1

IT STARTED, AS I SUPPOSE MANY THESE STORIES DO, AT THE gym. I’ve been spending a lot of time there recently, and if anyone asks me why, I tell them it’s because I want to stay fit—I have to look after my heart now that I’m in my forties, and I’m reducing the burden on the health system. But what I’m really reducing is the amount of time I spend at home. Home is not a very happy place at the moment, and if I can get back a couple of hours later in the evening, then the stretch between dinner and bedtime doesn’t seem quite so unforgiving.

It was the first week of January, a dismal time in most households, but particularly so in ours. Alex was back at school, Nicky had gone back up to Sheffield as soon as the trains were running again after New Year, and that left Angie and me in a big, quiet, house, the silence bursting with unspoken conversations. After all these years together—it would be our twenty-fourth anniversary this year—we’d run out of things to say. The jokes and memories that kept us going for so long just faded away, like a toy that had run out of batteries. As for sex—well, that hadn’t happened for a long time. Perhaps we used it all up in those first frantic years, banging away in halls of residence, crappy rented flats, on the floor at parties, in tents at festivals, on beaches, up mountains, even in our parents’ beds on family visits. Then the kids came along, and the opportunities decreased, the urgency and frequency abated, from twice a week to once a week, to once a month, to . . . never. Since my mid-thirties, my only sex life has been wanking. Thank God for the Internet.

I should have seen it coming. The porn I was watching was a clue, the images that flashed behind my eyelids when I came. The time I spent in front of a mirror or with the camera on my phone, taking cockshots that nobody would ever see. I was looking at men—either myself or the guys who were banging the girls in the porn—more than women. It was obvious in hindsight, but I never thought about it. I’ve never really thought about anything. I was good at school, good at sports, happy with my parents, popular with other kids; I had gone to university, dated the best-looking girl in my year, and even when she got pregnant, it didn’t worry me. She had the baby—my daughter Nicola, Nicky, now studying physics at Sheffield, the age I was when she was born—and our parents rallied around with childcare and money. They enabled us to graduate and set up a proper family home and even have a second child, a boy Alex, before Angie went on the pill and I got a job. We used to joke that we’d done everything in reverse: we had the kids first, then found a home, got jobs and, last of all, got married, the kids walking up the aisle with us. Not how our parents did it, and certainly not how our grandparents did it, but nobody minded. We were the golden couple, the beautiful people with beautiful children and a cloudless future.

And it was good for a long time. When children are young, you live through them—the intensity of their experience becomes yours. Angie and I were so wrapped up in the kids, marvelling over every stage of their development, that we lost sight of ourselves. It was wonderful at the time, but a bad investment for the future. Teenagers don’t need you in the same way, and all you have left is each other. The truth is that we’d fallen out of love. We were business partners; our work was raising the kids, and when that job was done we had nothing in common. We didn’t argue. There were no big scenes—nothing to upset the children. But then Nicky went to college and Alex spent all his time with his mates, and when he leaves home in October, that’s it, we’ll have nothing left. We’re still functioning as a family. We turn up to parties and weddings and so on, Angie’s arm through mine, and people say how good we look, which we do. Angie’s as beautiful in her forties as she was in her twenties: sleek brown hair, big green eyes, the kind of mouth that men can’t stop staring at, and if she shows any sign of age, it’s only made her more attractive. I’ve stopped counting the times people tell me how lucky I am. They say the same to her, I know—it was one of our best jokes. People used to hit on us, individually and even together. We had so many offers, we could have swung like a pendulum. But we were the faithful type. There was no gossip about Joe and Angie—we were devoted to each other, and everyone assumed that we had such great sex that we never even looked at anyone else.

That was true—was.

Now here I am, a forty-two-year-old father of two, senior ICT manager at a large London university, married but might as well be celibate, stressed out by a family Christmas, and so fucking horny that my own right hand isn’t enough anymore. All the tension is building up in my neck and shoulders and I’m sitting on the lat pull-down machine in the gym one evening, doing my third set, when something in my left shoulder goes crack-ping and I let go of the bar with a mighty clang and shout in agony.

