4

BILL’S INSTRUCTIONS WERE QUITE EXPLICIT: ‘GO OUT SHOPPING and buy yourself women’s underwear—knickers, tights, stockings—black or white, sheer. Wear them under your regular clothes next time you come to see me. Prove to me that you’re a real sub.’

I’ve never been interested in women’s underwear except on a woman, and it’s never featured particularly in my married life. Of course, I enjoy a photograph of a sexy woman in lingerie as much as the next straight man, but I’ve never thought about wearing it myself.

So why was I standing in the women’s underwear department of Marks and Spencer with a hard-on as I selected garments to wear for my next assignation with Bill?

The woman at the checkout approved of my choices. ‘Oh, these are lovely,’ she said of the little black lace-trimmed panties with bows at the hips. ‘She’ll love these.’ She looked up at me. ‘I wish someone would buy me nice underwear.’

‘Oh, well,’ I said, certain that guilt was written all over my face as I fumbled for my card. I paid and beat a hasty retreat, the almost weightless package stuffed into my briefcase. I shoved it to the back of my sweater drawer when I got home and forgot about it. My next date with Bill wasn’t for a while, and during that time, I promised myself, I was going to live a blameless life. I worked hard, I went to the gym, I said hi to Adrian and even to Michael. I spent time with my son, watching movies and playing on the Xbox. I spoke to my daughter on the phone, asking her about university life, finding out that she had a new boyfriend called Paul ‘who is great, I can’t wait to bring him home, I think you’ll really like him.’ I tried, whenever possible, to have dinner with my wife. But she was busy—work things, social things, evening classes, lectures, a spa weekend.

I got home on Thursday evening. Alex was out, and Angie was sitting at the kitchen table with a cold cup of tea in front of her.

‘Hi darling.’

No response. I went to kiss her. She flinched.

‘What’s the matter?’

She looked me straight in the eyes but said nothing.

‘Angie? Has something happened?’ My immediate fear was that one of the kids was in trouble—hurt, sick, or dead. ‘Talk to me.’

‘Joe.’ Her voice was flat.

‘Yes?’ How has she found out? Who has told her? Michael? Bill? Has one of Pete’s photographs leaked? Oh Christ, what about Stuart, after all these years? Has he turned up unexpectedly?

‘Are you having an affair?’

Well, that was easy to answer. ‘No. Of course not.’

‘Then how do you explain this?’ She put the Marks and Spencer bag on the table. Such a little thing. Almost weightless. ‘And don’t try saying that it’s for me. You’ve never bought me lingerie in your life.’

‘It’s, it’s . . . ’ It’s for me to wear so that some bloke I met on Craigslist will fuck me. ‘OK. It’s for someone at work. It’s a sort of joke. We went out for a drink and he had a bit too much and he admitted he’d always been interested in, you know, dressing up. I was going to leave it in his desk, anonymously, and see what happened. I forgot all about it.’ I shrugged. ‘I know. It’s childish.’

‘Is that the best you can do?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Men don’t buy lingerie just to play a joke on a colleague.’

‘I did.’

‘Men buy lingerie for their mistresses.’

This was so fundamentally wrong that I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Mistresses? God, Angie, you are barking up the wrong tree. I’m not having an affair. I don’t have a mistress.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

The coast was clear—nothing had really gone wrong, she hadn’t found out. ‘Look at the size, Angie. But believe what you want. If you don’t trust me anymore, then our relationship is over.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

‘Yes it is. You think I’m seeing another woman, and when I tell you I’m not, you don’t believe me. That sounds like you don’t trust me.’

‘Joe, for God’s sake. What am I supposed to think?’

‘Quite honestly, I don’t care. I’m going out. And that,’ I said, grabbing the bag and chucking it in the bin, ‘can go in there.’

‘Joe, please.’

I should have sat down and talked things over. Maybe we could have saved our marriage. Angie was suspicious—I was too, if it came to it. She was spending so much time away from home she could be maintaining a string of lovers. Instead, with a feeling of elation, I put my coat on, picked up my wallet, and slammed the front door behind me.

I had a free evening, and I was the injured party here—wasn’t I? I felt like I was, and that’s the same thing. So I was damn well going to do what I pleased.

