From 4 to 14
- a memoir and a reflection - Part 8

This story contains detailed reminiscences of childhood sex play between boys. If you do not wish to read such material, go away now.
I am happy to receive correspondence as - please do send your comments and your own stories.


Over the next nine months my penis grew from boy size to man size. It was so gradual that I was hardly aware of it happening, but the total change over the period was astonishing: from the 'before' state of all boyhood to date, to the 'after' state of manhood for ever thereafter; from a thing the size of a pen cap to a thing the size of a hammer handle.

If I was aware of what was going on, it was because of the pain: the pain of having an erection with trousers on. My cock still pointed directly away from my body. It would make as though it was trying to bust out of my flies, directly forward, making itself frighteningly evident and hurting as well because it wanted to go further still. During the day I would just be cripplingly embarrassed. Alone in my room in the evenings, sitting at my desk or behind the bed, I would unzip and let it out, and hold it there, heavy like a third leg, throbbing with heat and swollen to the point of pain. I would handle it and watch it as it evidently demanded attention, but I had no idea what attention it craved, no idea what to do with it, no idea what I could do with it, as I sat there alone with it delicately balanced in my hands. I would just look at it and hold it as it lay there, radiating heat, so far extended out of my body that it really did seem to be a thing with a life of its own, an offspring which I just could not understand, a companion which I was failing. I felt helpless, and melancholic.

The one thing which I knew that both it and I would love to do was bumming. I dreamed of someone lying prone beneath me, myself prone on top. I lay a pillow in my crotch, partly to play the part of arse, partly to relieve the pain of lying prone with that erection.

One thing about an arse fixation is that there is no shortage of tempting sights around. The principle of western 1980 clothing cuts seemed very simple: cocks and cunts to be hidden, boys' bums to be on prominent display. At school, still carrying the faith of the divinity of arse - renewed now by the new dream liturgy "to bum" - I was throughout the day surrounded by grey-clad gods. So much temptation, absolutely no hope. I felt useless: the failed parent of my new grown cock, unable to provide the one simple thing that it desired. Ever. Even though they were all around.

My reaction to these grey-clad gods was hardly changed in type from my reaction to the blue clad boy in 1T, so many years before: desire, lust, attraction; a longing to see, to worship, to possess. It was modified only in that bumming was now the final goal: to lie fully prone, full body to full body, with my penis lying along the bottom of the valley of his arse. But whilst the reaction was virtually unchanged in type, in sheer magnitude it was totally transformed - by the same proportion as my newly grown cock. Every boy's arse was a target. And hints of torso under light summer shirts. And smooth 'porcelain' legs in shorts. And those occasional extra special sights would now disturb me not for minutes but for days. The memory of one makes me sigh even now: Colin, only two years above me, widely acknowledged as the coolest boy in school, and genuinely sublimely cool rather than just popular; detached, self-sufficient, blond, and gorgeous. I saw him every day at the bus stop, and he had the world's most perfectly rounded arse: high, slim, deep, firm, and wrapped in tight fitting grey felt trousers which left nothing to be imagined. Every day I stared and felt helplessly breathless. And then one day the gorgeous Patrick, also popular, blond, and cool, a national swimmer with the perfect swimmer's build, totally desirable as friend and lover, my own age, my own year, came and leaned over the desk next to mine, his arse virtually in my face, fully exposed except for a clinging film of light grey felt. I suspect from his grin that the bastard knew exactly what he was doing. But I certainly did not know what was happening to me. It felt like a panic attack. My internal organs were in flight. I did panic. I had no idea what was going on. It felt like a medical emergency. I thought I might die at any moment. I had no idea what was happening, but I certainly knew what was causing it, and I knew I wanted to possess that cause more than anything else in the world.

The French call orgasm The Little Death. I did not know that then.

I was in awe at these new reactions as much as in awe at my newly re-sized cock. And I lived every hour of every day with this wholly unattainable dream, ashamed of my past, ashamed of my present, overwhelmed with desire.

I was twelve. Winter passed. I turned thirteen.


