Looking back on that night I took James' virginity, at seventeen I wasn't leading the most virtuous of lives.


Like most teenagers I had my motives. Kept them close to my chest. Trust and openness and honesty weren't my strong suits. But unlike most, if I acted on my vices, I didn't have a best friend or concerned parent to swoop in. To bury me in guilt and shame or encouragement and advice until I learned a valuable life lesson and became a better person.


For that Oscar, virtues were for the weak.


I got a rush from lying. Manipulating. Using others to get what I wanted. I believed it was Darwin's Theory of Evolution at work. The strong survive and the feeble perish. I craved the control and power it gave me. It made me feel like I mattered. Like I existed.


It was a toxic way to live. I was lost and confused. Cynical and uncaring. Angry at the world and everyone in it. But at that puzzling, exciting and petrifying age, not yet a man but almost one in law, it's easy to lose your way. Especially if you're alone.


Patience, however, was one virtue I didn't reject. I excelled at it.

When I was a kid, when my folks were still together, I rushed everything. Every report card said the same. Oscar needs to slow down. Needs to be more patient. I never listened. Didn't for years. Even at fifteen, when my parents were gone and I'd started to secretly explore my sexuality, I'd always wanted more. A new guy. A new experience. Now.


It all changed. After I'd been caught in the bowling alley toilets and word had reached the corridors and classrooms the next day. After they'd circled me in the courtyard. Shoved me to the wet, grey concrete. Kicked and stamped and shouted and laughed. After I'd limped the 50-minute journey to hospital and explained away my broken ribs as a rugby injury.


It was then, as I sat on the cold, sterile plastic hospital bed, seething with rage and hatred, before swallowing it down into my deepest, darkest recesses, when I realised the importance of patience.


Soon. Soon I would be old enough to leave. Jump on a train. Find a job. Go to university. Anything, somewhere sprawling and exciting and as far away from this dead-end town as possible. London. Edinburgh. Manchester. Anywhere. All I had to do was wait. Wait until I was old enough. Wait and pass the time as best I could.


Unsurprisingly, James and Adam were a big distraction, even if, initially, the former was a slight concern. The day after, he texted constantly. Asked how I was doing and what I was up to. Bombarded me with the kind of pointless drivel I'd done my best to avoid from kids like him.


But my apprehensions disappeared. It seemed his parents were out more often than not. Their social stature dictated all sorts of dinner parties, fundraisers and cocktail events simply had to be attended. If meaningless pleasantries meant an almost daily window of opportunity to break in his tight, perfect arse, I wasn't complaining.


Nine times out of ten we had his place to ourselves. Every room. Every enormous space and expensive surface. One time his brother was home, but it wasn't a problem. He stayed in the living room the whole night playing his Playstation. Gun shots and explosions ricocheting through the old and empty house. Completely oblivious.


Oblivious to the slurping and swallowing in the kitchen as his big brother practiced relaxing his gag reflex. Oblivious to my moans and groans as he took me deeper and deeper down his throat. Oblivious to the praise for his efforts dripping from my lips. Such a good boy.


I was impressed, in particular with how quickly he applied himself. He really was a fast learner. One finger became two. Two became three. Doggy became cowboy. Cowboy became reverse. Sideways. Standing. In the shower. Bent over the sofa, the bannister, his father's desk. Ankles behind my shoulders. Knees by his ears.


With each visit he grew hungrier. Wanted it harder and faster, rougher and tougher, just as I'd hoped. To top it off, he warmed more and more to the idea of Adam too. He listened with baited breath as I bullshitted him. How happy Adam was that James trusted him. How much he looked forward to us all getting to know each other once his wounds were heeled and his ribs were reset. How cute Adam thought he was.


Naturally I didn't disclose what Adam really said. What he told me to do to James when he knew I'd be visiting. What pictures to take so I could send them to him later. Truth be told, often his commentary helped me through some of the tough times. Like when James wanted to talk or watch a movie and cuddle. I'd read the texts and smile to myself, all the while nodding and repeating the right words when needed. Pretending to listen.


There were the other lads too. Dan and Phil. At first they were intrigued, messaging me on MSN as usual, asking all kinds of kinky stuff. But ultimately I couldn't convince them to play along. Dan didn't trust Adam to keep secrets. Which I understood. When Adam was straight he didn't exactly stay quiet about his conquests, and it only took one morning for everyone to find out he was bi.

Phil hated him. They fell out years ago, apparently. When I told him it was Adam Stanmore he said he would rather cut his "own balls off and eat them than be in the same room as that useless cunt". I didn't ask why. Didn't dig. I sent a sad face emoticon and left it at that. I was too preoccupied with my red-haired pocket bottom to care.


And of course, there was the biggest distraction. My absolute favourite. Mr. Price. Adam and James were great, but they were boys. They paled in comparison to Tim. Tim Price was the toughest test of my patience.


But, a long fortnight after he'd jogged away from me, his wet t-shirt clinging to his chiselled back and his powerful legs stamping the earth, it finally paid off.


I'll admit, my plan to snare ol' Pricey wasn't original. In fact, it's one of the oldest tricks in the book. Farcical even. But it succeeded. All it required was a little groundwork and a bit of sweat and blood.


I ran. Around the Old Creek Fields after school every day. Without fail. I preferred swimming to stay in shape, and still do, but it was a small price to pay. I would walk home, change into my gym gear and, ten minutes later, feel the wind on my face, smell autumn in the air and hear the sounds of a busy park all around. Dog walkers. Parents. Kids. All types of people when all I wanted was one.