What I really wanted was to see Bill and continue my training, but it was impossible to arrange a visit at such short notice. I’m sure there are ways and means of getting laid within minutes wherever you happen to be, but the only thing I could think of was a sauna that I happened to know of, about half an hour’s drive away. How did I know about it—me, a married man with two kids? Well, I’ve been on the right websites, of course. I’m sure I’m not the only straight guy who likes to know what his options are, who thinks about them when he wanks but does nothing about them. Except in my case, stung into action by my near discovery and miraculous escape, I was going to act. Reckless, risky, stupid, and my cock was hard by the time I got into third gear. What did I think would happen? I don’t know. I’d just look and be looked at, maybe have a wank, maybe have a nice refreshing sauna, you never know. I needed to get away from home. A crisis was approaching—I could hear it coming, like a train way up the track—every little sound or alarm could be the big one. I’d narrowly missed discovery; maybe Angie thinks I’m screwing other women behind her back, which plenty of our friends have done, and considering we no longer have sex, she must have been expecting this for some time. Would I really be so stupid as to buy lingerie for a mistress and leave it to be discovered? Of course not. And what was she doing rooting around in my drawers anyway? Is she suspicious? Is she hacking into my email account, looking at my phone? She won’t find anything. The email account I use for Craigslist is so heavily password-protected that even Alan Turing couldn’t crack it; all she’ll find on my regular email is work stuff and family stuff. I’m in the clear, and so confident that I’m actually feeling indignant that she went looking for evidence in the first place.

And here we are, in the middle of an industrial estate in outer London, off the main road, down a slip road, up a street that looks like it goes nowhere, but there’s a blue neon glow up ahead and, as the website promised, ‘ample parking,’ so I pull up and switch off. The Thames Sauna: ‘traditional steam baths, dry sauna, plunge pool, and treatments’ according to the information. Mixed at weekends. Women only on Tuesday. Men only the rest of the week. And what do you know, this is a Thursday, as it happens. But it’s not a gay venue. It says so on the website: ‘This is not a gay venue. Inappropriate behavior will not be tolerated. The management reserves the right . . . ’ and so on.

See? Not a gay venue. And I’m a married man. Married to a woman who thinks I’m screwing another woman. Father of two, whose photos I have in my wallet and on my phone. I play football, I go to the gym, I drink beer with the lads, and I say ‘mate’ a lot. I have muscles and hair on my body, and if I use a trimmer to keep it neat, that means nothing these days. I’m Joe Heath. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you what I’m like. And if I’m going to the Thames Sauna on a Thursday, it can only be because I’ve overdone it at the gym and need to ease my muscles.

OK?

Yes, I am slightly erect. It’s only natural. My missus doesn’t oblige any more.

Nobody knows that the last time I came, I was on my knees with a cock in my mouth, remembering another time, twenty years ago, when my best man and I were drunk.

Stuart. Whatever happened to Stuart? We hardly saw each other after I got married. Only natural—it happens to the best of friends. I had a wife and kids now, and he had his own life; we drifted apart, Christmas cards, the occasional email, but after that, nothing.

He’d be easy to find of course. Maybe I should look him up for old times’ sake. Pick up where we left off, tell him about my marital problems. Tell him more, maybe. Confess it all. Get back to where we were on the stag night, see where it takes us.

This wouldn’t do. I was nearly fully hard, and I hadn’t even got as far as the reception desk. I adjusted myself, paid my money, and got my towels and locker key. The guy at the desk barely looked at me.

‘Is it busy in there?’ I asked, trying to be friendly, to show that I wasn’t nervous. The receptionist—young, foreign, I guessed Brazilian—just shrugged and said ‘OK.’ I followed the sign for the men’s changing room.

The facilities were basic to say the least—slatted wooden benches, grey metal lockers, strip lighting. There were a few other men in there, mostly older, resting on the benches, towels wrapped around their stomachs, red-faced and sweating. One nervy-looking skinny guy with a fashionable haircut, clipped up the sides with a sharp side parting, glanced around as he hurriedly stripped and stuffed his belongings into the locker. When I looked up, he turned away. I took my time, partly because I wanted my erection to subside before I dropped my trousers and partly because I quite enjoyed being watched. The older men stared as I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled my vest over my head. My body is in good shape these days, and I’m always pleased to have my hard work appreciated. Haircut kept stealing glances as my clothes came off. This wasn’t helping with the erection situation, but I didn’t care much anymore. Let ’em look. That’s what we’ve all paid our twelve quid for, right?

