FOUR (iv)
The sun came up on day two of my new beginning and it was a long morning until I went to call for Adam after lunch.
I had a plan. I knew a place where we could play without worrying about the time, where adults would not need to keep checking where we were and would leave us all alone: the private world - and it is an entire world - of the child's bedroom. I knew nothing about Adam's - I never did see inside his house - but I knew about mine. And that was the plan.
I made my own way there again, identifying the house by its distinctive white wall. "Does Adam want to play at my house?" But of course. The parent of a five-year-old could want nothing more. We were smiling as soon as we set eyes on each other, and heading towards my place. And into the house, and up the stairs, and along the landing, and into my room, and with the door firmly closed behind us.
It was only day two of our friendship. We knew only one game. In the comfort of a bedroom, he pulled down his trousers and underpants, and lay over the bed, knees on the floor (trousers around them), upper body relaxed on the bed, arse exposed and accessible: no difficult balancing, no chilled air, and no hurry. The beloved sight which cheers.
Perhaps a word of explanation is due for those who have no experience of the very adult pleasures I am describing - the very adult pleasures I was discovering. Perhaps you have never considered the bottom as good for anything other than the loo. It seems to me, for example, that populist homophobia of late has only two remaining resonances: something ridiculous about a false god called Fammly, and the idea that bottoms are dirty. They are not.
Consider that other versatile organ, the mouth. It is used for both eating and talking. Neither function is considered offensive in itself, but we do recoil if somebody tries to do both at once and speaks with their mouth full - a most unpleasant sight. But we are so content for the mouth to do each in turn at different times that we even allow the two functions into very close proximity, as when we celebrate both together in a formal dinner party: fine food and pleasant conversation.
The mouth is also used as a sexual organ, for kissing and for more: a third and distinct function, not to be combined with either of the others, but no less luxurious and wonderful for sharing the same organ.
And finally the mouth is used for vomiting: not something we would like to dwell on, but it is so used. It is an occasionally necessary bodily function in which the mouth which eats and speaks and kisses plays an essential part. As long as the owner of the mouth cleans up properly afterwards - a wash and a rinse and a gargle - we have no problem in readmitting them to the world where mouths are used for the pleasant functions of eating, and speaking, and kissing as well. Yes, kissing: we are quite happy for them to use these multi-functional organs to kiss our lips, to kiss our torsos, to suck gently on our genitals, to explore...
And so to the bottom. Compare: like the mouth, it too has four key functions, each quite distinct. It is for sitting, and it performs this function very well. It is also a primary human sexual display, for catching attention at a distance and for worship close to. And then it is also for fucking.
These three are all pleasant functions. The mouth has eating and speaking and kissing; the arse has sitting, and fucking, and sexual display. It is a clean and pleasant organ for all of these functions, outside and in. After its intimate internal contact with his partner's primary sexual display, a gay man's cock is likely to be just as clean as if it had been sucked by mouth to climax (but perhaps even happier).
And then as a fourth function the arse is used for shitting. This is nothing to be ashamed of. Everybody does it. It is done in private and it is over fairly quickly. It can feel very refreshing. Clean up properly afterwards - toilet tissue alone will do a perfectly good job - and the arse can return at once to its other perfectly proper functions: sitting, and fucking, and sexual display. The mouth has to vomit, the arse has to shit; but each can soon be readmitted to the clean and wholesome worlds of eating and speaking and kissing, and sitting and fucking and being adored.
I had a teenage friend - whilst in my teens - who, like me, was taunted as gay. When I came out to him he masturbated five times in twenty-four hours at the thought of the two of us 'doing it' together - and then decided to be straight after all. We met up ten years later to talk about life, the universe and everything - but mainly religion and relationships and sex - and he said he still could not allow his girlfriends to kiss him "there", even though they wanted to. Anywhere else, but not "there": it would 'prove' he was gay. As we embraced and parted, we swapped advice. Half of mine for him was: for goodness sake, let one of your girlfriends kiss you there - and soon. It is a clean and sensitive and beautiful place. It is half your sex life. Take it like a man.
It is a primary sexual display. Enjoy the sight of it, whether clothed or not. Cherish, admire, appreciate, and more, whether clothed or not. And offer it up for adoration.
So there was Adam, relaxed on the bed, head on one side, totally trusting, knees on the carpet, trousers and underpants around them, arse exposed and accessible. And this time I knew I had time to look, time to enjoy this privileged sight, enjoyed for the very first time just less than twenty-four hours before.
And so, in the privacy and comfort of my own room now, I bowed before this princely masterpiece to examine its ideal form, the shapely whole, the dark jewel at its centre, the impossible promise of the entrance way, fascinated and drawn by the perfect curves and folds of the entire intricate piece: the back merging into the valley and the cheeks, the crease marking the place where leg becomes buttock (where firm becomes soft), and creases and valley meeting at that deep central well of countless softer darker folds and who knows what secrets in the invisible depths beyond: this whole, blissful, praiseworthy vision, and not just a vision, but right here in the flesh, Adam's gift.