Gym etiquette is such that nobody rushed to my aid or expressed concern. The other guys on the machines watched, just in case I looked like I was about to die, in which case they might go and get someone from reception. The girls on the stairmasters and cross-trainers all had headphones on—they wouldn’t even hear a fire alarm, let alone another grunt from the boys’ side. But I was in serious pain, and I was either going to throw up or pass out. Actual tears were forming in my eyes. I would have looked around for help or signalled to someone, but I couldn’t actually move, my spine had turned to a column of concrete, and if I twisted it, it would shatter.

I might have stayed there until closing time or until someone else wanted to use the machine, but fortunately help was at hand. One of the trainers working with a client heard my cry of pain and came to my assistance. I knew him, in the casual buddy way one knows other men at the gym, enough for hellos and goodbyes, a bit of banter, and the odd training tip. I’d noticed he was in amazing shape—when you’re serious about training, you pay attention to these things, right? He was in his thirties, but his body looked like a twenty-two-year-old’s, slim, strong, and smooth, skin pale and hairless, with a few random tattoos. He was Eastern European I guessed from his accent, and I knew his name was Adrian because he wore a nametag. I liked him. I looked forward to seeing him, because he always smiled at me and said hi. That was all, wasn’t it? He was friendly. So many men in gyms are terrified of making eye contact, let alone actually talking. But I have enough silence in my life.

‘You OK, man?’ He was at my side, one hand on my shoulder.

‘Yeah . . . no . . . I don’t know, something just went.’

‘Hold on. Stay there. Don’t move.’

‘I can’t.’

He had a few words with his client, disappeared for a minute while I tried to ignore the pain that was shooting from my neck all the way down my back to my hips, thighs, and knees, and then returned with an icepack in his hand.

‘Here.’ He gently pried my fingers away and applied the soothing compress. The pain didn’t stop, but I suppose I must have relaxed. The panic subsided. ‘Can you stand?’

‘Yeah.’ With a bit of help, I got to my feet. I was dripping— sweat, tears, snot. Adrian pulled a length of paper towel from the dispenser and handed it to me. He guided me out of the weight room into the reception area.

‘Stay here. Don’t sit down. I’ll be back in one minute. I just need to get keys. OK? Don’t move.’

He ran down the corridor, his white trainers squeaking on the lino, and disappeared through a door. The receptionist gave me a quizzical look. I grimaced, pointed at my neck, and wished I hadn’t. The pain was still there waiting to spring with any movement.

‘Adrian will sort you out,’ said the receptionist. ‘He’s brilliant.’

Other members came and went—it’s a busy place, the university gym where I train; one of the perks of the job, cheap and well-equipped with excellent trainers and, as I was about to discover, a team of qualified physiotherapists.

Adrian bounced back down the corridor in his black track pants and T-shirt with the gym logo on his chest. His short thinning blond hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights. He was jangling a bunch of keys. ‘Here. I’ve got a treatment room. Take it slow. That’s it.’

With a lot of encouragement and support, I made it through the double doors, hobbling like an old man. The treatment room was small, with just room for a massage table and not much more. Adrian lowered me carefully into a chair.

‘It’s Joe, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, Joe Heath.’

‘I’m supposed to fill out some forms before we start, but we’ll do that later.’ London vowels overlaid his native accent; he must have lived here for some time. I like to chat with people—barbers, dentists, taxi drivers. I can find out their life stories within five minutes, and usually I’d have been asking Adrian the usual questions about his origins, but I was in so much pain, all I could manage was a breathless ‘OK.’

‘Put your arms down by your side, slowly.’

It felt like rusty iron cogs were grinding against each other. I winced sharply, but I made it. My head felt fuzzy, and my stomach was still heaving.

‘Now I’m going to touch your neck, very gently. Alright?’

‘Mmm.’