I took my time with my shoelaces. Nobody was in a hurry to go anywhere. Haircut was suddenly taking great care folding his clothes and placing them in the locker. Shoes off, socks off, and now I stood up to unbuckle my belt. My dick was hard, but what the hell? We’re all adults.

I faced my audience. Everyone was quiet. Even Haircut stopped fussing and watched. I unzipped my fly and stepped out of my trousers. I was wearing bright green pants with a white waistband—nice and new of course—and my cock was clearly visible, hard, pressed against my abdomen, and pointing up toward my right hipbone.

I folded my trousers neatly, turned around to put my clothes in the locker, giving them a view of my arse. Now I had a choice. I could do the under-towel shuffle, removing my underwear beneath a barrier of fluffy white cotton, or I could just whip ’em off and give everyone a treat.

Oh, sod it, I thought. Nobody’s going to arrest me.

I gave my wedding ring a quick twist, just to make sure everyone saw it, and then pulled my pants down. My cock leapt out. I ran my hand down my stomach, pressing on my pubis so my dick went down, pointing at the floor, and then I let it go again. It bounced around, getting harder and harder. Eyes were bulging out of red faces. Haircut’s mouth was hanging open. It was time to split. I wrapped the towel around me and headed for the sauna. I expected others to follow me like a little trail of ducklings following their mother, but when I glanced over my shoulder, I was alone.

A spiral staircase led up to a softly-lit lounge area with recliners and parlour palms (presumably fake, as there was no daylight) and a drinks dispenser. Four men were installed, dozing or just resting, towels carefully arranged. An employee in a white tracksuit was vacuuming the carpet, and a TV was on in the corner, tuned to a news channel, something about refugees.

I could smell disinfectant, which was reassuring, and something piney.

The wet rooms were through an arch. Black rubber floors, white walls, everything covered in condensation. A double row of showers, just like at school—just like the gym, open, no partitions. There were two men under there, one on each side, and any misgivings I had about sporting an erection at the Thames were quickly allayed: both of them were as hard as I was, cocks swinging under the splashing water. One of them was about my age, in reasonable shape—nothing that six months in a gym couldn’t fix—and very hairy, the water slicking the fur down on his chest and stomach. The other was short, bald, and very muscular, tattoos on each shoulder, thick eyebrows, and a chunky gold chain around his neck. They could have been anything—cab drivers, truck drivers, accountants, lawyers, actors, nurses. Here, under the steaming water and dim lights, we were all just men. Naked, horny men.

I hung my towel on a hook and joined them. I soaped up, washed my hair, my armpits, my arse, my cock. They watched. The bald guy stroked his dick slowly, appreciatively.

What now? I had no idea what the protocol was.

Baldy came to my assistance. ‘Want to go to the sauna?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Come on then. You too,’ he added to Hairy, and led the way to a glass and wood door. ‘Here we go. This one’s not too busy.’ He held the door open and in we went. There were two men stretched out on the upper benches—possibly asleep. We three took seats on the lower level, where the heat was less intense. There was no pretence of covering ourselves up. Three stiff cocks throbbed between three pairs of thighs.

Baldy pointed at my left hand. ‘Married?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Me too,’ said Hairy, ‘to a man.’

I said ‘fair enough,’ which sounded ridiculous, but I wasn’t thinking straight. What was going to happen? Was the situation out of control? There were five of us in the room, four witnesses to whatever I was about to do. I could walk away—‘this has been a big mistake, sorry guys’—collect my clothes and leave.

Baldy took hold of my cock and started wanking me. ‘Nice dick,’ he said, with the same intonation you’d use if you were admiring someone’s car. He nodded appreciatively, squeezing the thick middle.

‘Thanks.’ Good manners dictated that I return the compliment. I looked down. His cock was sticking straight at his navel, with an upward curve. ‘Yours too. Very nice.’ He was wanking me, so it was only polite to wank him as well. Our arms crossed over as we tossed each other off.

The two guys on the upper shelves stirred, propping themselves up on their elbows to watch the show.

Hairy was obviously feeling left out, as he stood in front of us, waving a thick hard-on in our faces. ‘Who wants to suck me first?’

Considering that Baldy and I were both supposed to be straight, we were surprisingly eager to win. Baldy beat me to it. With his free hand, he grabbed Hairy’s cock and pulled it toward him. His mouth opened, his tongue came out and started licking, and soon Hairy’s dick was disappearing into his mouth. I looked up—Hairy was looking highly amused, as well he might be, with two married men competing to suck his cock.

