Date: Wed, 8 Jun 2011 12:36:01 +0100
From: Jeffrey Fletcher <jeffyrks@gmail.com>
Subject: Inky White and I Chapeter 9

This is a story that involves sex between males.  if such a story is
offensive, or illegal for you to read where you live, then do not continue,
go and surf elsewhere.

This is a work of fiction and in no way draws on the lives of any specific
person or persons.  If there is any similarity to any real persons or
events it is entirely coincidental.

The work is copyrighted (c) by the author and may not be reproduced in any
form without the specific written permission of the author.  It is assigned
to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement but it
may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written
permission of the author.

My thanks to Brian who have read this through and made a number of
corrections and suggestions.  Any remaining errors, grammatical, spelling
or historical or whatever are entirely my fault.


Inky White and I Chapter 9

Resume:- Inky White has just finished telling his old school friend Phil-
the narrator - about his first sexual experience with a male after many
years of marriage.

Chapter 9.

"So how did you feel about it, the morning after the night before?" I
asked.

"Initially I felt great, Phil. I felt as though I had rediscovered my true
self. I was sure that my true self was essentially gay."

"You use the word, 'initially'; so does that mean the feeling did not
last?"

"Yes, that feeling of euphoria did not last long. I was on my way back to
Newcastle, when it suddenly hit me: I had been unfaithful. I had broken my
marriage vows. Was I to say anything to Brenda? We are very close, I was
sure she would immediately realise something had changed, something was
wrong. With Donald the evening before, I had worried whether I would be
able to perform with a man after all those years; now my fear was that I
wouldn't be able to perform with Brenda that evening. Even one day apart
was usually consummated in bed the first available opportunity. As I drove
along, great waves of shame and guilt swept over me. I felt awful. I pulled
into the first available service station, and sat in the car for at least
half an hour with my head buried in my arms resting on the steering
wheel. I then went off and bought myself a coffee.

"I drove the rest of the way back to Newcastle feeling grim. I almost
wished I could have an accident."

"Were you suicidal?" I asked.

"No, not quite that bad. I think I just wanted to delay getting home and
coming face to face with Brenda. The closer to home I got, the worse I
felt."

"So what did you do?"

"I was on the outskirts of Gateshead, just a few miles from home, when I
did something I had never done before, which was not me in any way."

"What on earth did you do?"

"I had just passed a church; I turned into a side road, parked the car, and
went back to the church. It was only when I got in that I realised it was a
Roman Catholic Church. You know, Phil, that is even less me. If anything,
I'm respectable non-church-going Church of England. Have to be dragged into
any church.

"There had just been a big service, I think a funeral. There were two or
three people at the very front, clearing up and putting things away. I
think I walked half way down the nave, that's what it's called isn't it?"

I nodded.

"I went and crouched in a pew, bum on the seat, leaning forward with my
arms on the pew in front. I buried my head in my arms and wept. I don't
know how long I was like that. It must have been quite a while. When I
became conscious of my surroundings, the church was quiet. Everybody seemed
to have left. I raised my head and just sat. I heard a movement, it was the
priest coming up the aisle towards me. When he reached my pew, he
stopped. 'You all right?' he asked, with a very soft southern Irish
accent. I looked up at him. He looked about my own age, rather young to be
a Catholic priest. I think I had always pictured them as all old and
wrinkled. I nodded. 'You sure? Do you need to confess?' 'I'm not a
Catholic,' I replied, 'I wouldn't know how to go about it.' 'That doesn't
really matter,' he smiled. 'If you want just to talk then?' 'No
thanks. I'll be all right, but thanks all the same.' He reached into a
pocket and pulled out a small card. 'I'm Father Patrick,' and he extended
his hand. 'I'm Inigo, but usually called Inky.' 'Your nick name is
certainly easier to remember.' He handed me the card. 'This has my details,
including telephone number on it. If any time you want someone to talk to,
get in touch.'

"He looked into my eyes and gave me a gentle smile. I got up to leave. He
walked with me in silence to the door of the church. 'Remember any time,'
he said, and we shook hands again. Again his eyes looked into mine, and I
felt he was seeing rather more than I wanted him to see. I went down the
confetti covered steps onto the pavement. I put his card into my pocket,
and I made my thoughtful way back to the car. As I turned off into the side
road, I looked back and saw Father Patrick still standing at the door of
his church watching me. I got into my car and drove home.