He stood behind me, close enough that I could hear the rustle of his clothes. Cool fingertips rested lightly on my shoulders. Always checking that I was OK, he started pressing and rubbing, working up my neck to the base of my skull, down the trapezius muscle to the top of my arm, his touch light but confident.

‘Ever done this before?’

‘Yes, years ago, but never as bad as this.’

‘You’ve trapped a nerve in your upper vertebrae. Just around here.’ He pressed the pads of his fingers on the left of my neck, behind the ear. ‘I can feel the muscles in spasm.’

‘Can you do anything?’

‘Yes. I can stop the pain, at least for now. But you need to be careful and do special exercises, and come back to see me for more treatment. Don’t worry. It’s cheap.’

‘I don’t care what it costs,’ I said—pain, like lust, makes you reckless. ‘Just do it.’

He continued pressing on my neck, his thumb jumping over what felt like a hazelnut embedded in the muscle, hard and tight. Gradually, the pain subsided.

‘Take a few deep breaths.’

I did as I was told. I realized that I’d been holding my whole body rigid and started to let go.

‘That’s good. Breathe out again. Let your core relax. Good.’ His hands were working harder on me now—if he had done this two minutes ago I’d have screamed the house down. ‘Now, raise your shoulders . . . hold it . . . and lower them. Raise them . . . hold it . . . and lower them.’

The pain was ebbing away, from kitchen-knife-in-the-back to severe-beating-with-a-stick to nasty-bruise-after-a-rugby-game. That I could deal with. ‘Oh, thank God,’ I said. ‘You’re a bloody genius.’

‘Have you got ten minutes?’

‘Of course.’

‘We’re going to get you on the table.’

I stood up unassisted, and without the desire to puke.

‘Take your shirt off.’

I grabbed the bottom hem and started to lift—but I never got beyond my navel. The pain sprang back with a vengeance. ‘Jesus!’

‘Stop, stop! It’s OK. We’ll manage. Lie down on your front. Take it slow. That’s it. You’re there. Now just let your arms hang down.’

Adrian stood beside me, supporting me and making sure I didn’t fall. Then, slowly and carefully, he lifted my shirt, pulling it up from under my stomach, until the whole thing was bunched up around my armpits. He applied oil to his hands and started working from the base of my spine upward. Everything seemed to sink into the padded surface of the table. The pressure was firm and even, and as I started to feel more relaxed, I nearly dozed off. The only sounds were our breathing, the whooshing of his hands over my skin, and the wet click of the oil.

Time passed.

‘Can you turn over?’

I found, to my surprise, that I could. I also found that I had a hard-on, which my gym shorts did nothing to conceal. Oh well, I thought. He’s a professional. He’s seen it before. It doesn’t mean anything; if we ignore it, it will go away.

It occurred to me as Adrian stood behind my head and started massaging my chest and arms, that this was the first time another person had touched me while I had an erection in many years. That didn’t help matters. But he didn’t say anything and neither did I, so for a few more minutes, he worked on my neck, shoulders, and torso while my dick throbbed in its mesh pouch. I was pretty sure there was a visible wet patch.

‘How do you feel now?’

Apart from being very close to orgasm, you mean? ‘Fine. Much better. Thank you.’

‘Stand up, and I’ll show you some exercises. You need to do these at least three times a day.’

If I stand up, I thought, it will stick out a mile. Does it matter? We’re men, we’re in a gym; this kind of thing is a natural everyday occurrence.

‘It’s OK,’ he said, laughing. ‘It happens to everyone. Just rearrange yourself if you need to.’ He turned his back and wiped his hands. I moved my cock so that it was pressed against my body as much as possible. It happens to everyone, he said. Nothing unusual here. Goes with the territory. What a nice man! So understanding. And with such good hands. My cock wasn’t going down.

‘Now then, Joe, this shouldn’t be happening to you.’ I must have looked puzzled, because he added, ‘The neck, I mean. You’re carrying way too much tension up there. So every day, you do this.’

He guided me through a series of stretches—all the things that gym users know they should do but never actually do. ‘Take some ibuprofen and paracetamol when you get back to your desk. Don’t come to the gym for at least three days. Make an appointment to see me in a week. Yes? Good.’