Baldy’s eyes were closed in ecstasy as he moved up and down Hairy’s cock; this was obviously what he’d come here for. And so did you, said a voice in my head. My last attempt at sucking cock had been too short-lived. I needed practice, and here I was with a prick in one hand and a mouth that’s watering.

Four more people who know my secret. If everyone who knows about me tells two more people, and they tell two, and so on, how long before it gets back to my family?

The sooner the better, said the voice. I got down on my knees, put my hands on Baldy’s thighs, and found his cock. This time there was no crazy flashback, no sudden orgasm. I just opened my mouth and took him into it, and started sucking. Each time I went a little further, getting used to the feeling of this big, hard thing in my mouth.

My cock was unattended now, but that suited me fine, knowing how trigger-happy I could be. I had no intention of coming just yet, because after the orgasm came the guilt and regret and the hasty retreat to normality. This time, I was going to go through with it, whatever happened. I was along for the ride, and it was up to Baldy and Hairy and anyone else to decide where we were going. With that thought in mind, I established a rhythm on Baldy’s fat cock, breaking off occasionally to tongue his slit or lick his balls, all the things I’d thought about doing when I wank or seen done in the highly educational videos I watched online.

‘Your turn,’ said Hairy, pulling his wet dick out of Baldy’s mouth. ‘Come on, straight boy. Show me what you can do.’ We changed places, and within seconds another cock was in my mouth, even bigger than the last. I did my best to take it. Baldy, fortunately, did not try to suck me—that could have been disastrous. Instead, he hitched my leg up and started exploring my arse with his fingers. Bill had already entered that virgin territory, so I wasn’t quite as alarmed as I might have been, as long as Baldy didn’t try anything stupid. For now, he contented himself with rubbing his fingers around my ring, pressing and circling, running up the thick band of my perineum to the base of my balls and down again. I shifted myself to allow him better access, concentrating all the while on keeping up the momentum on Hairy’s cock. I had one of them at each end now. Perhaps this was just the beginning; perhaps I was going to get fucked as well. I almost started shooting.

Baldy took that as encouragement, spat on his fingers, and started working one inside me. It felt great—and it made me want to take more of Hairy’s cock down my throat.

The sight was too much for one of the audience on the upper deck, who groaned ‘oh God’ and started coming. He left shortly after. And then there were four. Two pairs, even stevens. Much easier.

‘You. Get down here.’ Hairy was in charge, it seemed, and this time he was giving orders to the guy on the upper bench. I hadn’t paid much attention to him when we came in—my eyes were not used to the darkness—but now, as he lowered himself to the floor, I could see that he was a slim young man with tattoos across his chest, arms, and back, short hair with a sort of Mohawk cut into the top, and a scrappy beard. All of his body hair had been removed, and his cock was stiff.

‘You going to watch, or are you going to join in?’ asked Hairy.

Hipster Boy turned around, knelt on the bench, and grabbed his buttocks, opening them up to show his hole. Well, that was eloquent.

‘Who do you want first?’

‘Him,’ said Hipster Boy, pointing to me. It was difficult to pinpoint his accent from just one word, but he wasn’t British.

‘OK, Straight Boy,’ said Hairy. ‘You ready for this?’

‘Yeah, but . . . you know.’ There was no way I was going in unprotected. Lust had made me reckless but not suicidal.

‘It’s OK. We’re going upstairs, and they’ve got everything you need right there.’ Hairy smacked Hipster Boy hard on the arse. ‘Get up. You’re going to get fucked.’ He took him by the cock and led him out of the sauna. Baldy and I followed, both hiding our erections behind towels. Hairy didn’t bother. Everyone knew what we were up to, so there was little point in trying to hide it.

Another flight of stairs led to a small foyer with six doors, some open, some closed. Hairy selected one and opened it.

‘Gentlemen.’

There wasn’t much inside: a padded floor upholstered in black PVC, a couple of big black cushions in the same fabric, and that was it. There was a shelf just inside the door with a dish full of condoms and lubricant in individual packets.

Hairy ushered us in and closed the door behind us. There was enough room for all of us to lie down on the floor and enough light to see who was doing what to whom. ‘Towels off, please. Right, Straight Boy. You ready to fuck this arse?’