I dared to touch this time, to realise the vision: hands on back, then outer cheeks, then soft mounds. Adam shifted appreciatively. I pushed gently outwards, and the sides of the entrance way peeled apart a tiny portion further. I moved in for a closer view. I wanted to become one with the whole experience, to enter it with every one of my senses and have it fill me right through. I looked some more, and then placed my nose...
OK, the scent. You want to know about this obsession with the scent. Having established that it is clean, that it is definitely nothing at all to do with the smell of the latrine, what is it? Some scientists may want to argue, but let's face it, they know less about human sexuality than they do about the sex life of the fruit fly. For myself, I am perfectly convinced that this sexual display gives out a human pheromone, somewhere in those folds of skin around the crack of the arse and the back of the gonads, if not actually right around the anus itself. We know other mammals have scent glands there: witness dogs sniffing each other up. Then think about me and Adam, and look at this definition of pheromone [gleaned from more than one source]:
PHEROMONE: chemical substance produced by an organism which affects the behaviour of other organisms of the same species; found throughout the living world, from single cell organisms to mammals, pheromones are the most ancient form of animal communication, used primarily to stimulate actions related to reproduction; analogous to hormones within the body which send specific chemical signals between cells or organs causing them to perform a certain action; recently discovered to play a major part in the lives of primates.
Ants use them to share all kinds of information; and detecting them, they act on them. Ants do not choose to work in teams: the scent leaves them no choice, it is all pre-programmed. The whole colony is like one big brain communicating with itself.
Just about every living thing uses them to set in motion the cycle which leads to copulation and reproduction. The scent goes out, and those who detect it have no choice: they are taken over by it, they act upon it, it is all pre-programmed, they have no choice. Two members of the same species become like a single organism which is communicating with itself by these chemical signals to bring about the result: the pheromone of the individual becomes the hormone of the species, which then goes through its pre-programmed instinctive near-involuntary motions, its perpetual ritual dance. And as an extra guarantee, nature even reinforces the necessary action by making it pleasurable for each party in itself as then experienced: pleasurable sex; succouring proximity; sweet musky addictive aroma.
If you never found it so, perhaps your partner washes too much, or too little, or has bad diet, or simply does not produce; or maybe the mad hormonal changes of puberty abolish it or change it irretrievably. I only know what I experienced for myself that day and those years.
Pheromone "affects the behaviour of other organisms of the same species ... causing them to perform certain actions."
I was admiring the beautiful details of his arse. I dared to touch: hands on back, then outer cheeks, then soft mounds; he murmured happiness. I pushed gently outwards, and the sides of the entrance way peeled apart a little further. I moved in for a closer view. I wanted to become one with the whole experience, to enter it with every one of my senses and have it fill me right through: the pheromonal instinct to become one with him, one unit, one flesh. I looked some more, and then moved my face right up to him, flesh to flesh; I touched the tip of my nose into the softness of the valley of his arse, brushing it slowly down from its beginning at his back all the way to the border of the darker virginal heart, where I gently pressed it into place on the light side of the border, the nostrils as close to the enticing well as they could be. And I inhaled.
The incense of friendship. The delectable perfume of this special intimacy. The tangible essence of our shared passion. The aromatic pledge of absolute trust. Silence held as my lingering veneration continued, my devotion deepened, the pleasure flowed through me, the bond between us strengthened. It seemed like many minutes at the shrine of that potent controlling fragrance - the shrine of Adam - before he began to shift and I knew that it was time to pull down my trousers and give him my arse. So I pulled down my trousers and underpants and lay over the edge of the bed with my knees on the floor and my arse exposed and he straightened his clothes and knelt down behind me to enjoy.
It proceeded much as the day before, except now with the unhurried luxuries of endless time and total comfort. I was extraordinarily comfortable lying over the bed like that - not a position I had ever assumed before - head on one side, shoulders back, arms by my sides, spine supple and appreciative, all completely relaxed, with my upper clothes pulled up around my stomach, my trousers and underpants around my knees on the floor, shackling me into that one obeisant role, and the pleasant cool sensation of air moving freely around my exposed lower back and buttocks and thighs and, even as he inhaled - especially as he inhaled - around that most sensitive and appreciative point, my gift to him, as his hands, and even the cheeks of his face, explored the forms and the softness of my naked acquiescent flesh.
That day I lost count of how many times we exchanged positions, each taking our fix and offering our gift, always gentle and measured - and increasingly confident. And from that day onwards every day followed the same pattern. We would meet in the early afternoon. I would collect him from his place or he would come straight round to mine, we would go to my room, and there for a full hour we would play the only game we knew - with breaks in the hour, but not many and not long. For the whole of the rest of the summer. The full hour. Every day.
I never did see inside his house. And we never did play any other games.
Summer came to an end and full time school began. This was new and a diversion. Adam was at a different school and too many streets away for autumn evening play. When half term came around, we immediately renewed our programme of identical daily appointments, but mother complained that "you always come here" and I sensed an additional unspoken disapproval. It gave our passionate uniquely bonded friendship the extra frisson of minor rebellion, but it was the beginning of the end: the end of Adam, but definitely not the end of what we had shared.