I nodded and thanked him, and couldn’t stop feeling his hands on my body, my cock still pulsing in my shorts . . . .

‘And now,’ he said, ‘I’m already late for another client. I’m sorry.’ He opened the door. ‘See you later, Joe.’

I managed to thank him, tripping over my words, and headed for the changing room.

Now, I don’t know if something happened to my brain as a result of that neck injury, or if Adrian’s hands on my body triggered some long-pent-up desires, but even with the lingering pain, I couldn’t stop feeling horny. I had to carry my towel in front of me, in case I frightened the other members and got blacklisted from the gym. My locker was at the back, as far as possible from the showers, so by turning to face the wall, I was able to undress without anyone seeing my obvious arousal. It wasn’t sticking straight out any more, but it was twice its normal size and certainly not hanging down. I wrapped the towel round my waist, checked myself in the mirror— it was visible, but not too obvious—and headed for the shower.

The university gym must be one of the few places left in London with old-fashioned open showers, just a walk-in wet area with eight spigots sticking out of the wall. No cubicles, no frosted glass dividers, just water, tiles, and pipes. It’s a flasher’s paradise. I had seen other guys looking at me, of course—we’re all in a gym, we check out each other’s bodies; it goes with the territory. Sometimes there might be a bit more to it than simple competitiveness, and I’ve been aware on occasion that some men look a little longer than others. Gay friends have told me that it’s one of the great perks of going to the gym, which I understand: I’ve always said that if I could shower with women, I’d be there 24/7. After work, when I train, the changing rooms are usually full, but this evening, delayed by my session with Adrian, the commuter crowd had washed and dressed and was gone, and there was just one other man in the showers. I knew him well enough to say hello—we’d done circuit training together and exchanged the usual gym small talk. He’s older than me, in his mid-fifties, but holding together well; I won’t be too disappointed if I’m in similar shape at his age. He’s bald, but I’m catching up fast in that department; the thick, glossy brown hair that I used to be able to wear in a quiff is thinning fast, and I have to wear it short these days to avoid looking as though I’ve got a comb-over.

‘Alright, mate?’ he asked, catching my eye and nodding.

‘Yeah, alright.’ I pointed to my neck. ‘Pinched a nerve.’

‘Ouch. You OK?’

‘I’ll survive.’

We were facing each other; he was naked under the shower, his hairy body covered in soap. I still had my towel on. I could turn my back on him, of course, but he’d seen me naked so many times that it would seem odd. Better to carry on as if nothing was wrong. And it wasn’t, was it? I had a bit of a semi. It happens to everyone. I unwrapped the towel, hung it on a hook, and hit the shower button. I tried not to look down at my cock, but I was conscious that it was swinging around more than usual and not going down, just the opposite, if anything. Oh well. Nobody screamed or ran away. Hot water splashed on my head and ran down my back, rinsing off the oil that Adrian had applied.

‘That trainer, Adrian—he’s a physiotherapist. He really helped me out.’

‘Oh, right. Is he good?’

‘Yeah.’ We were facing each other, washing, chatting, nothing unusual except for the fact that I was now at least halfway hard, my cock standing about 45 degrees from my body. I noticed him glancing down. ‘He’s got magic hands. He gave me a massage.’

‘Sounds great. Nothing like a good massage to sort you out.’

‘I should probably get them more regularly.’

‘Yeah.’

That seemed to be the end of the conversation, and we were left with nothing but the sound of running water and my cock apparently trying to reach across the space between us. He was looking at it quite openly now, and when I looked over, I saw that he was also getting hard.

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ I said. ‘This doesn’t usually happen.’

‘That’s OK. I’m enjoying the view.’

I cleared my throat and felt the blood pounding in my temples. This had switched from a bit of innocent banter in the showers to something else. ‘Oh, right. You’re . . . ’

‘Yeah.’

