Accepting It

I must say I thought the lad was coming onto me, but in retrospect I accept that it was just wishful thinking. Waiters' uniforms have this tendency of clouding my better judgement. I think it's those tight black trousers. Mentally undressing a guy becomes so much easier when his trousers cling so tightly to his arse-cheeks that you can see exactly what kind of underwear he's wearing.

Though to call the lad a waiter isn't entirely accurate. We were eating in more of a glorified pub than a restaurant. One of those places you have to note down your table number and order your food at one end of the bar.

I guess his job would have been described as "Table Supervisor" or "Inter-Service Attendant" or something. He was basically there to clear and lay tables between the departure and arrival of groups of customers.

He didn't even have a name badge, so I can't tell you his name.

He looked about nineteen or twenty and had short black hair. He was tall, though not unusually so, with a large nose and academic-looking face.

I guess he was a student earning his tuition fees.

What caught my attention was the way he kept glancing over to our table while he got on with clearing the others. And then, when he saw me looking over at him, how he kept turning away and bending forwards as if to deliberately furnish me with a view of those tight, round cheeks of his.

My thoughts began rapidly wandering from my wife and the desserts we were eating, and veering uncontrollably towards the seat of his trousers. Heading inside them, through the cotton of his tanga briefs, right up to the pert little hole that would be opening up, ever so slightly, between his gorgeous buttocks every time he bent forwards.

Four or five times of seeing him do this and of imagining my face pressing into his backside while he did, made me develop a hard-on. I don't know about you, but I find sitting down isn't exactly the best place to have that happen: I had to cross and uncross my legs a few times to try and disentangle my growing organ from my underwear and the material of my trouser pocket, which seemed to have garrotted it.

Melissa said, in that apparently unconcerned but implicitly chastising tone she's been developing, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah... I've just got an itch..."

"Well scratch it."

"It's in an... er... inopportune place..."

"Well go to the gents and scratch it." She said it flatly but with an undercurrent of annoyance. She'd been like this all evening.

I nodded. "Yeah. Maybe I ought to."

I kept my napkin over my groin as I stood up, hiding the diagonal mound that I knew would be pretty obvious to the right of the fly in my fawn-coloured chinos. I put it onto my chair at the last second, as I turned from the table with a mutter of, "Just a sec, then..."

I walked over to the lad who was laying one of the tables close by.

"Could you tell me where the loos are?"

He turned from the table and gave me directions. I didn't try to conceal the erection in front of my trousers; I didn't mind him seeing it. In fact, I wanted him to. Just in case he was in any doubt as to the motivation behind my question.

I said, flashing him a grin, "Actually, I'm not very good with directions... could you show me?"

He looked a little surprised but then nodded.

As we walked through the bar to get to the toilets, I said, "I hope those trousers are more comfortable than they look..."

He didn't say anything. Just seemed a bit puzzled.

I clarified myself. "They look like they're quite a tight fit..."

He shrugged. "I can't say I've really noticed..."

He pointed me to the toilets, but didn't come in with me as I'd expected.

I was disappointed. I'd been sure he'd wander in behind me, saying something about having to take a pee himself, and then we'd have a little fun peering over at one each others' erections at the urinals. I'd go into a cubical and gesture for him to follow me in. We'd lock the door, grin at each other as we yanked each others' trousers down, and I'd suck him until he was so hot that his balls would feel damp against my chin. Then I'd turn him round and bend him over the toilet cistern so I could rim that cute arse of his and finally, when it was slick with my saliva, I'd stand up behind him and fuck him roughly until he came.

You know, all the standard stuff.

But he didn't seem to want to play ball.

I went into a cubicle and freed my cock from its entanglement. It throbbed sorely in my hand and the eye, red and swollen, peered up at me pitifully.

I thought, "Yeah... I know... I'm trying to find you a friend to play with, but... I dunno... I guess he's a bit slow on the uptake..."

