decided to go to Greenwich Village because I had heard that was where there were many gay men.  I took the subway to that area and saw several male couples holding hands.  I recall thinking: There are a lot of men like me; maybe I’m not abnormal or deviant.  The only difference between me and the men I saw holding hands was that they were open about their homosexuality.  I envied them ... both for their honesty and for the fact that they had found a companion to love.

A random thought crossed my mind: my straight friends got erections while watching nude women dance.  I had pondered that many times since but now, for the first time, I was honest with myself.  I recognized that it was not the naked women dancers but what was poorly concealed beneath the fabric of my friends’ trousers.  Might there be, here in Greenwich Village, a porn theater that catered to gay men?  I worked up the nerve to ask a couple of guys who were holding hands if there were nude male dancers anywhere around, telling them I was from out of town.  They told me about a theater on 42nd Street just off Times Square.

I decided to go there.  No, to be more accurate, I felt compelled to go there.  I found the place with no difficulty and as I approached the entrance I was surprised that my cock was beginning to harden in anticipation of what I was about to see.  Having newly recognized and accepted what I was, I was eager to see a show specifically targeted to my interests.  I bought my ticket and walked in filled with anticipation ... and the uneasy feeling that someone I knew might see me there.  My tension subsided when I found the theater was dark, making it less likely to be recognized.

At the time, there was a male porn film going on.  I went down to the third row and walked by two men as I moved toward the center of the row.  Almost immediately after I sat down and began watching the film, my cock was in full erection.  The film was not only extraordinarily arousing, it was also instructive.  I learned more about the techniques of man-to-man sex than I ever dreamed of. 

After the third sex scene, the film stopped right where it was.  Colored lights came on and music started to play.  A man on a loud speaker said it was time for the "Bijou Boys".  A man wearing shoes, socks, shorts, and a shirt came out on stage and started to dance seductively.  Although he was fully clothed, I found his expert and artistic dancing to be sexy as hell.  Never before in my life would I have thought that.   He took off his shoes, one at a time.  He took off his shirt.  He took off his pants.  He danced for a minute or two in his underwear.  His smooth, muscular body oozed testosterone and, without thinking, I began to fondle myself.  He took off his underwear revealing a thong.  He danced for another minute.  Then he took of his thong and let his cock out.  The audience cheered.

I was still hard and I could feel the moisture of my precum soaking through my briefs.  He danced for a couple of minutes naked while touching himself.  By the time the music ended and he danced off the stage, he was semi-erect.  Another guy immediately came out on the stage.  He was more muscular and had thick hair on his chest and legs.  But not his pubes which seemed to have been neatly trimmed.  It occurred to me that without a thick pubic bush, it emphasized the length of his cock.   His performance was even more arousing.

Meanwhile, the first guy came down off the stage into the seating area.  He started up the aisle on the left side of the theater and approached each of the guys in the first and second rows.  He was wearing only socks and if you put one dollar in his sock you could touch any part of his body but his cock.  That was two dollars.  I watched the nude man move from man to man in each of the rows.  When he got to my row, the two men to my left each gave him two dollars and were touching his ass, stomach, cock, and balls.  There must have been many more men give him the two dollar fee because he was fully erect when he moved toward me.  I motioned for him to go away.  I really, really wanted to touch his erect penis but I could not make myself do it.

The second guy finished his act and left the stage to do the same thing, going from man to man in the audience.  The third, and final dancer, was a black man.  He was the best dancer and I was anxiously looking forward to seeing him naked.  He teased us by showing us his ass and then his pubic hair.  He stripped down facing away from the audience with his legs together so we couldn’t see his cock dangling between his legs.  Then he opened his legs wide and bent over so we could not only see his ass but his cock and balls between his legs from behind.  He turned around and his erection was probably eight inches or more.  When he started toward me a few minutes later, I was ready to put two dollars in his socks.  Hell, at that point I’d have put twenty in his sock.  I rubbed up and down his legs and touched his chest and played with his nipples.  I put both my hands on his ass and kneaded his ass checks.  It felt great.  While doing that I was looking straight at his thick erection that was only about three inches in front of my face.  He pulled up his cock and showed me his low-hanging balls.  The implied invitation was irresistible.  I put one hand on his balls and I wrapped the other hand around his cock.  It was the first time in my life that I had another man's penis in my hands and I was very careful with his big balls.  My heart was pounding.  My cock was begging for relief as it had been rock hard for more than an hour.  I then placed both hands on his cock.  At the second that I touched it, I came in my pants!  Without stroking it I had creamed my jeans!
 
As they say, some things don't take a rocket scientist to determine.  To me, that instant of cumming in my pants when I touched the erect man's penis was the final confirmation that I was gay.

I got home late that night and did not sleep.