Life was dominated through every day by lust and by shame. My body and my visual mind knew exactly what I sought - it was all around - but my power of speech refused even to contemplate forming the words in my mind, let alone imagine ever speaking them aloud. I was walking around in a fog of lust which shame forced me to spend the whole of every day concealing. Fully adult emotions and fully adult shame had arrived together, and dominated the day.

It was Scout Job Week in the Easter holidays. I happened to be in town with Andrew. He, my cloud of lust, and I, happened to meet Phil there. The three of us talked Scouting things: that was our point of contact now. I said I might get the tent out for the first time that year: Andrew and I could sleep out again. Andrew turned his nose up at the idea. I then made a suggestion which had genuinely not occurred to me, until that moment, in the thirty months since the end of that previous summer - when Phil and I had tried and failed to bond our friendship in advance of an enforced parting of the ways: "Phil, why don't you come and camp out?"

"Yeah, OK."

And even before he had spoken I knew. I knew that I was going to get my wicked way with him that very night. Even before he had spoken I knew. His smile confirmed. I knew.

He turned up late evening. We pitched the tent, put in mats and sleeping bags and torches and the rest. We took a bedtime drink and turned in for the night. He was more well built than the year before, pretty close to adult height and build. It turned out that it was his birthday the next day: he was to turn fourteen at midnight. I did not dare any glances at his nakedness whilst changing for bed. His night clothes were an old wool jumper and shorts: my bit of rough. I wore clinging brushed cotton winter pyjamas, made like thermal underwear, all elastic cuffs and a dreadful sky blue. We hid in our sleeping bags to talk into the night.

There was chat at first about schools and friends and what we were both up to. And then about Scouting things. And then about last year's camp. I mentioned the night when "you did a strip tease."

"Yeah, that was fun wasn't it." Then a pause. And then this: "Have you started wanking yet?"

"What do you mean?"

"Wanking yourself until you come up."

"No. What do you do?"

"Well, you know the sign for wanker," - he demonstrated with one hand. "You do that on your knob until you spunk up."

"What - just like that?" I made the same sign.

"Yeah. And the sign for knob-head," - he demonstrated - "it's just the same."

"Will you show me?"

"No! I'm not showing you!" He managed to look genuinely appalled at the suggestion, though it had not seemed at all unreasonable to me, given that he was presuming to tutor me in these mysteries.

"Why do you do it?"

"You have an orgasm when you spunk up. It's the same as when you have sex. You get this tingling all over and it's really excellent."

"How long have you been doing it?"


"And it's like having sex, yeah?"


"So it's something to be proud of." My mind was working this one out.


"So when people say Wanker as an insult, it's them who's stupid."

"Yes, I suppose it is. I'd never thought of that."

Yet again. Censorious playground idiots in the wrong, boys in tents with their dicks out in the right. Wanking Is Good. Playing With Your Dick Is A Good Thing.

There was a pause. We had been sitting up, talking animatedly. I lay back. He followed suit. We were both staring up at the canvas, hands behind our heads.

Me: "Do you remember three years ago when we spent two nights out together?"


"Did you enjoy it?"


No point suggesting anything here and now. He had just given a confident and unexpected No for tonight.

"Have you ever done anything else like that?"

"Have you?"

"Might have done. You tell first."

"Last year at camp was fun. And then I've done a lot of snogging." And he listed some girls. "What about you?"

"I've done loads of stuff."

"Tell me about it."


"Go on. Confession is good for you."


"Go on. I've told you. I won't tell anyone."

"Oh all right." A pause, like a sigh. Then I began. "We used to have a Rood Club. There were loads of us. It went on for years on and off. We used to look at each others' dicks and bums and stuff."

"What else?"

"Promise you won't tell?"


Enthusiastic now: "We used to sniff bottoms. It's incredible. You'd think it'd be horrid but it's not. It's like this really sweet ... it's just amazing."


"There were lots of us. Andrew. Stephen. My Brother. We all did it."


I was wallowing in confession, somewhere between pride and a gloriously redeemed sense of shame. There was pride because I had done sex things that other boys - who considered themselves better than me - had not done. They were virgins in this realm. I was not. Sheer pride. Just like I now knew it was good to be a wanker, and they didn't: proving themselves to be idiots and virgins with their own attempts at ridicule. I knew better. Arses smell good. Ha Ha Ha. And the shame that hung around me in a cloud was suddenly glowing itself. This was like playing in the mud, throwing it around, mud glorious mud, talking dirty, pride in filth, utter filth, pride in human extremes, pride in that supposedly shameful thing, sniffing arse; pride precisely because Phil would think it shameful, but I had been there, to this human extreme, and he had not.