I returned to Melissa, wondering if maybe I'd misinterpreted the lad's intentions. After all, just because he was bending over a table while he laid it wasn't necessarily certain proof that he wanted to be laid himself.

When I got back to our table, I glanced over at him and saw that he was looking over at me while he adjusted his crotch. He wasn't exactly playing with himself, but he was clearly giving his knob a bit of a tweaking.

I think I'd have given up on him if I hadn't have seen him do that.

But now I thought I'd try the old spilt drink trick.

As I sat down, my glass of red wine somehow accidentally ended up spilling over my trousers.

Melissa just sat and stared at me, an expression of bored irritation on her face.

I looked over to the lad. "Could you help me out?"

He walked over to our table.

I suggested, "Maybe you've got a towel or something... I'd hate to stain these trousers..."

Melissa rolled her eyes.

He said, "Er... yeah... follow me..."

Nice one, Wallace. You just needed to press the right buttons, mate...

He led me to the staff cloakroom and pulled some paper towels from a dispenser next to the sink.

He handed them to me.

That was a bit disappointing. I'd expected him to get down on his knees and start dabbing; working his way up from my knee to my crotch, in time-honoured fashion.

Undeterred, I loosened my belt and fly and pushed some of the paper towels down inside the leg of my trousers while I pressed others on the top of them, trying to soak up the liquid through the material.

Again, I didn't attempt to conceal the state of affairs inside my briefs. The thick rod of my cock was obvious inside them and bulged outward through my open zip.

I said, "Maybe I ought to get these off..."

He shook his head curtly. "No. I think you're doing okay like that..."

"Well maybe you could help me."

He reluctantly bent forwards and dabbed at the drops of wine on my knees.

I realised this wasn't working.

By now he was supposed to be gently lapping my precum from the fat red head of my cock, like a kitten at a saucer of milk. The paper towels and red wine stain should have been forgotten. I would have expected to be reaching down to his crotch, pulling out his cock, and wanking him gently while he sucked me. Or working my hand down the back of his trousers and fingering the hot, sticky hole between those ripe buttocks of his and feeling him gasp and pant against my cock.

But he clearly wasn't interested.

He was wiping my knee so tentatively with the paper towel that it was as if he was afraid of catching some hideous disease.

I couldn't see what his problem was: I'm a reasonably fit, twenty-something blond guy; my cock's bigger than average; I have a smile that I know makes me look cute. I supposed he must be one of that rare species of guy who is completely straight.

I felt my erection soften and subside with disappointment as I stood up and told him it would be okay; I'd sort the wine stain out at home.

He said, "If you're sure..."

"Yeah."

I did up my trousers and returned to the table.

Melissa commented flatly, as she pretended to study her nails without even glancing up at me, "That didn't take as long as it usually does."

"Sorry?"

Now she glowered over at me. "When you spill your wine, Seb, normally you're away ten or fifteen minutes and then reappear with pink cheeks and a smirk on your face."

I felt my cheeks turning pretty pink right then. "I didn't realise it was a regular thing," I stammered.

"No. It isn't regular," she said impassively. "It just seems to happen more often when young guys are waiting on the tables..."

I knew my face was becoming scarlet. I muttered, "Well... I dunno why that would be..."

She shrugged naively. Had that wide-eyed expression of innocence on her face that she puts on when she's trying to piss me off. "No, Seb... me neither..."

I stood up. "I'll go and pay the bill."

I didn't want to continue this conversation. Melissa knew - or at least had very strong suspicions - of the stuff I sometimes got up to with other guys, but for the most part we had an unspoken agreement that she wouldn't mention it if I kept it discrete.

Her first inkling had come when the two of us had been house-hunting in Leeds. One evening, Melissa had turned up to see a house an hour late, by which time the twenty-year-old estate agent and I had gone over the particulars not only of the house, but each other.

Afterward, she'd said that although she loved the house and thought it was a fantastic bargain, she didn't want to move there.