"Fortunately, Brenda was out when I got home. This was not entirely
unexpected. Always when that happened, I prepared the evening meal. I was
busy in the kitchen when she bustled in and gave my cheek a kiss. I think
she did ask if my conference had gone well, but she was full of something
that had gone wrong at her work. I listened, grateful that the focus was on
events in which I had no part. That night she didn't want to make love, and
I was relieved.

"So the next couple of months passed. My encounter with Donald began to
slip into the past. The memory was good, and when I thought about it I
usually got at least a stirring down below. That was alongside a now
diminishing sense of guilt at what I had done. Brenda and I made love
fairly frequently, but my heart was not in it in the way it had been at the
start of our marriage. There were even times when making love when I
consciously wanted the firmness of a male body and a hard cock to suck or
to penetrate me. When that happened, there was a feeling that I was
betraying Brenda. They were not a happy couple of months.

"Then one evening when Brenda was away for a couple of nights, I went to a
gay pub in Newcastle. Such places aren't really my scene, but I went to see
what went on. It was rather noisy. I was neither chatted up nor tried any
chatting up. There was one item of information that I gleaned, that there
was a good cruising area off a main road leading out of Gateshead. A month
or so later I headed off down there. Found the lay-bye as described. Met up
with a guy for a mutual wank, but that was not very satisfactory, standing
there in the wet bushes, rather fearful of who might be around. I wanted it
as it had been with you when we were at school, or as it had been with
Donald.

"Those were not very happy months. So many different emotions mixed up
inside me, and no one to talk to. I think I was somewhat depressed by my
situation, loving my wife but wanting a man. I felt I was unique to be in
this predicament. Was I some sort of freak? When you get into that frame of
mind you feel very lonely."

"Did you ever think of trying to talk about it to Brenda?" I asked.

"No, Phil. I didn't think she could take it. I was trying to sort myself
out, to find out where I was, or perhaps it should be, what I was. Then one
day I happened to be searching for one of those loyalty cards that stores
give you, to encourage you to go back. I expect your wallet is like mine;
to the fore are the cards you frequently use, and tucked away in some inner
pocket those you rarely need. I came across the card that Father Patrick,
at that Catholic Church, had given me months before. I remembered his offer
to talk with me whenever I felt the need. Was now that moment? I think my
initial reaction was to put it back and forget about it. I certainly was no
Roman Catholic. Would I be prepared to tell a Roman priest what my problem
was? Perhaps I should make an appointment to see some counsellor or a
psychiatrist? I think a memory came into my mind of being told that Roman
Catholic priests are under the seal of the confessional, and wild horses
will not drag from them what they have heard in the confessional. I
wondered if just talking with him would have that degree of
confidentiality. I didn't do anything about it then and there, but the
thought remained with me.

"Then one day at the office, I was feeling wretched. I wanted a man. I had
not enjoyed my encounter at the gay Pub, nor the fleeting encounter at the
cruising area, so that was not the way. I got out my wallet, and pulled out
Father Patrick's card and rang him. I think I was lucky to get through to
him, and not get some answer-phone. I told him my name, and how we had met
well over a year before. Somewhat to my surprise he remembered me. We
arranged for me to go round to see him.

"Two afternoons later, I went to the presbytery. It was a large Victorian
house, with an untidy front garden, and in need of a coat of paint. I rang
the door bell, and very quickly Father Patrick opened it and welcomed me
in. We shook hands. The hall was large, with a tiled floor and lots of
varnished wood. I would have found it depressing. He showed me into a
room. There was a desk covered with files and paper, a bookcase and three
arm chairs, all of which looked as though their better days were long
past. There was a small gas fire, which was endeavouring to warm the
room. There were some rather sentimental religious pictures on the
walls. The word that came into my mind to describe the room was – drab.

"But Father Patrick's welcome was warm. He offered tea or coffee, and I
chose tea. He said that it was his housekeeper's day off, so he had to get
it himself. I sat in one of the chairs while he went off to make the
tea. This did not take him long. He asked some general questions about my
work, family situation and where I originally came from. 'Your accent shows
that you do not come from these parts,' he said. 'Yes, we are both
in-comers, or foreigners,' I replied. We both laughed, and talked about
life on Tyneside for a short while.

"I then got down to business. I told him my whole story. I found myself
telling him more than I had originally intended. I went into greater
detail. I told him about our sexual activities at school, and about Godfrey
and Adrian too."

"Was he shocked or disapproving?"

"His face was largely expressionless. Sometimes a slight smile when I put
an amusing slant on what I was saying. Sometimes he would ask a question to
clarify what I was saying. I thought he listened intently, and without any
judgemental expression at all. I told him about the more recent incidents,
the session with Donald the waiter, and the gay pub, and the cruising
areas. I concluded by telling him my dilemma.