Phil: "What else did you do?"

"No - you tell some more first."

"There isn't anything else to tell."

"Well I'm not telling any more."

"Go on."


"Go on. It's interesting. And it's good for you! Confession is good for the soul."

Half reluctant, half keen. "OK." Stop.

Phil: "How did it all start?"

And he got the whole story, into the night. Beginning with Adam at four. Concluding with Andrew at eleven, in great detail. The whole story. Concluding with Andrew. At eleven. Just two years before. It took a long time to tell. I enjoyed the telling. He encouraged me to include every detail, every event. He made it clear that he was more than enjoying the tale as well.

"And then last year there was Scout camp." And that was that.

Then Phil: "So you still haven't wanked then?"

"No. Will you show me?"

Trusting now, fellow conspirator: "OK."

He sat up. I sat up. He was looking down at his own crotch. He let his sleeping bag fall right down around him, and pushed it down so that he was sitting cross legged on top of it. He pulled out his dick through the wide front opening of his boxer shorts.

It was not the same now as the year before. It was a man cock. An entire thick fist full and then a knob on top as well. It pointed upwards without his stomach actually being in the way. It sprang from a thick root surrounded by curls of brown hair. Stubby, circumcised, it was twenty times the size of last year by volume. He took his fist off it to let me look. He paused like that a while. And then he wrapped his fist around it again and began to wank: tiny vertical movements on the shaft.

"You haven't got a foreskin."

"No, I had to have it cut off when I was born."

Pause. Watching. "What does it feel like?"

"Pretty good."

Silence. Watching.

I suppose, looking back, he had had plenty of dirty talk to build up a good head of steam. But that night I knew nothing. I just watched this sight.

It did not take an unpleasantly long time. Certainly I was still captivated by the sight when something began to happen. His movements deepened and he was gasping. Then they quickened as well. Finally he was jerking more than rubbing, and his free hand flew behind him to stop him falling back as his cock starting kicking and spitting out high spurts of white spunk.


I watched.

He recovered himself after a while, and sat up, and began mopping up with his sleeping bag.

"It's a sort of mucus," he said. "like snot really." Then: "It's all the little swimming jobbies I feel sorry for. Millions of them." Still mopping.

"Do you do it at home?"



"In bed."

"What do you do with the stuff?"

"I usually wipe it on the blankets or something."


Phil: "It's better if you use a lubricant. I usually use some of my dad's motorbike grease. It gets it going better. Feels better."

"And you just wipe it up afterwards?"

"On tissues or something."

I was spellbound by the whole thing. I sank back into my place, hands behind head, staring at canvas.

Me: "What would you do if we had Scout camp like last year again?"

"I don't know. What would you do?"

"I don't know."


Phil: "What would you do if Alison was here?"

"I don't know. I'd tell her to get all her clothes off." Pause. "What would you do if the sisters were here."

"Snog them both. And then perhaps have a wank."

OK. This was a new game: a game of What If. I could find out all kinds of things. And it would cost me nothing: he was seeking entertainment and titillation, not humiliation. It was all hypothetical. I could reckon to have said it just to tease him, if I had to.

And so we played What If into the night. What would you do if your school burnt down? What would you do if the four minute warning went off? What would you do if you saw a flying saucer?

I wanted sexual information: to find out what was going on, to rate my chances. I could not tell what game he was playing: his questions became more and more tedious, less and less interesting. I would ask what he would do if he met a naked woman in a forest: he would give a totally non-committal answer and then ask what I would do if an elephant came in to the tent. I would ask what he would do if he met a naked man in a deserted beach hut: he would give an even more non-committal answer and then ask what I would do if the tent started leaking in the rain. It was becoming increasingly hopeless. I felt that he was bored, and I was only carrying on because of the thrill that it gave me to be saying outrageous things to him, all of which he took without flinching, almost without any reaction at all. So eventually, very Stephen-like, entirely for the rise, purely to see whether he could be made to flinch, knowing that his answer would be "I would say Get Lost", or words to that effect ... imagining us snogging and rolling naked in the hay ... I said ...