‘Right.’ What should I do now? Is it up to me to make the move? My cock said yes, but my shaky knees said no. The decision was made for me—the door at the far end of the changing room banged, and we both turned to face the wall. I rinsed off quickly and grabbed my towel, painfully aware that if I rubbed my cock a few times, I’d be squirting come against the tiles.

I dressed quickly, concealed from my shower friend by a bank of lockers. Shit! What just happened? I’m not gay. I’m not even a bit gay, am I? I’ve never done anything like that. Why am I suddenly showing off my hard cock to blokes? Why did it feel so good when Adrian touched me? Why didn’t I just laugh this off instead of standing in the shower with a stiff cock and a pounding heart, not wanting it to stop, loving the fact that I was making him hard, that he was watching me and wanting me? Is this what’s been building up inside me in all these years of wanking? Is this why I stopped having sex with Angie? Is it my fault? Jesus, have I just turned gay without even knowing it? What the fuck was going on?

‘See you, mate.’

He was dressed too, suit and tie, black shoes, popping his head around the lockers, a friendly smile on his face, nothing more. Say goodbye, let him go, it’s all over, nothing happened. I felt sick. The pain from my neck? Hunger after a workout? What?

‘Hang on a sec,’ I said, stuffing my kit into my bag. ‘I’ll walk out with you.’ The words were out before I could stop them. And in retrospect, it was those few words that changed everything. I might have remained one of the millions of middle-aged men stuck in an unhappy marriage, whose lives go nowhere once they’ve passed forty. But instead, thanks to a trapped nerve, a skillful masseur, and a friendly word from a bloke in a shower, I have a story to tell.

We walked down to the reception area in silence. I didn’t know what I wanted to happen—I just knew that I didn’t want it, whatever it was, to end yet.

We were at the door.

‘Well,’ he said, with a smile on his face.

‘I’m . . . I’m sorry about . . . you know.’

‘No need to apologize. You’re very sexy.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

‘Take it from me.’ I must have looked like an idiot, my mouth agape and my brows furrowed. He laughed. ‘Look, would you like to come for a quick coffee? I live just over the road.’

‘Just over the road.’

‘That’s right. My flat.’ He pointed. ‘Over there. About a minute’s walk.’

‘Right.’

‘Or not. Up to you.’

I couldn’t actually form any words.

‘OK. Look, I don’t want to put any pressure on you. I just thought . . . ’

‘Yes. I’ll come. Yes. Which way? This way?’ I was gabbling, but fortunately he took control, steered me over the crossing without letting me fall under a bus, and walked at a brisk pace toward a block of flats. Up some steps, through a door, and into a lift. I was in a daze.

‘What’s your name, mate?’

‘Joe.’

‘I’m Michael. It’s OK. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to.’

‘Yeah.’

The lift went up. My knees were buckling. I’d like to say that I thought of my wife and kids, but I’m not sure that’s true. They were there in a kaleidoscope of other confused ideas, swirling through my mind as the lift seemed to shoot into space at a thousand miles an hour. The walls were mirrored, and there I was, endlessly repeated, in images of my possible future, so many different possibilities, and this was the moment that I chose one of them. I could press the button and stop the lift, or I could walk out and run down the stairs. I could tell Michael that he’d made a mistake, that I’d made a mistake, that it was just a joke or an accident . . . .

The doors opened. I was dimly aware of brown carpet and cream-colored walls, overhead lights down a corridor along which we seemed to glide until we reached a door with dark wood, brushed steel fittings, and everything clean and silent apart from the rushing noise in my ears.

‘Are you OK, Joe?’

The key was in the lock. I said, ‘Yeah, of course,’ and my voice sounded quite normal. He opened the door and I seemed to be drawn in, as if by a vacuum.

‘I think you’d better sit down.’

I made it as far as a chair in the hallway—a straight-backed wooden chair with a moulded seat, the sort that cups your arse. As I sat, I was aware that my cock was still hard—harder than it had ever been before, painfully so. I looked down. My trousers were bulging in an obscene manner.