Hipster was already on his hands and knees, pushing his dick back between his legs to show how hard he was. It wasn’t really what I wanted, easy, mechanical sex with no connection, no buildup, but I’d surrendered myself to the experience and, as long as my cock stayed stiff, I’d do as I was told. I rubbered up while Baldy carefully applied lube to Hipster’s hole, and Hairy held his buttocks open. This was going to be a team effort.

I had never fucked a man before. My night with Stuart, what I can remember of it, certainly never went as far as anal. We sucked each other, we kissed, but I certainly didn’t walk down the aisle the next day with a sore arse, and neither did Stuart. A sore head, yes, and a determination to forget—which I managed quite effectively. Stuart may have wanted it, but it didn’t happen, of that I’m quite sure. There was no sudden flashback as I aligned the head of my cock with Hipster’s hole. This was a new experience for me. I won’t say virgin territory, as my cock slid inside easily. He gasped and groaned; there was no echo in the padded cell, and we could barely hear the dance music soundtrack that permeated the rest of the place. In here it was just us and our bodies, breathing, squelching and grunting.

I’m good at fucking. My wife, and various girlfriends before her, have made a point of telling me so. My cock’s big enough but not too big. It goes at the right angle to hit all the right spots inside a woman, and judging by the effect I was having on Hipster, the same applies to men. I’d barely moved in and out of his arse three times and he was pushing against me, swearing and begging, ‘oh fuck, oh please, oh God, oh yes, please fuck me’ and so on, the babbling monologue I’d only ever heard in a female voice. I’ve got good stamina, strong legs, and the ability to hold off an orgasm until I’m certain that my partner is satisfied. By the way Hipster was moaning and wanking, this wasn’t going to take long. I grabbed hold of his hips and fucked him deeper, faster, harder, trying to imagine what he was feeling. The thought nearly made me come before he did, but I took a deep breath and sent that orgasm back where it came from—not yet, not too soon. Hipster’s arse tightened around me, he pushed his face into the padded floor, shut his eyes, and started squirting spunk out of his dick. I carried on fucking until he reached around and stopped me with his hand. I withdrew, yanked off the condom, and wondered who or what was next.

Hipster picked up his towel, thoughtfully wiped up his come, and left.

And then there were three.

‘You next,’ said Hairy, pushing Baldy down on all fours. ‘Think you can satisfy him as well, Straight Boy?’ He seemed to be taking great pleasure in my supposed heterosexuality, and I was playing up to it, acting the stud, although what I really wanted was Baldy’s cock in my mouth and Hairy’s cock up my arse. I wanted to feel what Hipster felt, to know the intensity of his climax as I pounded into him. I wanted to be taken, overwhelmed, fucked at both ends.

But that wasn’t on the menu.

Baldy wasted no time in lubing himself up, and by the time I’d put on a new condom, he was practically reversing onto my cock. He was tighter than his predecessor and harder to get into—it took a fair bit of stopping and starting before he relaxed enough to take me in, but once I was in, he couldn’t get enough of me. Halfway through he pulled away, turned over on his back, and raised his knees. ‘I want to see you,’ he said, and so I pushed his thighs back against his chest and shoved my cock back into him. This time I glided in with no resistance, watching every moment of pain and pleasure registered on his face. He was sweating, leaving wet trails on the black PVC. Hairy positioned himself at Baldy’s head and started wanking in his face. Baldy took the hint and turned his head to the side and started sucking.

It should have been me, I thought, but it was too late for that. Baldy’s hips were bucking against me, and his hand reached down to his cock. He took as much of Hairy as he could, stretching his lips around him, gagged a bit but suppressed it, and then started coming all over his stomach and chest. The action in his arse, combined with the sight of him sucking and shooting, sent me over the edge, and with one almighty thrust, I started to come inside him, bellowing like a bull.

Hairy wasn’t far behind. ‘Oh shit,’ he said, as he pulled out of Baldy’s mouth and delivered a big load all over his face.

The three of us flopped down on our backs, panting and sweating. Baldy reached over and caressed my softening cock, squeezing out the last few drops of spunk.

Hairy was the first to leave. ‘Thanks, guys,’ he said, and headed for the stairs.

Alone together, Baldy and I were sheepish. I suppose we were both thinking of our lives outside of this darkened cube. There were responsibilities and consequences, and now that we’d both got what we wanted, now that the itch was scratched, we would return to the reality beyond the doors.