 

PART SIX: SPIRALING DOWN

 

While many things in my life became very clear to me, I was deeply troubled.  As a religious person, I could not be gay.  The two things were completely incompatible.  I could not practice my religion with a clear conscience and simultaneously pursue the type of companionship that I had just discovered I wanted and needed.  Would I have to choose one and reject the other?  My religion was part of my being ... but so, I now knew, was my homosexuality.  That was a dilemma without a solution.  I was torn; I felt as if I were being drawn and quartered.  At the same time, I knew I would have to make the choice.  I vacillated between the two desirable but unacceptable options as I struggled to resolve my problem.  I was falling into a deep depression.

Knowing that I was gay, I decided never to have sex with my wife again.  Not that it was very different from our lives together; sex between us was no more than once a month anyway and that was masturbating her to orgasm.  As far as she was concerned, I had erectile dysfunction (This was in the days before Viagra.).  I adopted a new tactic.  When I thought she would ask me to masturbate her, I pretended to be asleep.  Moments later, I would feel the bed shaking, which ended only when she moaned softly as she climaxed.  Once, I didn’t anticipate her asking to be masturbated.  I replied, very untactfully, “Do it yourself.  You’ve done it to yourself often enough.”  For the next week, our relationship was chilly, which was only slightly different than our accustomed habits of polite civility.  She never asked me to masturbate her again.   I haven’t kissed her or touched her pussy for years.  To the outside world, however, we were a model family.  One may ask (as I did myself) why our marriage endured with a total lack of physical intimacy.  The answer is simple: our children first and our circle of friends second.  Neither Shirley nor I wanted to disrupt our children’s lives by separation or divorce.  Neither of us wanted to disappoint family and friends or to give up our social life.  I’m quite sure, too, that my wife tolerated the situation because she enjoyed the very comfortable life style that my significant salary made possible.

Over the next nine years without resolving my dilemma, I was celibate.  I attended church regularly at first but the preacher’s occasional tirades about the mortal sin of homosexuality offended me.  I stopped going to church although I never lost my faith in God.   I was angry.  I knew for certain that I had always been attracted to men and not to women.  It was not learned.  I was angry with God for my "condition."  I was angry with the bigots who persecuted gays, including those who occupied a pulpit.  I was even angry with myself for not realizing sooner that I was gay.  I felt like I needed to punish myself.

I started being less decisive, allowing people to tell me what to do.  After all, I was a faggot.  On the other hand, I was very successful in my business and had a staff to direct.  I had always been jovial but I became detached, despondent, and very unhappy.  People noticed that very quickly.  I gradually lost friends and the loyalty of my staff at work   That exacerbated my depression.  I started to gain weight.  In fact, I gained 70 pounds over the nine years.

Approximately every six months, I would get horny enough that I would go to a bathhouse.  However, I would go to the room with a video where I spent the evening watching male porn and jacking off.  Always with my door closed and locked, I never ventured out to any of the wet areas, sling pits, dark rooms, glory holes, or whatever they might have.  Perhaps I should have.  I might have opened a crack in the shell that kept me isolated and very lonely.

 

PART SEVEN: TURNING POINT

 

An article in the newspaper was the trigger to turning my life around.  It described the establishment of a LGBT center on the campus of a local university.  While it mentioned the objections of opponents to the idea, it also pointed out that lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transsexuals in the student body could receive counseling.  Although I was not a student at the university and not even near the age of its students, I thought it might be worthwhile to visit and see if they could give me any advice.

I entered the center in the Student Union Building, not at all sure I would find the help I knew I needed but maintaining my hope that I would.  A very pleasant young man (too young to be a college student, I thought) greeted me.  I shouldn’t have been but I was surprised at how “normal” he looked and acted.  I introduced myself using a fictitious name.  “How can I help you, sir?” he asked.

The “sir” was polite but made me feel as old as I was.  “Just curious,” I said noncommittally, not yet sure whether I should divulge the reason for my visit.  “I read about the center in the paper and wondered what you do here.”

In a pleasant and articulate way (and not the least condescending), he explained the services the center offered to LGBT students.  He then showed me some of the literature he had available.  One (“The Christian Gay”) caught my eye and I asked if I could have a copy of the small brochure.  Just then, a young woman entered the center.  It turns out that Alan, my cordial host, had finished his duty time at the center and the young woman was there to relieve him.

Alan handed me off to the new volunteer but I said to him, “You’ve been very kind and helpful.  In return, I’d like to take you to lunch.  That is, if you have the time.”

“That’s not necessary, sir,” he protested.  Then it dawned on me.  He may have suspected that I was trolling for young flesh.  I assured him that my purpose was nothing more than repaying his hospitality and continuing our conversation; there was absolutely no ulterior motive.  Finally he agreed by saying, “Okay.  One conversation” (emphasizing those two words).