‘I think we’d better take care of you.’ He knelt in front of me. ‘Is that OK?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes. Please.’

‘OK.’ I tried to sound casual, but my dick was practically undoing my fly from inside in its desperation to reach him.

Michael knew what he was doing, for which I will always be grateful. He didn’t fumble with my belt, buttons, or zipper. He didn’t rush or tear, but he didn’t prolong the agony unduly. He rubbed my thighs, squeezed my balls, ran his hand over the length of my cock, and then pulled my trousers down to my ankles. I’m fussy about my underwear; I always wear nice fresh briefs that I throw away after about five washes. It’s my one big extravagance, and I’ve never been happier about that than I was at this moment. They were pale blue with a white waistband and piping around the fly, with a dark, damp spot over the tip of my cock. Michael stroked me gently through the fabric and then buried his face in it. From that point on, I watched the proceedings from somewhere outside myself. My body was incapacitated by pleasure, my brain flooded with chemicals, but part of me was hovering up there thinking ‘this is interesting, you’re getting your cock sucked by a man, he’s doing a very good job, it feels better than anything you’ve ever experienced before, and what does this mean? Will you be the same person when you leave as you were when you walked in? How on earth did this happen? Was it Adrian’s touch? Was it something clicking in your brain when you hurt your neck? Are you gay then? Bisexual? What will happen next? I can’t wait to find out.

And then I looked down and saw that my cock was out, bigger and harder than it had ever been, the foreskin half-retracted over the head, and Michael was running his tongue up and down the underside of the shaft, gently squeezing my balls with one hand and running his other over my hard, flat stomach. Then his tongue reached the top of my cock and found my wet, sticky hole, and I tuned out again, eyes closed, unable to comprehend what he was doing to me.

There’s something very comforting about being in the hands of an expert. It’s like when you trust the pilot of a plane or read a book and realize (after twenty pages or so) that the writer knows what he’s doing. You settle back, relax, and enjoy the ride, confident that you’ll get to where you want to go. My experience of oral sex to this date had been hit or miss—Angie was never much interested, and my previous girlfriends had been either timid or rather over-enthusiastic. I’ve heard friends talking about ‘a good blowjob’ and I always wondered if such a thing existed, or whether it was just something dreamed up by the porn industry. Well, that question was now being answered. Michael’s lips were around the head of my cock, now sliding slowly down, with just enough suction, enough wetness to make it smooth, and I was inside him, all the way to the base, his nose touching my pubic hair. I must have entered his throat, but he never gagged or stopped. Up he came again, circled me with his tongue, tickled my hole, and then went down. Thumb and forefinger gripped my balls, squeezing them, pulling them gently down. They were tight. I was going to come soon. I put my hands on his head, holding him, caressing him, a sudden feeling of intimacy and affection sweeping over me.

It’s been so long since I came at anyone’s hands but my own that I wanted to pull out of his mouth and finish myself off—it felt too strange, too intense, too personal. But Michael was having none of it: He kept my cock in his mouth, firmly moved my hand away, and kept sucking, allowing me to fuck his mouth till I thought I’d choke him. But he didn’t miss a beat, not even when spunk started shooting out of me. He took it all, swallowed it, and when I’d finished, he held me in his mouth until my breathing slowed down.

It was only when he let me go, and my cock slipped out with a wet plop, that I started to think about what I’d just done. I couldn’t look at Michael, who had the good sense to busy himself with something or other, turning his back so that I could sort myself out in relative privacy. I didn’t know whether I wanted to run away immediately, pants around my ankles, or move in with him.

The orgasm was over, and thanks to Michael’s skilled throat, there was no mess to clean up, so I switched into everyday mode, pretending that I was simply dressing after a workout at the gym. I was matey, even jokey. ‘Phew! Yeah, well, that was quite something, not what I was expecting when I got to the gym today, you never know what’s going to happen, do you, bit of a surprise, to be honest, but anyway, I’d better get going . . . .’ I was gabbling again, and by this time my shirt was tucked in, my fly and belt done up, and the obscene bulge was gone.