The first evening was a failure. No sign of his hairy legs or broad shoulders and shaved head anywhere. After seven laps of the field I gave up. Only had enough energy to let James ride me later. He unwittingly made up for it by blowing his load all over my stomach and chest before peeling off the condom and sucking mine down.


I told you he was a good boy.


The next day, Friday, proved more fruitful. The sun was still up but swathed the crisp, cloudless evening with deep pinks and purples. We ran past each other. I ignored him. No eye contact. I don't know if he looked but I felt something, like a hotness over me.


Monday and Tuesday: nothing. Wednesday, I stopped to stretch a few feet from him. This time I looked his way. He looked back. I smiled and nodded. A meaningless, friendly nod you'd give any random person you happened to be sharing a common interest with. He nodded back. No smile.


Thursday: no sign. Friday: we ran past each other again. This time I looked. Smiled and nodded. Raised my eyebrows. The kind of movement that means nothing more than a recognition of each other's existence. He did the same. Eye contact. Nod of the head. Slight smile.


It was time.


It happened the following Wednesday. Exactly two weeks after I'd first found him. Two weeks of waiting. Preparing. Rehearsing exactly what to do and what to say. How to do it and when. I was more than ready.


The Old Creek Field was like any average English park. Large, rectangular, flat and green. Bordered on one side by tall oak trees behind a dried-out creek. A dark grey, potholed concrete path spanned its perimeter. Black bins and red bins for dog waste dotted around. A small children's play area tucked into one corner.


We were on the long stretch. Me running east, him running west. We'd passed each other three times already. Smiled on the first. Ignored each other the second and third. He was twenty feet from me. No one else was around.


Fifteen feet. My heart beat faster. Ten feet. I saw a suitable pothole. Five feet. I planted my foot. Twisted my ankle. Threw my arms up and down I went.


Unfortunately, the problem with faking a fall, is you have to hit the ground hard to make it convincing. An airy-fairy trip and stumble won't cut it. You need to chuck yourself down like a sack of shit. Solid, heavy and painful, which is exactly what I did.


`Fuck!' I shouted as I landed with a thud. Rolled onto my right side. Clasped my hands around my kneecap.


The fast one-two of trainers against concrete slowed to a walk. Deep, heavy breathing filled the air around me. A large hand touched my shoulder from above and behind.


`Are you ok?'


Shivers ran through me. His deep, masculine voice. His touch. For a second the throbbing in my knee subsided, the blood rushing up and under my shorts instead.


`I'm fine,' I said quickly, turning to face him and flashing an embarrassed grin.


He grinned back. Looming over me more gorgeous than ever. Every inch of him illuminated like a movie in the setting sun. I tried to stand. Could have easily. My knee was fine. A little grazed and bloodied but otherwise not a problem. Obviously I fell straight back onto my arse.


`No you're not,' he said, squatting next to me, his thick, juicy quads filling every seem of his tiny, black rugby shorts. `Is it just your knee?'


`I'm not sure. I think I've pulled a muscle.'




I ran my hand up my leg. Wrapped my fingers around the inside of my groin. Squeezed. Winced. Opened my mouth a little. Moaned. For a moment he froze. Stared at my hand an inch from my package, bulging behind my flimsy running shorts. Then he looked into my eyes. At my mouth. I could smell him. Strong and salty but fresh.


`Here,' I said.


`Ouch,' he said. `Can you stand?'


`Not easily.'


He stood and offered me his hand. I took it and heaved myself vertical, throwing in the appropriate theatrics as I went. Hobbling, I let him lead me to a green metal bench speckled with small patches of dark, orange rust. I sat. He squatted in front of me. His face level with my sternum. My legs open wide in front of him.


`I used to teach sport,' he said. `Do you want me to take a look? See if there's any damage?'


`No it's fine. Don't worry about it. I'll be ok.'


`Honestly, it's not a problem.'


`Well, if you don't mind,' I said, casually, but with a hint of trepidation thrown in for good measure. Trying my hardest not to smile.


His hand was hot against my thigh. Hot and strong but gentle. He squeezed tentatively. Used the tips of his fingers to gently prod and poke muscle and tendon.


`You're fine here,' he said.


`A little higher,' I said.






`Here?' he said, his thumb now grazing against my balls.


Gently biting my bottom lip, I winced. Arched my back a little. Clenched my arse. Opened my legs wider.


`Yeah, there,' I said between short, sharp gasps.


Locking his eyes on mine he began to knead. Slow and soft at first. Then harder. By now the park was almost empty. Only the occasional trill of bird song broke the steady in-and-out of our breath between us. Everything was going to plan. Even better than planned. I didn't have to ask, he went ahead and came to my rescue like a knight in shining armour. After thirty amazing seconds he stopped.


`How's that?' he said, placing his hands on his thighs and standing up. His crotch now level with my mouth. `Give it a go.'


`I can't,' I said, a cheeky smile stretching across my face.


`Don't worry, you won't hurt yourself. It looks worse than it is.'


`No,' I said, nodding down to my groin, my briefs now completely full and bulging across my leg below the thin fabric of my shorts. Hard as a rock.


He looked down. His mouth hung a fraction.


`See?' I said again.


To be continued ...


Hey guys,


Oscar will be taking a break over the next fortnight, as I'm off on my holidays. Hooray! I'll be heading over to the USA for two weeks to see how the boys do it across the pond. Wish me luck.


Keep your eyes peeled in a few weeks for the next instalment, or head over to my website to learn more about his adventures, including exclusive content about my upcoming eBook series Oscar Down Under.


Copyright Jack Ladd 2016


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