Over lunch in a nearby restaurant on Broadway that he recommended, my admiration for his intelligence and empathy grew to the point where I confessed the real reason for my visit.  I even told him the essential facts of my background, my marriage, my belated acceptance of being gay, and my depression.  He listened attentively as I poured out my story, sometimes fighting back my tears.  “So that’s my sad tale,” I concluded.  “Thanks for putting up with it so patiently.”

“Listen, Larry -- if that’s your real name,” (Alan was as perceptive as he was intelligent.)  “I don’t have a class until three.  If you have the time, we can walk back to campus.  There’s a small office in the center where we can talk in private.  Actually, I’m not supposed to do this.  What I mean is that the university funding restricts our contacts to students only.  But I think there might be more you want to say and I think I can suggest some advice ... or at least I hope I can.”

The next hour or so was the most valuable period in my life.  Alan listened more than he spoke and when he spoke it was usually a question -- a question that directed my thinking and took me in directions I’d not have thought about before.  Just before parting, I said, “I can’t thank you enough for your time and your help.  You have a gift, young man, you know just what to say and what not to say to help a sick old man.”

“Thanks,” he blushed.  “I guess I leaned it from my Dad.  He’s a psychiatrist.  All I did today was follow his example when he helped me through problems I faced growing up.”

I never saw Alan again but the debt I owe him is immeasurable.  Perhaps, however, he connected the dots and knew the donor who gave a sizable contribution to the LGBT center.  With Alan and others like him on campus, who knows how many troubled young men and women will be helped?

After too long of a period, I regained most of my personality but was still unhappy.  I was yet to resolve the conflict of religion and homosexuality.  I was yet to achieve the satisfaction of companionship and love with a man.

 

PART EIGHT: ELATION

 

Seven years ago, I was attending a going away party one evening for a co-worker.  About 30 of us went to a bar to have a couple of drinks a send off our co-worker on a happy note.  For some reason, I watched this couple in the corner, a man and a woman, passionately kissing each other.  This made me quite sad because their kissing was evidence of a physical and emotional bond, something that I had not had with my wife in years.

I left the party after about an hour and a half and for the first time stopped by a gay bar where I knew there were gay men dancing.  Archaic obscenity codes prohibited total nudity of performers and patrons where alcohol was served.  Therefore, the entertainment was delicious young men stripping down to underwear and thongs and dancing in front of a very appreciative audience of other men.  There were no women in this bar, which suited me fine.  I had a drink and nursed it a while.  I had been there maybe 45 minutes when I was approached by two men.  I was 52 at the time and neither of these men were yet 40 years old.  One was Hispanic and one was white.  The Hispanic was a real hunk and did most of the talking.  The white guy was also quite handsome and was a big flirt.  The white guy was quite ruggedly handsome and filled out his jeans, leaving no doubt that he was amply endowed.  As they talked to me, one would put his hand on my shoulder and another would touch my leg.  When the hand on my leg inched upward and contacted my crotch, I freaked out.  Although I had recently accepted my homosexuality and might, under other circumstances, have welcomed exploring their impressive bodies, their brazen assault on me was too much for me to cope with.  I was disgusted and scared.   I was so upset that I don't even remember what I said but it caused quite a scene; most of the patrons in the bar were looking at me.  The two men who hassled me left, laughing.

I was thoroughly embarrassed.  And angry.  I was about to finish my drink and leave when a man sat on the bar stool next to mine.  “I want to apologize to you.  I saw what those two were doing.  I should have stepped in to stop it.  I’m sorry.”

“Put a stop to what?” I asked, thinking in my ignorance that I had been subjected to a normal occurrence in a gay bar.

“They’re a couple of idiots.  They came on to you as some kind of malicious joke to see your reaction.  I saw them do it once before and later brag about it.  I should have told them to get lost as soon as I saw them doing it again.  Please forgive me.”

After some small talk, he offered to buy me a drink.  I accepted on the condition that I would get the next one.  We talked about trivial stuff for about five minutes.  His friendly manner both settled me down and won my admiration for his character.  Suddenly he said, “Where’s my manners?  I didn’t introduce myself.  I’m John.”

“Pleased to meet you, John.  I’m Charles but my friends call me Chuck.”  Without thinking, I had given him my real name although only the first name.  But it didn’t seem to matter to me.  He was so friendly and cordial; I knew I could trust him.

Two drinks later, the bar got crowded.  John offered his seat to another patron and stood next to me.  I swiveled around away from the bar to face him and we continued our conversation.  There was nothing not to like about John.  I guessed him to be somewhat younger than I was and in far better shape -- quite handsome as a mater of fact.  He was extremely personable -- the kind of individual you find extremely easy to talk to.  He was obviously considerate since he apologized for not intervening when I was accosted and for giving up his seat to another patron.  It would be ridiculous to say it was love at first sight but accurate to say that I took an immediate liking to him.