Actually, at that very moment, he said he had to pee and started to get up. So it was as he moved towards the tent door that I said: "What would you say if I said Let's take all our clothes off and roll about on the floor."

And without flinching, and almost without pausing on his way out, he looked me in the eye and said, "I'd probably say Yes," and he disappeared to pee.

I was all a quandary. Now was the moment. The moment was now. I hadn't actually asked him. I had only said What If. He had not actually answered. He had only said I would. He had only said I would probably. I still had to ask him. It was only the last yard of the two thousand mile journey. It might still fail. But it was certainly in sight. I waited paralysed, terrified, for his return. As soon as he appeared at the tent entrance I asked him, as he moved back towards his sleeping bag: "OK: let's take all our clothes off and roll about on the floor."


Arse imminent!

Practicalities. Principle agreed: but now what? He was actually back in his sleeping bag. I was in mine. He was awaiting further advice. I asked: "What do you want to do?"

He had already decided what he wanted to do. It was something that he had never tried before. It was something that had kept me sexually stimulated for eight consecutive summers. It had been my favourite thing from four to eleven, and now he wanted a try. Knowing it sounded an odd thing to do, he nevertheless began at least half confidently, and certainly fully expectantly: "Well, you seem to have spent years on end smelling bottoms."

I was horrified. That was a disgusting shameful thing. Wasn't it? In a life completely dominated by lust and by shame, shame had won the day on this one. I actually interrupted him, real bossy style: "No, that's child's play." A withering rejection: he must have been hurt. And a pointless self-denial: I was a fool! But for something adult, something respectable, something serious, my goal, without a hesitation I made my alternative proposal, the one thing I desired so much: "Have you ever tried bumming?"

"No, I haven't."

"Do you want to try it?"

"Yeah, OK."

This was eighteen years ago: 1980. I was thirteen years old. Phil was also thirteen when he showed me how to wank. Rephrase that. Phil was also thirteen when he wanked for me. No, he might have wanked for me before, when I wasn't there, as it were, so to speak. Phil was also thirteen when he wanked in front of me. By the time we had the above conversation Phil was fourteen. Because it was after midnight. It was the early hours of his fourteenth birthday. He was fourteen.

Let me take you forward eighteen years to now, 1998. To this day I have never encountered in a single conversation or book, of fiction or non-fiction, any celebration of the odour of arse. We all did it! All those years and we all did it. Only one - Richard - declined the chance even to try. Everyone who did try became an addict. Andrew returned to the scene of the crime with real gusto, even at eleven, and for all the years before that he was there again and again. And yet not once in gay life and literature since then have I heard talk or read of the joys of the odours of arse. There is endless celebration of cock. There is some of arse. Fucking, sucking, these are standards. Rimming is a minority sport which merits the occasional mention, and which conjures an awesome respect. Tongue up arse? Accepted, in awe. Smelling bottoms? Strangely not.

Rimming: now there's a thing. Do you know what brownie points are? Most people in the UK assume that it is something to do with that soppy junior Girl Guides network, The Brownies. Do a soppily good turn, you get brownie points. Au contraire. The origin is the linked verb brown-nosing. Any nearer? No?

I remember being thoroughly shocked whilst priding myself at not being shocked by the deliberately shocking The Young Ones: a cult UK TV show. One character was suggesting that going pleading with the bank manager might be a good idea. He suggested a turn of phrase, not so much a plea as a grovel. Another character, all sarcasm, exclaimed: "Good grief! Why don't you just go into his office and put your tongue straight down the back of his trousers!"

What, I thought: people do this? They must if they can so much as imagine it. Yuk! Or maybe not yuk, actually. But nobody ever said before, nobody ever said...

Brown nosing, meaning grovelling, is, by origin, rimming as part of an exchange of favours. Leaving you with a brown nose. The recipient of pleasure is the one left with a soft clean arse hole, not, even in this little-known piece of mythology, the one whose brown nose went to that mystical place. That, apparently, is a humiliating service, not a pleasure.

I think not.