Our breathing slowed. We lay side by side, arms, ribs, hips, legs touching. Who would get up first?

I looked to the side: Baldy’s eyes were closed, and I thought he’d fallen asleep. ‘You OK?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘Just thinking.’

‘Me too.’

‘Not easy, is it?’

I knew what he meant, but I wanted to be sure. ‘What?’

‘This. Being married but . . . you know. Liking blokes.’

Well, that was a good way of putting it. ‘No. It’s not.’ Neither of us moved, and so I turned slightly onto my side and put an arm across his chest. He sighed with relief and cuddled closer.

‘Sometimes it’s just so fucking . . . ’ He never got any further than that, because our lips touched and we started kissing. Full, open-mouthed kisses with tongues, hands roaming all over each other’s heads, necks, shoulders, and backs. Our legs intertwined, and our bodies, damp and sticky, pressed together. Baldy said, ‘Oh God’ and kissed me more. My cock was getting hard again; this was a new experience, this passion, this intimacy with a man, far beyond the sexual act. This was something that lovers do—people who need each other, not just want to fuck each other. Was that happening here? Had I ‘met someone’? Would Baldy have a name, a number, or a future in which I figured? Or was he just making a spectacularly quick recovery?

His hand squeezed between our hips and grasped my cock, wanking me with a kind of ferocity that was too much to bear; I’d only just come, and my dick was still very sensitive.

‘Take it easy, mate,’ I said. ‘You can suck it if you want.’

He went straight down there, swallowing me to the hilt, his throat muscles working up and down, Adam’s apple bobbing. I stroked his neck, the side of his face, feeling the stubble and noticing a place where he’d nicked himself shaving. This was no perfect-skinned fitness model: he was a man like me, same sort of age, same sort of life, sailing in the same boat, and who knows how long he’d been on that voyage, what reefs and rocks and icebergs he’d encountered since leaving harbour.

I felt a surge of affection for this bald, battered stranger, so desperate to get another load out of me before I evaporated like some kind of mirage. How long could I satisfy him before he needed it again? Was the craving greater every time, the intervals shorter, the satisfaction less complete, the guilt less lacerating? I wanted to talk to him, to ask him how he coped, and whether, perhaps, we could cope better together.

I wanted to reach out, to help him and, in doing so, to help myself.

But I also wanted to suck his cock, and there it was, hard and within reach if I twisted myself around. We manoeuvred ourselves into a sixty-nine position, and I had the novel experience of sucking a cock upside-down. We were side by side, sucking each other and fucking each other’s mouths until, inevitably, we came again, jerking off together, semen shooting over faces and necks.

‘Suppose I better go,’ he said. ‘Get a shower or something.’

‘OK.’

It was over, whatever ‘it’ was, that moment of intensity and connection. We just wanted to be rid of each other, to forget what happened. We started fiddling with towels, getting up, wiping down. Someone said, ‘I don’t suppose you want to get a coffee, do you?’ and I realized it was me.

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. A coffee. Have a chat. Is that . . . ’ I wondered if I’d broken a rule, gone too far. You come and you go without speaking again. Was that the deal?

‘I’d love to. Here?’

‘Rather not. I’ve got a car. There must be somewhere. A pub or something.’

‘There’s a pub by the tube station. I mean, it’s just an old boozer.’

‘Sounds perfect. Come on. Let’s go and get dressed.’

We threw on our clothes and got out as quickly as we could. In the car we talked about traffic, commuter trains, the weather, the roadworks.

‘It’s just here on the left. My name’s Simon, by the way.’

I was going to say ‘Jack,’ but something went wrong with my mouth, so recently filled by Simon’s cock, and I said ‘Joe’ instead. This was real then. I had met someone. We could be friends or maybe more. This might be the beginning. Simon and Joe, Joe and Simon, left their wives for each other, but look how happy they are, making a home together, going on holidays, fucking like rabbits.

He got the drinks and had a bit of banter with the barman. In his grey suit and white shirt, he looked exactly like any other office worker popping into a pub.

‘Here you go.’ We’d chosen a table at the back, away from the crowds near the door. We could talk without being overheard.

We sipped our drinks: beer for him, Coke for me. Conversation did not come easily.

‘So,’ I said, without any clear idea of where this was going. ‘That was more fun than I expected.’

‘You been before?’

‘Never.’

‘You ever . . . you know. With a bloke.’