I very briefly entertained the suspicion that he was only trying to pick me up and get me to bed with him but there had been, in the hour or more of conversation, no convincing proof that was the case.  If he was trying to pick me up, however, two things were certain.  One, he was a very smooth operator.  Two, I would be very much interested in following him wherever he took me for whatever he wanted to do with or to me.

I was sitting at the bar on the bar stool with my legs open.  He was standing in front of me in between my knees.  In one of the big surprises of my life, he all of a sudden leaned into me and gently kissed me.  This was my first kiss from a man.  I was stunned at the audacity of his impulsive action but I did not pull back.  I welcomed it.  This may sound incredible but that spontaneous kiss surpassed any human contact I had had in my life.  It was the most incredible feeling I had ever had.  It was the spark that ignited a firestorm of affection.

He immediately pulled away and said, “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have done that.  You must think I’m a fool now.”

“Not at all,” I said sincerely.  “You surprised me but it was a pleasant surprise ... a very pleasant surprise.  Don’t hesitate to do it again.”

His next kiss, not to exaggerate, lasted several minutes.  Our tongues probed each others’ mouths furiously.  My heart was racing.  My mind was reeling.  My spirit soared.  It was pure ecstasy.  By the time we stopped to breathe every nerve ending in my body was on edge.  I was tingling through and through.  We continued to kiss off and on for the next 15 minutes without saying much.

He broke off the kissing marathon and said, “As much as I’m enjoying myself, Chuck, I have to go take a piss although it’ll be difficult until my hard-on goes down.”

While he was gone, my mind was racing.  I really thought kissing him was the best feeling I'd ever had.  I felt alive.  Kissing my wife was never kissing (except, perhaps for the first few weeks after we married) -- just a peck that did nothing for me.  But I had just French kissed a man with everything that I had.  My cock was fully erect and trying to push its way through the cloth of my pants.  Of course, it didn't help that John had laid his hand over my crotch and had ever so gently fondled me while we kissed. 

When he returned, he resumed his position and returned his hand to my crotch.  “Oh,” he remarked.  You’ve adjusted yourself.  More comfortable now?”

“Yes,” I grinned.  “My briefs were sort of binding up on me.”

“That’s why I prefer boxers,” he said as he continued to squeeze my cock.

Whatever possessed me, I don’t know -- probably raging lust.  The words just came out.  “I can unzip my fly and pull down my briefs so you don’t have to feel through the fabric.”

He chuckled and said, “Not here.”

He asked me to go home with him and I didn't hesitate a moment.  I followed him home and got out of my car.  He led me into his house.  After I walked in, he locked the door and immediately pulled me into his arms for a long, spine-tingling kiss.  I was mesmerized as he took my hand and led me to his bedroom.  He took off my shoes and socks, my shirt, unbuckled my pants, took off my pants, brushed my erect cock in my underwear, and then had me lay down on his bed.  I was more than willing to let him take the lead.  What did I know about gay sex beyond the contrived scenes in porno movies?

I watched him as he stripped off his clothes.  More accurately, I could say that my eyes were riveted to him as he removed each article of clothing.  He stripped off his clothes normally but slowly without a hint of trying to do a strip tease.  Still, the effect was incredibly seductive.  My cock pulsed when he took off his boxers to reveal a massively thick cock.  I gasped; I couldn’t help it.  He grinned, no doubt flattered and amused at my unconscious reaction.

He stripped off my briefs as I lay passively under his total control and intoxicated with an overwhelming sense of happiness.  The happiness instantly became ecstasy as he immediately deep throated my cock with one gulp.  I almost fainted.  I have no idea how long he sucked on my cock because all sense of time was obscured by the thrilling sensations emanating from my cock.

John got on top of me and started rubbing our cocks together as we kissed.  I totally surrendered to this and felt like my entire body was one singular nerve ending.  When he started to kiss my cheeks and suck on my ears, I was amazed at how erotic it felt.  He kissed down my chest, sucking on my nipples (yet another erogenous zone I didn’t know was so powerful), down my hairy chest to my cock where he pumped my erection with his hand.  He then discovered I was uncut which he had not yet noticed since I was so fully erect that my foreskin was completely retracted.  He seemed to delight in repeatedly pushing my foreskin up over the helmet of my glans and back down.  The effect on me was overwhelming.  It brought me to the brink of orgasm but I wanted the intense feeling to go on forever so I asked him to stop until my cock calmed down a bit.

Still taking the lead, he maneuvered into a 69 position, offering his manhood to me.  Eagerly but somewhat nervously, I wrapped a hand around his erection.  I can’t describe the effect it had on me.  Holding another man’s stiff manhood for the first time in my life (disregarding the Bijou Boy) gave me pleasure that was akin to an orgasm.  The thrill was overpowering.  Driven by lust, I licked his cockhead and gently took his cock and slowly rubbed it across my forehead and face, taking in the man-musk that I remembered from those oh so many years ago when I was just a couple of inches away from the football jock’s cock.  Only this time, I was able to hold it and begin to lick his long, thick shaft.  I licked up and down the shaft and ran my tongue around his glans.  His piss slit had some glistening precum bubbling out and I eagerly licked it off.  I’d eaten my own cum but this was infinitely better -- sweet nectar from another man.  Sucking cock that I once thought was disgusting was now irresistibly desirable.  I made love to his big cock.  I inhaled the smell and felt for his large testicles.  One at a time, I placed each one in my mouth and sucked on it carefully, licking it with my tongue.