"He summed it all up: 'So Inky, you love your wife and want a man?' I
thought that summed it all up perfectly. He sat looking into the fire for
several moments. 'And what do you wish from me, apart from listening to
your predicament?' 'Well, I do feel somewhat better having put into words,
not just my story, but to start thinking what I am to do.' He looked at
me. 'I cannot tell you what to do; you're not even a Catholic, let alone a
member of my church here. What you do is your decision, and yours alone. I
can point out your options, and perhaps even give you some advice, but I
cannot tell you what to do, though I know many of my fellow priests would
do just that.' He smiled.

" 'What do you see as your options, Inky?' he asked.

" 'Stay married with Brenda, or leave. If I stay with Brenda, I know the
frustrations and tensions will continue; if I leave her, I'll feel
guilty. Very guilty, and I'll be forced to come out to my kids, and my
parents are still alive. They're getting on now, and I think they'd take it
hard.' Father Patrick sat looking into the fire. 'And you've not told
Brenda?' 'No,' was my simple answer. 'What do you think her reaction would
be if you did?' It was now my turn to be thoughtful.

" I told him that on our first or second date, I had told Brenda that all
my previous sexual experience had been with boys, and that she had said she
would set me straight. But I had not stressed the extent of that
experience. 'So she thought it was all the usual fairly innocent young
school boy stuff?' I told him I had wanted to give that impression. 'What
if you told her now of the extent of those youthful escapades, and that you
were now troubled by the memories?' he asked. 'I think she would be
surprised and possibly angry that I'd not shared all that with her before,'
I replied. 'Perhaps you should share it all with her, even at this late
date.' I told him I'd think about it.

"There was a lengthy silence before Patrick spoke again. 'There is, of
course, another alternative.' 'What's that?' I asked. Patrick gave a rueful
smile. 'Pope Benedict would have my guts for garters for mentioning this,
even more than suggesting the possibility of your leaving Brenda. That is,
you continue as you are doing. Play away when you can, with not a word to
anyone.' I told him I thought that would be difficult, but I'd think about
that too.

"We talked on for a while, there was nothing of any further
significance. Eventually I stood to go. 'Remember any time you want to
talk,' said Patrick. We had a very meaningful shaking of hands, with real
eye contact. I seemed to see the loneliness of the man, and his concern for
me. I thanked him and left."

"So what did you do, Inky?" I asked.

"I tried the first course of action. I stayed with Brenda. I resolutely
kept away from any places or sources of temptation. Not that I had been a
frequenter of gay pubs or other places where gay men meet."

"I gather from the way you are telling me, Inky, that that did not work."

"You're right. It didn't. I found that the pressure was building up within
me. I could control my actions to a large extent, but controlling my
thoughts was a totally different matter. I tried to keep completely
occupied with work of one sort or another, but my mind would wander. I
would find my memory going to back to the times with you when we were both
at school. Also, the waiter at that hotel kept returning like a ghost into
my mind. Then something else started to happen. Brenda and I were still
making love. Fair enough, not as frequently as in the early days, but we
both have a high libido. In the middle of making love I found myself
thinking, no wishing, she was a man. I wanted to make love to a man with a
cock that would fuck me, and an arse I could fuck too. I felt guilty about
those thoughts, ashamed of them. But worst of all, Brenda was sensing
something was different. She asked if I was pre-occupied with some problem
at work; I was, after all, working very hard. I think she even wondered if
I was having an affair. I suppose in a way I was, having an affair with men
in my imagination. After two months, I decided to go and see Patrick
again. It is a strange thing, just having someone to talk to helps clear
the mind, and having a good listener somehow lightens the load.

"It was one of those dark late winter afternoons, when it seems Spring,
sunshine and warmth will never come. His home seemed even more gloomy than
ever. There was a basic chill and neglect about the room in which we met. I
don't think it had been decorated for at least twenty years, and the
pictures on the wall were of that sentimental religious kind that Roman
Catholics sometimes seem to go in for. Why is it that a faith that has
inspired such great art of all kinds, also appears to encourage such kitsch
art? Patrick greeted me warmly, and went off to get the usual pot of
tea. We sat close together on a couple of easy chairs huddled in front of
the fire.

"'So, Inky, how have things been with you since we last met?' he asked. I
told him what I had endeavoured to do, and the results in my mind and of my
love making with Brenda. He was thoughtful and silent for quite a while. 'I
suppose I should tell you to persevere, to continue with the treatment.' 'I
was afraid you might say that,' was my reply. 'But I am not saying that,'
he quickly interjected. He stood up, and walked across to the window. I
turned to look at him. For a while he just stood there looking out into the
dreary, rain sodden, unkempt garden.

