Burnham-on-Sea

Now, let me point out that I'm no prude when it comes to pulling my pud with other guys, nor am I averse to taking things a little further when the mood takes me. I've wanked off, at some time or other, with most of the male members of my family, and rugby matches involving stopovers just wouldn't be the same without the odd circle jerk and group tug. I'd even heard Simon attending to himself when we'd shared a room in Switzerland and in Burnham, and I'm sure, at least a couple of times, he'd lay there listening to me.

But all those situations had happened naturally: the result of sharing a room together and talking dirty in the small hours; getting pissed together; watching porno films together or looking at girlie mags; or plain old joining in when the first guy's fist starts thumping.

This seemed different: it was like being given a formal invitation.

I got out of bed and Simon looked at the front of my briefs. My former semi-erection had completely subsided leaving me with a bulge that looked a little sad and pathetic in comparison with Simon's pulsating and copiously leaking pole.

I said, "Look, I'm going for a shower. If you wanna sort yourself while I'm in there, feel free..."

Again he looked hurt. Then embarrassment flushed across his face and no amount of shrugging could shift it this time.

He muttered, "Hey... sorry..."

I grabbed my towel. "Forget it..."

Then I turned to face him. "It's not you... it's just the way you asked. It's a bit weird, that's all. Like you had it planned or something..."

Then he went scarlet and I felt like a shit for being so direct. The rod between his legs was shrinking like it was deflating.

I went for a shower.

We didn't mention what had happened again for a couple of weeks. The "morning woodies" stopped abruptly after that morning and all reference to our cocks or to masturbation was way out of bounds.

But then one evening, in the commercial break in the film we were watching at my place, Simon said, "Ollie... do you remember that morning when I asked if you fancied a wank...?"

I waited for him to continue but he didn't so I said, "Yeah."

I mean, like I would have forgotten.

He went on, "Well, you were right. I'd planned it."

I quickly said, "It's no big deal." Hoping that would be an end to it.

But he had more to say. "What I mean is... I've wanted us to do it together for ages. But now I know you're not interested, I won't mention it again..."

I didn't look at him. I just stared forwards at the soundless adverts which were playing on the television. "Okay."

Then he said, "You know I'm gay, don't you?"

And that really threw me. I turned to him and stared. "What?"

He gave a weak half-smile. "Sorry, mate, but I'm gay..."

I just continued staring at him, surprised at what he'd said. You might be thinking, "Well of course he's fucking gay... wasn't that obvious?" But it hadn't really occurred to me. I put the morning woody game down to him wanting to show his big cock off; getting off on being an exhibitionist. I'd regarded his invitation to join him for a wank a result of him feeling horny when he woke up and, in a totally Simon-like way, turning something that could have been natural and unremarkable - like me waking up to find him pulling himself off in the bed next to me - into something forced and clumsy.

Anyway, he'd always said he fancied Catherine Zeta-Jones.

He interpreted my continued stunned silence as disgust. He said, "I suppose you'll want me to go back to Burnham now."

"What?"

Again that half-smile. "I've freaked you out..."

I laughed. "'Course you fuckin' haven't. I'm just a bit surprised."

He went on, "Like I said, now I know you're not interested, I won't try it on again..."

I reached forwards and squeezed his shoulder. "Simon, mate. Why did you wait so fucking long to tell me? I don't care that you're gay but I care that it took you 'til now - after all these years - to tell me..."

"Yeah... I know... but, to be honest, I only just got my own head around it... I met this guy at Uni... you know..."

It turned out that Simon had met a guy through the theatre group at his university and the two of them had become friends. A couple of weeks later, much to Simon's own surprise, after a couple of bottles of wine and a night in watching 'Muriel's Wedding', their friendship had ascended into a brief burst of silent, painful sex on Simon's bed. Similar encounters had continued over the next couple of weeks and then the guy had moved onto other things. Or other guys, to be more precise.

Simon had been upset by the way he'd been used and then discarded but, as he said himself, at least the experience had let him know "which side he batted for."

I smiled warmly and affectionately at him. "We bat for the same side, mate. You're gay, I'm straight. But we're on the same side..."

And he looked so pleased by what I'd said, I was afraid he might cry. I'm never good in those kinds of situations so I quickly said, "Hey, look, we're missing the film..." and turned the volume back up.