Michael turned around and said, ‘OK then, well, nice to see you, hope that was enjoyable.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Don’t tell him what you’re really thinking, that something in your life has changed, that you’re broken beyond repair, or that you’re mended in some strange way. Don’t pour out the confusion and fear. ‘Very nice, ta.’

Ta? Ta? Like he just made you a cup of tea or a sandwich?

His eyebrows flicked up a little as if he was about to laugh, but he suppressed it. ‘Well, you know where I am, if you ever want to . . . come again.’

‘Sure.’ I should get his number, shouldn’t I? Or will he ask for mine? What do people do? ‘OK. I’ll see you around.’ I stepped toward the door. He opened it for me.

‘The lift’s just down there.’

‘Thanks.’

I hesitated. I was in no rush to get home. We could just talk.

‘Well . . . ’

And I walked away, down the soft, muffling carpet, to the escape of the lift and the lobby and the street.

Nobody on the train home realized that my life was breaking into pieces. I was returning to my wife after pumping my load down a man’s throat. Surely it was written all over me, the guilt, the panic. People should be backing away in horror. The train should fly off its tracks. But no—we pulled into the station on time, and there was my car in its usual place in the car park, my key slipped into the ignition, and I took my normal route home. I stopped for a bottle of wine. Angie would be home. We could have a drink and a laugh, and I might find that all I really needed to do was talk to my wife and stop taking my marriage for granted. I’d stop thinking about what Adrian’s hands had done to me, how I’d felt when Michael first looked at my naked cock in the shower, how hard it got, and then his tongue on my hole, his lips moving up and down like wet silk, his thumb and finger circling my tight balls, tugging them as I emptied myself into him. I was hard again when I got to the house. Perhaps I should just take Angie upstairs and try to relight our fire.

‘Hi darling!’

Silence.

‘Hello? Angie?’

The house was empty. Alex was out at a friend’s house, I knew that—but where was Angie? She hadn’t said anything this morning. No emails or texts, no note on the kitchen table, just silence and absence and emptiness. The thought flashed through my mind that she somehow knew what had happened and had left me. Of course it was impossible—nobody knew, except Michael and me, and unless he’d somehow traced her number and called her to say that her husband was gay . . . irrational of course, but that didn’t stop my heart from beating fast and my hands from shaking.

Take a deep breath. Sort yourself out. Nothing has happened— nothing will happen. Everything in the house is normal. My marriage is failing, my kids don’t need me, I’m lonely and frustrated, but I have my home, however empty. Nobody knows. And if I make an effort, even I won’t know. I won’t go running back to Michael or book another appointment with Adrian. I’ll put it down to temporary insanity and move on. If I’m horny, I can surely find a woman somewhere who will take care of me, even if it’s for money. I don’t have to pursue a path that can only lead to ruin.

I was hungry, so I made a sandwich. I was thirsty, so I had a beer—not something I often do at home; there’s not much point in spending all those hours in the gym if I’m going to hide my abs under a beer belly—and then I realized that I was still horny as hell, my dick had been half-hard ever since I got home. Angie wasn’t here, and short of running out onto the suburban street and ringing doorbells until I could find somebody willing, I’d have to rely on my own hand as usual. I went upstairs to the study—a fourth bedroom, according to the real estate agent, but really only big enough for a desk and a chair—and turned on the computer. Like every other man, I have my go-to sites for quick relief, all of them officially heterosexual even if I have been taking more of an interest in the cocks than I’m supposed to. But tonight I was feeling defiant. Angie wasn’t there, she’d missed her big chance to get our marriage back on track, and so, damn it, I was going to find some gay porn and wank over it while thinking about Adrian and Michael.

It didn’t take long to find a slim, smooth, and muscular blond guy in his twenties sucking the cock of a big, hairy, and also muscular dark-haired guy in his forties. I lasted about two minutes before I shot a massive load that hit the screen, desk, keyboard, and my trousers.

I had barely cleaned up when I heard a key in the front door. My wife was home.