John started to moan and I began my first attempt at seeing how far I could get his penis into my mouth before I started to gag.  Since it was my first time, I only got a few inches into my mouth before I had to take some air and keep from chocking.  Much later I heard men say deep throating a big dick takes practice.  I got plenty of practice that night.  By the end of the evening, I was able to take him all the way to his balls.  No question -- it was the perseverance of lust.

I was able to extend the pleasure of his sucking on my cock for longer than I thought I could because I kept pulling back before I came.  He let me do that until my sucking on him aroused him so fully that he did not stop sucking on me when I pulled back.  I flooded his mouth with my cum.  It was without any doubt the most intense and satisfying orgasm I had ever had.  He then moved to kiss me and he started feeding me my own cum as we mixed our saliva and my cum between each other.

He lay back and opened his legs wide to give me access to his large, curved cock.  I was determined to make him feel as good as he had made me feel.  Although it was my first cocksucking experience, I had thought about it for so long that I made sure he did not feel any teeth.  I tongued his shaft and licked around his glans while using my hands to pinch his nipples.  He was starting to moan and squirm.  His breathing became intense and I was hoping he was about to give me a mouthful of ball juice.  He erupted largely in my mouth but some of his cum shot on my forehead and over one of my eyes.  I caught most of his cum in my mouth and coated my tongue with it, savoring the taste.  I cleaned out his urethra with my tongue and used his now deflating penis to wash my face with the cum that I had not swallowed.  For a short while I just lay between his legs with the dickhead and part of his shaft in my mouth and my chin snuggled up into his balls.

I had never felt so alive.

We cuddled, kissed, and talked for a long time.  I opened up to him and told him I was married with children.  He didn’t seem to be too surprised.  I also confessed that I was a virgin at gay sex.  That surprised him and he complimented me on how well I had performed.  I guess all those porno movies combined with the unleashing of my true self contributed to my skill that I deemed adequate at best.

It was now well past midnight but I was still very hungry for this man. I asked him if we could do an encore.  To my great delight, he was more than willing.

We resumed our 69 position. I got hard again just looking at his big ball sac hanging in front of my face and started jerking his shaft as I sucked on the head of his cock.  I started licking up and down on his balls and stroking the base of his hardening cock

Meanwhile, he was fingering my hole and stuck one finger into me and touched my prostate.  For the next half hour, I sucked and licked his cock and balls as he opened my ass.  He had some lube which he was working into my ass and used his fingers to open me up.  I had never been fucked but knew what he was doing.  He was planning to fuck me.  I wanted him to fuck me.  I wanted him inside me.  I wanted his sperm inside my bowels.  I gave no thought to how his thick cock would fit into my ass hole.

When he could stand my sucking on his cock no longer, he moved me onto my back and threw my legs apart.  He was rock hard.  To me, one of the most erotic sights is a fully erect man moving his cock into position to fuck.  He was gentle inserting his cock in my hole but I lost my breath when the head of his cock sunk into my sphincter.  He had such a thick cock that I didn't think at that instant that I could take it  But was determined to have him inside me.  I concealed my pain.  He was holding my legs back and watched my face carefully for signs of discomfort.  He did an incredible job of slow penetration. 

The pain did not go away once he was fully in but when he started to pump I encouraged him to continue.  I wanted to feel completely filled.  It wasn’t until he was fucking me with a good rhythm that I got accustomed to it and started to enjoy it.  He fucked me for at least 10 minutes before he told me that he was going to cum in my ass.  Again, being my first time, I didn't think there was any other way (except in porno movies that always got a close of up cum shooting out.  I took my heels and placed them on his ass to maximize his deep penetration.  He yelled as he came and filled my ass and I shouted, “YES!”

We spent almost three hours pleasuring each other.  He ate his cum out of my ass, which I initially thought was gross but soon discovered that it was very erotic and pleasing.  About five in the morning, he rolled over on me and went to sleep.

I was too hyper to sleep.  I lay there slowly coming out of my sexual stupor and relishing the feel of our naked bodies pressed tightly together.  Then I remembered that I had to get home.  Reluctantly, I woke him, thanked him for the best night of my entire life, and said that I wanted to stay but had to get home.  Sleepily, he told me he had enjoyed my visit.  I left and went home to climb into my own bed.  It was almost six on a Saturday morning when I arrived home and my wife was asleep.  I got in bed and was never found out.  At that time, my wife and I still slept together, although we no longer had sex.  Our marriage was a sham.  We maintained the illusion of a happily married couple among our friends and our children but it was a deception.  Living together was only toleration of each other for economic convenience.  It was no surprise to her, therefore, that the following night I went to the guest bedroom to sleep by myself.  My move didn’t even draw a comment from her and we both seemed happy with the separate sleeping arrangements.

