Blue Pete

I first met Pete a couple of years ago when I moved to Leeds from Southampton. He'd been working for a couple of years at the medical practice I was just joining, and, being of similar temperament and having similar tastes music, food and alcohol, we naturally became friends.

I remember that he was, indirectly, introduced to me even before I got to the surgery. One of the receptionists had muttered the comment, when I'd phoned in to find out when I'd be starting, "Oh, you'll get on well with Dr Jones... he likes to have a chat with all the young doctors when they get here... likes to show them round..." I don't know why but the image that sprung to my mind was of some ancient bearded physician leading me into his leather-upholstered office, the smell of pipe smoke heavy in the air. I fully expected him to want to sit me down, like all the new recruits before me, to disabuse me of all the trendy, highfalutin ideas I'd picked up at medical school and to remind me that, "Out here, son, in the real world, we stick to the tried and tested ways..."

But all that turned out to be a figment of my over-active imagination. reality, as is usually the case, bore no resemblance to my expectations of it.

Dr Jones – Pete – turned out to be a guy, like me, in his mid-twenties, who liked to show new arrivals at the surgery around Leeds, introduce them to the local pubs and be generally amicable and helpful toward them. Just the kind of guy you like to meet when you arrive in a new city, knowing no-one and nothing.

I went out with him and his girlfriend that first weekend and found them to be a really affable, affectionate couple: not overly luvvy-duvvy together or smoochy or anything; just clearly very much in love and pleasantly comfortable with one another. We had a nice evening but I think I came away feeling slightly envious of him: I'd just broken up with my previous girlfriend Helen in Southampton and, since Leeds was totally alien to me right then, the chances of finding another seemed pretty remote.

Anyway, over the next few months, Pete and I gradually became good friends. We started playing squash on Tuesday evenings and going out to the pub for a game of pool and a few drinks on Thursdays. He'd offer to cover my night call-out shifts when I looked exhausted and in need of some unbroken sleep, and I began to do the same for him.

But the thing that really united us was when his girlfriend – Karen, I think her name was – dumped him.

Pete was devastated. I don't remember ever seeing a guy so acutely affected, so utterly broken, by the collapse of a relationship. In an emotional sense, he'd had his teeth kicked out.

He came to work as usual, even the day after she told him it was over, and blankly went through the motions of treating people as though on auto-pilot. But when, while he and I were alone together, he was able to take his professional face off, behind it was a wreck.

I used to go round to his place after work to be with him; pick up a couple of videos and a takeaway and sit in with him. It wasn't that I was worried he might "do something silly", as people love to say in such situations; I just thought he needed the company.

By then, I'd started seeing a girl called Melissa, and I must say that she wasn't greatly impressed that our relationship was effectively put on a hold for the sake of Pete, but she had to accept it. Apart from anything else, he'd been good to me when I'd first arrived in Leeds: if for no other reason than that, and there were many others, he deserved having me around as a mate.

I started sleeping over at his place more out of convenience than preference. We'd get a few packs of beers in, if neither of us was on night call-out duty, and chat or watch telly while we drank them together. I was leaving his flat later and later and in the end it seemed ridiculous for me to walk back to my own place when I might as well sleep over at his. In any case, Pete's flat was far closer to the surgery, so it was a much easier journey into work the following morning.

He only had one bed, a double, but that didn't represent a problem for either of us. We were mates; both straight; it just wasn't an issue. I mean, it wasn't like one of us going to jump on the other and bugger him in his sleep! Of course it wasn't...!

Or at least, that's what I had thought – in the event, late one night, it had actually turned out to be very much like that.

Let me say, though, at this point, that neither Pete nor I had ever shown any sexual interest in the other up to that point. And, for that matter, we haven't had any repeat of it since. We've always just been mates; two guys who like similar things who play squash and go out together sometimes. He's been a friend for me when things weren't going to well, and I've been the same for him.

So this isn't one of those stories where two guys, who've always been straight, suddenly become attracted to one another and, after a wildly passionate night of mutual exploration, spend the rest of their lives madly in love one another. There's no romance here, I'm afraid. There's not even a line of whispered affection; not even a hint of a manly but lingering slap on the backside with a meaningful wink afterwards.

No. There's just this one night when Pete roughly and hurriedly fucked me.

And I'm not even sure that he knows he did it.

I'd seen his cock loads of times, just as he'd seen mine; usually inside his briefs but often naked. I'd thought nothing of it, other than an initial mild interest in how it compared with my own; it was just one of those things that you get to see occasionally when you spend a lot of time around another guy.

In the showers after a game of squash; in his bathroom in the morning; in the staff toilet at the surgery or the gents in the pub: the opportunities for us to see each other were pretty endless. I'd glanced over at it from time to time – it was always limp of course – and, while it and his balls were pleasantly large and made an admirable bulge in his briefs, I'd never really given it a second thought.

It certainly never occurred to me that I might, at some point, have a direct experience of it.

But then, I suppose, in the same situations I'm sure he'd never looked over at my arse and considered that he might, one night, force his cock up it.

It happened about a month after Karen – if that was her name – dumped him. She'd suddenly got cold feet about the wedding, apparently, and had given up work in Leeds to go back to live with her parents in Keighley. I suspect that there was more to it than that, probably a lot more, but Pete accepted her story, grieving at her decision and mourning her loss.

He'd spent many evenings on the phone trying, desperately, to persuade her to change her mind, until her dad had intervened and threatened him with the police if he called again.

Over the following few weeks he slowly picked up the pieces. Evenings at his place went from being near-silent affairs, to being highly-emotional ("Why, Seb, just explain to me why?") to gradually becoming more upbeat and social.

It was during this more positive phase that it happened. A couple of weeks before he met Rachel and the two of them settled socially with Melissa and I into a conventional two-couples routine.

We'd gone back to his place after a late evening in the surgery, watched a movie, drank a few cans, ate a takeaway pizza and done the usual stuff together.

Then, at about twelve, we'd stripped to get into bed and he'd set the alarm for seven. Again nothing odd there.

The only slightly weird thing, and even this wasn't particularly strange, was that he had a hard-on when he pulled off his jeans.

I wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't have made a joke of it; like I said before the contents of his briefs weren't something that interested me.

He'd muttered, "Jeez – I need a woman, Seb. This thing's gonna end up going off in my face..."

I'd just come back into the room from the bathroom, wearing only a Moby teeshirt and a pair of white briefs. I'd glanced over and saw that his cock was making a solid diagonal rod in the front of his blue briefs. It was about as thick as mine but looked like it was an inch or so shorter: about seven inches probably. The head of it was large and clearly defined, the base of his helmet making a discernible ridge against the blue cotton.