Brownie points are the favour credits earned by performing this service.

Conclusion of this widely accepted favour myth: everybody loves to be rimmed; but even in this crazy anally aware world, nobody likes to smell bottoms. But we all did! Why will nobody say?!

OK, one person has. So I know I am not quite alone. There are all my arse buddies from years ago, plus: Dennis Cooper, author. Celebrates arse like no-one else I know. A real worshipper. Even including - only once - the aroma.

When Vulcan magazine ran a readership survey, more than half the readers replied. Their favourite model of all time was the one with the cutest bum - the subject of the best bum shot they had ever published. Asked what readers wanted to see more of, the answer was a near unanimous More Arse. Clear majority decision: cocks enough, more arse please, more arse, the cuter the better, more arse.

I digress. Where were we? Phil had just gone from thirteen to fourteen, at midnight. He was now confidently fourteen. I was thirteen. This was our key conversation so far:

Me to Phil: "Have you ever tried bumming?"

Phil: "No, I haven't."

Me: "Do you want to try it?"

Phil: "Yeah, OK."

There was a pause, and then, in silence, we started to climb out of our sleeping bags.

Me: "Well you're the expert, you go first." Expert: older; wanker; snogger. Plus: I was suddenly worried about making a fool of myself, by getting it wrong somehow. Far safer to ask Phil to go first. Less of an imposition as well. I was now out of my sleeping bag, already lying prone.

Phil, objecting to the word expert: "You're the one who's been doing this sort of thing for years." Many years. Was he nervous?

Me: "No, you go first." I now pushed down sky blue trousers and pulled up sky blue top, exposing arse flesh between cotton lines.

Phil: "OK." He was now climbing over me, kneeling over me. He spread my buttocks with his hands, which felt wonderful, my arse hole deepening, my cheeks luxuriating. I was waiting for the sensation of his cock being laid gently into the valley of my arse crack; then of my buttocks, being released, folding softly around his erection to caress it, enfolding it, holding it; followed by his whole body weight descending on to me, then perhaps arms around me, perhaps a kiss on the back of the neck whilst his penis lay there, surrounded and swallowed by soft mounds of my flesh.

None of this happened.

Instead, apart from his hands on my cheeks, the only part of him to touch me was the conical top of his thick circumcised cock. And it was touching me somewhere that nobody else and nothing else had ever touched me. Ever. At all. And it was not just touching or caressing there, where nobody, nothing had touched me before. It was pressing there. Pressing hard. The conical top of his thick circumcised cock was in the conical hollow at the very centre of my arse, the entrance portal of the arse hole itself, that sacred place which my many partners had reverently worshipped whilst drawing its addictive scent but which none had ever touched - with nose or hand or anything at all. And theirs, also, I had worshipped and revered, but never touched. The soft folds of that most beautiful point were virgin folds for myself and for all my partners, too holy to be anything but adored. And Phil was touching there. He was touching the whole of there, the whole of it at once. He was touching, pressing, the whole of there with the conical tip of his cock, a perfect fit to the conical hollow of the very central heart of my arse.

I had never imagined this. I had imagined instead the whole cock swallowed by the whole valley floor. But I realised what he was trying to do. He was aiming to have the whole of his cock absorbed through that entrance way - through that entrance way so that the whole of his cock would be through it and into the inside of me, his cock inside me, his cock, inside, me. And nothing had ever even touched me there before. Absolutely nothing had ever gone through. I had never even imagined it, let alone considered whether it was possible or not. Now I could certainly imagine what he was imagining, and with some urgency, I was considering whether it was indeed possible. One of us was fundamentally wrong about bumming. Was it me or was it him? I thought it best to find out by letting him try it his way - which if it worked ... wow, what a concept. Into. Into. Into the holy of holies. Into the arse. Into the Sacred Heart. Through that holy entrance way. Through it. Into the unknown but deeply desired beyond. Into. Cock. Into. Me. My. Arse. Hole. Him. At the centre. Pressing. Trying. Now.

After a while, pressure released, Phil: "This isn't going to work."

He knelt up and pulled on my hips. "Perhaps if you come up, like, on all fours."