 

PART NINE: TRANSFORMATION

 

For the next two days, I could hardly get my mind off my first gay sex.  On the one hand, I couldn’t deny it was a glorious experience, surpassing by far my enjoyment of sex during the first few weeks of my marriage.  On the other hand, I was bothered by having not only admitted to myself that I was gay but allowing myself to engage in homosexual activities.  And enjoying it!  I had a most uncomfortable feeling that I had betrayed my upbringing, my marriage vows (It made no difference that we had not had sex for over 11 years.), and my religious faith.  It was a chaotic conflict of euphoria and guilt that obsessed me.

I called John a couple of days later and told him I needed to talk to him.  There was a sense of urgency in my voice and John agreed to get together.  When I told him I was feeling very guilty about having sex with him because I was married he laughed.  He thought I was going to tell him that I was HIV positive and my urgent phone call worried him because we fucked bareback as well as sucked each other off. 

As we talked, he said, “You’re the first virgin I’ve ever fucked.”

“No,” I said.  “I’m not a virgin if I’ve had sex with my wife ... although not for a very long time.”

He chuckled and said, “Okay.  Let’s say a virgin gay.  You don’t know anything about gay life.  For example, I know many married men who are either gay or bisexual but they enjoy gay sex on the side.”

“I find that to be incredible,” I said.  “But, at the same time, it’s reassuring because I thought I was the only odd-ball in the world.”

“No, Chuck.  You’re not alone.  As I said, I know plenty of men like you.”

I immediately wondered how many.  And how many he had had sex with.  But I thought it best not to inquire about his past sex partners.  Instead, I impulsively said, “Even though I’m married, I’m available any time you would be willing to get together again.”

He cocked his eyebrows, flashed a little grin, and said, “Are you available Friday night?”

We had another wonderful evening of sex.  But we also talked quite a bit.  It was more him answering my questions and his offering advice.  He let me know that there is no such thing as a typical homosexual or bisexual male.  He said any man that I might meet might be homosexual or bisexual.  He told me about several websites that I might be interested in taking a look at and that I should do some Internet research.  He said that I would find that men sometimes have limited tastes.  For example, he told me that he only liked unattached gay men or unmarried men.  That made me frown; he preferred unmarried men.  I didn’t fit that description.

We never saw each other again but John had a huge impact on my life.  Not only did he provide me with my first gay experience but he also gave me very valuable instruction on the diversity of gay life style and, significantly, how to go about finding gay men.  He told me I would not be comfortable with all of it or might not be comfortable with any of it but that there is no set of characteristics that apply uniformly.

I vowed to never have sex with another man in the New York City area again.  I’m sure it would have been easy to do so but, at least for the foreseeable future, I wanted to stay in the closet to my family, friends, and business associates.  By cruising the Internet I met many men online with whom I struck up long email conversations over a period of time.  I learned a lot about others like me.  It was comforting to know that there were, in fact, many men like me but I still craved an emotional and physical bonding with a man. 

My business required that I travel extensively and I was gone for several days per week.  I had been doing this for years and it had certainly gotten old.  There was no longer any glamor in the travel and I was incredibly bored in the evenings, alone in hotel rooms.  My life was in a rut.  I was going through the motions but not really happy at all with my life.  My wife became demanding, which started to get on my nerves when I was home.  Most of the time I would ignore her because it was so much easier than engaging in a conversation that would end up being argumentative.   I did, however, spend as much of my time as possible with the kids.  We had and still have a wonderful relationship.  When my wife and I got married, she said that opposites attract because we had such different interests.  After 20 years, I knew that’s not true.  We like different foods and different movies.  She liked to stay at home; I liked to travel (or did for a long time until it got tedious).  I woke up to the fact that that my being gay was not the only problem.  We had nothing in common except the kids and we had opposing opinions about how to relate to them.  While my life was not perfect with her, I felt guilty because I was cheating her out of a life, possibly a fulfilling life with someone else with interests more like hers.  But there were the children to consider and it was important to make sure that they had a secure, loving environment.  I would do nothing to change that regardless of what I had to sacrifice.  Good or bad.

My business trips opened up new opportunities for me.  Bored in a hotel room, I visited the gay bars in whatever city I visited.  As a result, I had sex with a number of men.  Don’t get me wrong.  I enjoyed it for the sex but it did not meet all my needs.  I wished that I could share my life with a man in a committed relationship, someone to love who loved me.