"'I need to come clean with you, Inky.' There was again a long pause. 'I
know what you are going through. I can perhaps be more definite than you. I
know I am definitely gay. I have no, and never had any, sexual attraction
towards women.' He stood there, looking out of the window with his back to
me. His head was bowed. He got out a handkerchief and mopped his eyes. I
got up and went over to him, and put an arm round his shoulders. 'Life can
be hell at times, can't it?' He turned and gave me a grim smile. 'We're
both in the same boat. We're both married. You're married to Brenda, you
love her and yet are desperate for a man. I'm married to the Church, and I
love my Church, but it regards homosexual activity as totally wrong, and I
want a man too. We both have a couple of jealous, demanding wives. Both our
wives would sling us out if they really knew!' I thanked him for telling
me. I felt understandably relieved. What he had told me explained the look
of hurt and loneliness on his face.

"I had told him the last time we met about my activities at school, so I
dared to asked him the obvious question. 'Patrick, have you ever?' He went
back to his seat by the fire. He nodded, and said that he had.

"Patrick told me his story. He went to one of those pre-clergy training
schools, I have forgotten what they are called. I asked him if he had got
started by being abused by a member of the staff. He said he hadn't been,
though there was some abuse by one staff member at that school. For
Patrick, it had all started because he was not good at Latin. In fact, he
was quite poor at it. There was a lad a couple of years ahead of him who
was brilliant at Latin for a boy, in fact he was quite outstanding in all
subjects. The Latin master got the older boy to give Patrick some
coaching. To begin with it was just Latin coaching, but this involved
sitting close together. The older boy started poking Patrick in the ribs
when he got something wrong, and giving a hug when he got something
right. One day, quite unexpectedly, Patrick got an ablative absolute
correct, and the older boy was so pleased that he gave Patrick a
kiss. Patrick made some comment about making sure he got more things
correct. One thing led to another, and you don't need me to spell out what
happened. They were managing to get together for an hour or so after lights
out for a couple of years, when the older boy left that school to go to
Maynooth, the big Irish college for the training of priests. Patrick said
he missed him a lot. Two years later, Patrick too went to the seminary at
Maynooth. The older boy was still there, and they resumed their interrupted
relationship. It was exceedingly important for them both. Then the older
boy left, and was sent over to the North East of England to work, as many
young Irish clergy were sent in those days. They both thought that that
marked the end of their friendship. Then to their mutual surprise and
delight, Patrick was sent to the same part of the world. Their relationship
was now deeper and more affectionate and important than ever. They managed
to work it so that they spent days off together. This went on for several
years. Then Patrick's friend was summoned to Rome, to work in the
Vatican. Patrick says he's almost certain to become a curial bishop, and
possibly might even get a red hat. They knew the posting marked the end for
their relationship. He told me that they formally ended their relationship,
and released each other from their mutual commitment, and in church thanked
God for what they had given and meant to each other."

"I bet that would have scuppered his friend's promotion prospects if J.P.2,
or Cardinal Ratzinger as he then was, had known," I said, and we both
laughed.

Inky went on telling me what had happened. "Patrick found no one, but his
friend soon had a young and attractive Italian priest, who delighted to be
be fucked regularly and hard by this Irish priest."

"So did you and Patrick.....?" I asked.

"Not straight away. In fact, the next couple of visits were just talk, more
mutual sharing than when I first went to him, except that when I left we
gave each other a hug. I could tell Patrick enjoyed that, and I know I
did. I found myself getting a hard on, and wondered if it was the same for
Patrick. Then one day in the late Spring, when it felt really warm out of
doors for the first time, I went round to see Patrick. This time his
housekeeper let me in. She was a woman well into her sixties I would guess,
markedly lacking in humour or the real skills of home-making. She kept the
place clean, and I think fed him quite well, but there were no homely
touches in that house that often a woman brings. That afternoon there was a
real sharing of our frustrations. I know I was wondering how long I could
last out denying myself the relief of sexual satisfaction with a man. I
knew what it was all about, what it could give, from our teenage times
together, Phil. Patrick listened, nodded, and understood. When the time
came for me to go, we stood up and moved into the now expected hug. This
time it was longer and stronger. Then Patrick whispered in my ear. 'This is
what I look forward to most in your visits, but I want more, Inky.' 'So do
I,' I replied. I felt my cock really harden. Patrick kissed my cheek, and
we pulled our faces apart and looked at each other. Before you could say
Jack Robinson, we were kissing. He pushed his crotch into me, and I felt
his cock hard against the top of my thigh. I moved so that he could fully
feel my hardness. I moved a hand down his back and gave a buttock a
squeeze. 'I'm desperate for you, Inky, but we cannot here. Miss Phillips is
around. Though she would never come in here without knocking, even if you
were not with me, here is just not safe.' 'I want you too, Patrick, all the
way. But where?' We pulled apart from each other. 'My place is not safe; if
Brenda is not around, there are always the children liable to be around.'
'I don't think I would really relax here, even if Miss Phillips was over in
Carlisle visiting her family. We need somewhere safe and neutral.' 'I've
heard of straight couples booking into a motel for a night or a few hours.'
Patrick grinned, 'So I have heard, from several people'. I think I looked
puzzled for a moment, and then the penny dropped; he had heard when hearing
confessions. 'Give me some time to think', I said, 'I will make some
enquiries, though we don't want you meeting some of your folk doing their
straight things.' Then I remembered the cottage. It's an hour and half's
drive from where I live, though not all that far as the crow flies. We got
out our diaries and found a day we could both manage.