Logical. My arse flesh would be tighter, my arse hole pulled apart. I went up on all fours, sky blue shirt still in place, sky blue trousers still round my thighs. He knelt behind me. Another touch, another push. The heights were all wrong. Cock height had to match arse hole height. Plus he wanted to lie over me, as though I was the corner of the bed and someone wanted his arse behind him. With shuffling and moving and pushing and pulling, angles were altered at back and at hips and at knees until things were very roughly lined up and the pointed tip of his cock was once again pressing hard on the softest virgin folds of my heart of arse, not laid gently in the valley, but with an unprecedented, unimagined, perpendicular push for entry right into me through the sacred mark itself.

Was it possible, was it possible, was it possible? I wanted it to be so. It began to move in. A fourteen year old cock was moving in to my thirteen year old arse. Conical tip first: my arse hole widened to take it. The rim of his glans, the widest point, was against the outermost part of my arse hole. The tip had gone through. Holy of holies. Inside me now. I felt that widest point moving through the untouched sacred channel of my arse hole. My arse hole closed tight round his shaft behind it and held him in there by a firm grip: I had him by the cock, clasped inside my arse, where nothing and nobody had ever been before. He was lying on top of me now. His penis was inside me. Inside my arse. Inside my body. Inside me. He was holding my cock.

He was holding my cock. At the time I had no idea why, but he seemed to like it. I understand now! On reflection I realise now that he had still not seen it since Scout camp the year before. Since then it had become a very different thing. I do remember that his fist, wrapped around it, covered not even a third of its length. His cock, meanwhile, was pushing deeper in my arse, my arse was swallowing his cock: that made sense even then. Supreme sense.

He pushed and pulled a bit, juddered a bit, pushed and pulled some more, sighed or panted deeply once or twice, the pressure seemed to peak, and then he lay there quite still. The pressure eased. He had one more push and more went in - to more swallowing movement at my arse hole. It was fantastic. Not just a dream, but a dream of a dream, because I had never even imagined.

That one last push, his balls against my lower arse and balls, and he finally let go of my cock, leaned up, and withdrew, in one continuous movement lying down prone by my side, then on to all fours, and crawling forwards, shorts round thighs, arse exposed, to go where I had been: "OK, you go." The invitation at last. The dream of years.

He was fully grown, for goodness sake. We both were: adult stature. His arse was broad and white, the valley no more than a dip in its landscape, and there was the centre, a clear circular mark in the breadth of the plain. Below were the tops of legs, with dark boxer shorts asymmetrically lodged around thighs, and above, an old wool jumper: nothing exposed but the arse - and cock on the other side, I presumed, to little interest.

I did not pause to examine his arse (more's the shame). I knelt up and manhandled my monstrous cock to point its tip at that circle, and pushed. For the first time in my life I was touching that sacred place. There was sight, there was scent; now there was touch, and thorough touch, a conical tip touching every part of the surface of those folds.

It was placed there and pushed but nothing moved inwards. I shuffled awkwardly and tried a few different angles. The heights were all wrong, the angles were all wrong, nothing was going to move, to give. I wedged it in place and lay myself on top of him, one arm and then the other wrapping around him, round chunky-knit wool. Sky blue shirt to old wool jumper. Sky blue waistband to cotton boxers, tying together and keeping apart our four parallel thighs. Still fully dressed, only cocks and arses exposed between night wear pushed aside. Cock up arse. It was moving. A half inch. It was moving. Now. An inch. Glans moving in. An inch and a half. Glans swallowed. Two. Two and a half. Swallowing shaft. Three. Stop. A tiny fraction of the whole, but how much could he take? Dry and sore, no more right now. I lay there, cock in arse, legs tied up in clothing, arms round wool jumper. I lay there.

I lay there.

I lay there, my cock right inside Phil's holiest place. I had never imagined. Anything. Like. This.

He moved a little. I moved a little, my cock in his arse. My mind went blank. I lost track of time. Time passed. I came to with a shudder, as though I had dozed off and come to, though I was most definitely wide awake up till then. Then I suddenly felt completely exhausted and totally unable to balance at all, I did not know why. But it did clearly if mysteriously feel as though the liturgy was concluded, had reached some goal, some end, some life achievement. I now withdrew my cock from his arse and fell stumblingly off him and on to my side. When I looked up he was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, with a certain look: the whole picture I knew said 'seductress': take me I'm yours. This I knew because on a paper round one Sunday The Sunday Times flagged an article on seduction, and the picture of the woman looked just like this. He wanted me. But there was no me left to have. I had to let him down.