Going from a man who questioned his ability to enjoy sex to one who enjoyed every second of a sexual experience with another man was a long journey.  I once thought that I did not enjoy sex with a woman because I was one of those rare animals in nature that was asexual.  Until I had the epiphany of learning that my co-worker David was gay and reaffirmed when I had my first gay sex with John.  Previously, it had never occurred to me I might enjoy sex with a man because I did not enjoy sex with a woman.  The experience with John changed all that.  I became a seeker of the carnal pleasures of man-to-man sex.  How opposite can things be?
 
Now I think of my sex life as beginning the night that I first had sex with John.  In that regard, I have only about an eight year history.  Being so "young" sexually, I have a huge appetite for sex.  I’ve learned that I most enjoy bottoming.  I delight in satisfying men orally and hearing them moan with pleasure.  (That’s really quite unexpected for a man who heads up a large firm and is responsible for making things happen.)

Since I like people, it didn't make any difference to me what age or race these men were just as long as we found each other interesting after an initial meeting that did not involve sex. 

Over this period, I learned more about myself.  I started to understand why I tipped male waiters more than women, worked very well with women because I was not intimidated by them, and spent a lot of time just crotch watching.  I allowed myself more time to look at men and I came to appreciate just how good looking some men are.  In the past, I had kept these bottled up and hidden even from myself.  Most significantly, I found peace with my religious faith.  After considerable thought, research, and introspection, I came to the conclusion that religion and faith are not the same.  One can be righteous and have an abiding faith in a Supreme Being without obligatory conformance to the dogma of a particular denomination.  God made us all.  God loves us all ... even gays.

 

PART TEN: BLISS

 

I started working on a contract that had me going to Atlanta frequently, sometimes for longer than several days a week.  In fact, I spent most of my time in Atlanta, which was enough that it made sense to have an apartment there as opposed to staying in hotels.  This gave me a great opportunity to bring men in to a relaxed atmosphere where I could entertain them.  I am a good cook and I like to entertain.  I know that guys like to eat and so I was able to have a number of men visit me.  One such occasion changed my life. 

Jeremy and I had been frequent email buddies and had developed a rapport.  He contacted me online to say he was interested in meeting with me.  He was looking for an educated bottom for companionship.  The opportunity arose about two weeks later.  He indicated he would be in Atlanta and would like to meet.  I made dinner for him and he arrived bringing wine.  We enjoyed each other's company greatly and ended up sitting on the couch together as we finished the second bottle of wine.  I found out he was very similar to me.  He, too, was married and had two children, both older than mine.  He was living with his wife for the kids’ sake and he was not out to his family.  And his sex life with his wife was non-existent, too. 

Unexpectedly, he leaned over and kissed me.  He was a passionate kisser and I was thinking that this would likely lead to sex so I stopped.  I explained that it was my custom to know more about a guy before taking them to bed.  He seemed disappointed but said (whether he meant it or not) that he understood and respected me for my caution.

He left around midnight and I realized I wished he hadn't left.  After all, I reminded myself, we had had a long relationship by email and knew a lot about each other.  That he graciously accepted my hesitancy to have sex on the first “date” was a testament to his consideration of my quirk.

There had only been two men that I had actually slept with through the night, one since John.  I called Jeremy the next day and asked if he wanted to get together again if he ever came back to Atlanta.  He said he was coming back the following week and I invited him back to the apartment and offered to make him dinner again.  He said we would go out this time and I would be his guest.  After dinner, we came back to the apartment and drank more wine.  We ended up in bed.  The sex was incredible and he enjoyed how passionate I was.  I devoured his cock and he almost came in my mouth too early because he really wanted to fuck.  I enjoyed sucking his admirable cock but I really wanted him to fuck me.  Jeremy's cock was about average in length -- just over six inches -- but very thick.  He was probably a little thicker than John was but not nearly as long.  He enjoyed playing with my cock and that just made me lustier.  He lubricated my uncut cock with baby oil and played with my cock and balls until I exploded in his hands.  I was like a bitch in heat and sat on his cock, facing him.  While I often have difficulty coming a second time, I did get hard while riding his cock and he stroked me as I faced him.  Later, he fucked me face to face pushing my legs back over my head until he finally shot a load in my ass.

We repeated that scene every other week or so for about two months.  Then he called me one day and asked if I could meet him for breakfast in New York.  He suggested a location not too far from my office and I met him there.  During the conversation, I thanked him for choosing a location close to my office and then he surprised me by telling me he lived only a couple of blocks away.  He also told me that he worked in Atlanta two days a week and wanted us to be together when he was in town.  That started a four-year romance in which we were together about half the time.  A typical week would be arriving in Atlanta about the same time on Sunday evening where we would have sex at least twice.  He would either fuck me twice or I would suck him off one of the times.  We both got tested for HIV and after six months, we started having bareback sex. 