‘Once or twice. It’s all pretty new to me.’

‘Right. Yeah, me too. I mean, I’m married.’

‘Me too.’

That seemed to be the end of that. Simon’s eyes were flicking around the pub, as if he was looking for an excuse to leave. Oh look, there’s my friend . . .

‘He was a laugh, wasn’t he?’

‘Who?’

‘That other guy. The hairy bloke.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘He certainly gave us our orders.’

‘Yeah.’ Simon drank again and looked up at me over the top of his pint. ‘He got you to fuck me.’

‘I hope that was OK.’

He put his pint down and wiped his lips. ‘It was amazing.’

‘Good.’

‘It’s what I really wanted.’

This was more like it. A bit of honesty. ‘We could do it again sometime, you know.’

‘What?’

‘You know,’ I said. ‘We could get together.’

‘Meet up there, you mean?’

‘Or you could come to my house when my wife’s away.’ This would take a bit of planning, but there were frequent weekends when Angie and Alex were both off somewhere, and I was alone with my broadband connection and my dick in hand. Why not do some entertaining?

‘OK. Wow. That sounds amazing.’

‘And we could do it in a bed.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yeah. Why not?’ I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘I loved fucking you. And I want you to fuck me.’

We looked into each other’s eyes for several seconds. I had butterflies in my stomach. He wasn’t the most beautiful man in the world—like me, he’d been around the block a few times, there was some wear and tear, a broken nose at some point, wrinkles around the eyes, hairline long gone—but he was just what I wanted. A mate, a bloke, a friend who was more than a friend. I didn’t know the right words. I wasn’t falling in love in the way I fell in love with Angie—she and I just belonged together, everyone said so, we came together on a tide of other people’s approval and encouragement. Whatever this was with Simon would happen in private, in secret. But for the first time, I felt as if I’d found the answer to the questions that had been nagging me and keeping me awake at night.

‘Right. I want that too,’ said Simon. ‘You’re fucking gorgeous.’

I laughed. ‘I never thought I’d hear a man say that to me!’

‘No? Well, you are.’

‘And so are you. Shit,’ I said, squeezing my dick under the table, ‘I want to fuck you again.’

‘I don’t think I can take any more tonight,’ said Simon, his eyes twinkling. ‘I’m going to be feeling you inside me for a couple of days, I think.’

‘Good.’ I looked at my watch—it was nearly nine o’clock, and if I wasn’t going to face a barrage of questions when I got home, I’d better head out fairly soon. Simon was feeling the same way, obviously.

‘Well, back to reality then,’ he said, finishing his drink. I watched his Adam’s apple going up and down, just as it had when he sucked Hairy’s cock. I wanted to kiss his throat. ‘Shall I give you my number?’

‘Yeah. Here.’ I handed him my phone. ‘Put it straight in there.’

‘As the actress said to the bishop.’ He punched in the numbers. ‘Call me during the daytime, OK? Not in the evening and not on weekends. You understand, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, of course. I’ll give you a buzz tomorrow, then.’

‘Looking forward to it.’

We put our jackets on. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere, Simon?’ I was half thinking of parking in some dark side street for a goodnight kiss.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘The station’s just over the road. Best if I get home.’

We shook hands on the street and went our separate ways. When I looked back over my shoulder, he was gone.

Angie was in a placating mood when I got home. She didn’t actually apologize for her suspicions, but she was nicer to me than she’d been in a long time. Perhaps she knew she’d gone too far.

‘Been to the gym?’

‘Yes. It’s the only place I can get some peace.’

‘Are you hungry?’

I was starving, for obvious reasons. ‘Yeah.’

‘There’s some pasta for you, and I cooked some chicken.’

We ate together, not saying much, as friends.

But I slept alone.

The next morning, I waited until eleven o’clock before I called Simon. I wanted to hear his voice—and I wanted to make sure he had my number in his phone, even if he didn’t pick up. I’d leave a message. I had it all planned. ‘Hi Simon, it’s Joe here. It was great to meet you yesterday. Just give me a call some time.’ Nothing incriminating there—could be a work contact.

The number didn’t ring. Silence. I tried again. This time a voice: the number you have called is unavailable. Again, the same. Again and again.

It would be nice to think that, in the heat of the moment, Simon’s finger had put in the wrong number on my phone. But I knew that wasn’t true, and I knew quite well that I would never see him again.