"We managed to make a date for a couple of weeks after Easter. I picked
Patrick up from an agreed meeting place, and we drove out to the
cottage. Patrick was somehow different. For one thing he was dressed mufti,
but he was more relaxed, more at ease, more human. We chatted about all
sorts of things, everything except the church and sex. He was having a day
off from the first, and we were both looking forward to the second.

"We bumped along the track and eventually got there. Within five minutes,
the wood- burning stove was alight, and the kettle was on for some
coffee. I showed him around, and we stood close to the stove, sipping our
scalding hot coffees. Very soon the stove began to take effect, and our
outer coats came off and we sat on the sofa. I think we were both rather
shy when it came to it. We both knew what we wanted and were expecting, but
were unsure how to start the ball rolling."

"That's not the Inky I know from days of old," I said.

He laughed. "I decided to make the first move, and touched his hand. We
looked at each other and grinned. We moved closer, and very soon we were in
each other's arms kissing. These kisses were not the rather respectable
pecks that we had allowed ourselves in Patrick's room. Patrick put his hand
on my thigh, and I did the same. Very soon we were feeling each other's
hard cock. 'I want to see you naked,' I whispered in his ear. 'And I want
to undress you,' was his reply. The bed room was not yet really warm enough
for nudism, so I suggested we get the double bed mattress down from
upstairs, and put it in front of the stove. This took a few minutes. We now
opened the stove up, so we could see the fire and feel the direct
heat. Patrick now started undressing me, with some interruptions for kisses
and exploring with hands. We were naked in front of each other. There we
stood, two middle aged men with a couple of very rampant cocks, one cut and
the other uncut, though you couldn't tell that then. We just stood looking
at each other, with grins spread all over our faces. We had a long hug
before getting down onto the mattress. There we enjoyed that close bodily
contact.

" 'I'm essentially a bottom,' said Patrick, 'Are you happy with that?' 'I'd
describe myself as versatile, but I am happy to do what you will most
enjoy.' 'When I was going with Seamus, I was always bottom to his top. Now
I want this lovely thick prick of yours to slip into me.' 'Did you ever
fuck him?' I asked. 'Two or three times, at the very most five times in all
the years we were getting together. We started one way, and we just
continued. He is still top with the sexy young Italian priest, Giovanni,
that he fucks at least once a day."

"Sounds as though he has landed on his feet with the move to Rome!" I
said. "Better, his cock has found a very good home!" We laughed.

"We were about four hours at the cottage. Most of the time was spent naked
in front of the fire, though we did break for something to eat and drink,
and we had a cup of tea just before we left. We did a lot of talking as
well as the expected activities. He certainly liked to be fucked, in every
conceivable posture. I don't think I'd cum so many times in a session since
our school days."

"Not even with Brenda?" I dared to ask.

"She's a multi orgasm woman, but I had got the hang of getting her there
without going over the top myself."

"Did you and Patrick get together often?"

"Not as often as we would like. In the summer, we managed to get out here
every three or four weeks. But we both would have liked more. We both felt
it too risky where we lived. In the winter months we would drive well south
and go to a motel, we found one fairly off the beaten track. I think it was
used for similar encounters quite often."

That was really the main contents of our conversation on our walk that
day. We got back to the cottage, got the fire going and had a meal. It
would have been good to have gone out for a meal, but the cottage was
remote, and the last miles of bumpy track put us off.

XXX

Jeffrey Fletcher - jeffyrks@gmail.com