These were blissful years.  He, too, was a good cook.  We took turns cooking for each other.  We fell in love.  I can remember having a hot bath ready for him one evening, with incense in the bathroom and champagne.  Another time, I took the petals from a dozen roses and covered the bed with them and we had sex in a "rose bed."  He liked to go to plays, museums, and orchestra performances.  I loved those things, none of which my wife was interested in.

We saw Brokeback Mountain together and I later purchased the video.  We watched it again one night with him lying on my back with his cock in my ass for the entire movie.  For his birthday one year, he wanted to go to a bathhouse since he had never been to one.  We went separately and met in the steam room where I went down on him.  Later we spent time in the Jacuzzi and then went to my apartment where we fucked.  It was all so sexy and we loved it.

One day, he told me his wife, who was a college professor, got a teaching fellowship in London and was going to be gone for two years.  She had not consulted with him or their two children, both grown.  Jeremy was surprised that she would do this and she left about three months later.  He invited me to his home where he made a wonderful dinner and we had sex in his apartment where I spent the night.  We were together now even more, at his place when we were both in New York and at my apartment in Atlanta when we were both in Atlanta.  (My wife no longer questioned my not being home after the first few snide comments like “You’d better not bring your girlfriend into this house!”)

I told him everything.  I told him about being so very lonely and not feeling love.  I told him about feeling cheated in my life for not realizing my sexuality until so late.  I posed the question: what if I had known I was gay earlier in my life.  Answering my own question, I said I would never have gotten married.  He let me talk and listened closely.  He said that everything happens for a reason.  He said that he could tell I was a very loving father who did everything for his children.  I was meant to have those children so if I had known I was gay, they would never have existed.  He said that I was very successful at my business and I was healthy.  Life is not fair but it had been far more fair to me than to many.  He said that he had felt that way, too, but realized that his greatest blessing was his children.  And now we had each other. 

Since that discussion, I've never really allowed myself to think about what might have been if I had not been as naive as I was in recognizing that I am gay.

The following summer, Jeremy told me his wife invited him to come as a guest speaker at the university where she taught.  He went to London for about two months and it was the longest period in my life.  I missed him deeply.  It was more than the sex, much, much more.  I really enjoyed being with him.  While the sex was wonderful, cuddling with him at night met my need for male companionship and love.  He liked to sleep holding me in his arms.  I really enjoyed the touching and the warmth of his naked body next to mine.  I also liked the feel of his penis lying next to my ass.  There were many times in the night where the proximity of his penis to my ass aroused him and he would gently rock back and forth until he was hard and inside me.  He would cum inside me and we would go back to sleep.  I also liked waking him up by sucking him off.  We couldn't get enough of each other sexually as well as being great companions.

When he came back from London, he brought commitment rings.  I cried.

The next nine months were the happiest of my life.  My children were doing well and we were getting along very well.  I often listened to him talk to his children on the phone when we were together and he listened to me as I talked with mine.  It was so exhilarating to be doing these things with someone knowing everything about me.  I loved him.  I loved the companionship.  And I really loved the sex.  Whenever he fucked me and I had not cum, he would suck me off.  I continued to wake him up with his morning blow job.

He told me in April that he was going back to London in June.  The night before he left on his second trip that we had sex twice.  The next morning, I gave him his morning blow job.  When I was finished, he was in tears.  I assumed it was because he was leaving that day.  We kissed; I showered and left for work.  He typically would call me when he left the apartment.  He called me from the Atlanta airport and again from New York as he waited for the transatlantic flight.  He said he would call me from London in a few days.

That was three years ago.  I've never heard from him again.

 

EPILOG

 

I tenaciously tried to find him, to contact him, to find out if he was all right, to regain the love we had for each other.  I spent many nights worrying.  And crying.  When I called his office in New York, they told me he had resigned suddenly and told me (truthfully or not) they had no idea where he was.  I went by his apartment building and asked the doorman if Jeremy Fisher was at home.  He said the Fishers moved out some time ago and left no forwarding address.  I went by his church; they had no word.  I thought about contacting his children but I didn't do that for fear there might be some questions about who I was and why I wanted to find their father.  I don't know if I would cause that kind of problem but I couldn't risk anything that might out him.  Why did he do it?  What happened?  I really don't know.  It took me 18 months to get back to some type of regular schedule.

Since Jeremy, I have had sex with two men, one time each.  I'm not sure if there ever will be another.  I still look at all the guys.  To me, men are far more handsome than a woman is pretty.  I often think of having sex with particularly handsome men.  I’m not there yet but at my age I’ll soon be left with no more than thinking and fantasizing ... and remembering my time with Jeremy.

I'm working a lot more from New York now and there is no reason to go out of town as much.  True to my paranoia, I don't have sex in this city.  I am lonely, to be sure, but I remember what Jeremy said about the blessings that I have.  As Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote, "’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."  I firmly believe that’s true.  Painful but true.