I pulled up my trousers from my thighs and over my worn erection. I crept in to my sleeping bag and there I slept. Not a word was exchanged.

Next morning I hated him. This was not because of what we had done. By the morning I was ready to affirm and celebrate all that we had done. I was ready for a little encore, or at least a more than knowing smile, as a seal of approval on the night, and as a promise for the future, for more of this. But Phil was not a morning person. Nine tenths asleep, grunting, grumpy, incognisant, he disgusted me. Perhaps if he had been different...

I went to the bathroom alone. It spurted a bit as I took a shit. It was very cheesy behind my foreskin, and not just white but a browny white paste. I showered.

At the non-verbal level, that fuck became my life. At the verbal level, shame overtook lust yet again - though both were huge. It was a close run thing. In the tent that following night, Phil was still sated and took no lead, proffered no encouragement, except to note no objection to the night before. My lust wanted fuck, but shame had overtaken. Strangely though, shame had decreased in the Rood play department, perhaps because of Phil's positive reactions and even his positive request the night before. But the words in my head were all over the place, speaking shame and guilt one minute and lust the next. Phil must have been bewildered - or more likely just bemused. I know now that he lived then on the simplest of pleasure principles. I must have sounded like a head case.

That night I did hold his cock. And he held mine. Awkwardly, reaching into each other's sleeping sacks both at once. And that was that. The end of the holiday week. That was that. The end.

I dreamed, oh how I dreamed. "Thou shalt not commit adultery" - the only prohibition on sex in the top ten: so I reasoned that as long as we only fuck each other that's OK. We could pledge our troth for the teenage years. We could camp every weekend. I could pitch the tent on a Friday evening and we could fuck for two whole nights before the school week started again. This year, next year, the year after that, for the whole of our teens at least, and then anything. Oh how I dreamed of those fucks but I just did not dare. Phil was out of sight, out of contact, but that fuck was never out of mind.


I told Andrew about my night with Phil.

I wanted him to take the bait, to repeat that whole liturgy from beginning to end, to create a new miracle like the one he created two summers before. To return that favour.

We were pushing our bikes up a particularly steep brow, out in the surrounding hills where we would cycle. We were both thirteen.

Four fifths of the story was already told. "And then finally we tried bumming. Have you ever tried it?"


"I though you'd just lay your dick in the crack, but you don't, you actually put it in the hole. It actually goes in, two or three inches. We did it both ways." Pause. No reaction. "Do you want to try it?"


I told him how good it felt. I told him what a major life achievement it was. But he did not want to try. I know now what I did not know then, that the problem was the size of his cock. Two or three inches meant more than the whole thing. He was still sporting boy cock.

Tenting one night we did at least begin that sacred liturgy: into the tent, dirty talk, and then out came my solidly erectile cock for the wanking demonstration. The ridiculous thing was, since that night with Phil, I had still never tried it on my own - and now here I was showing it off to Andrew. But this was the liturgy that I had been taught. I followed it exactly, the faithful disciple. I sat up, trousers off completely to expose my cock, and I began.

He stared. It was, of course, a very different sight from before.

It seemed to take for ages, but it certainly felt good, so I carried on. I kept up a commentary of what seemed to be happening - but it was my first time, so I really hadn't a clue. Eventually my internal organs began to panic: something was clearly about to occur. Suddenly I felt desperate for his touch. Anything. "Put your hand there. It'll work. Put your hand there." He placed his palm on my lower belly, gingerly, avoiding penis and hair. "It's coming. It's coming. It's coming." In little splats it spurted messily and uncertainly around. Andrew dashed inside for tissues.

Fair's fair. He sat up and showed me his dick. It was totally unchanged from the year before, or from the year before that: erect and small and hairless and smooth, a boy cock. No, he was not going to show me in return. Yes, he had done it before. Yes, he had come up. Just a tiny bit, like that last splodge there.

I know neither whether this was true or possible. He sank into his sleeping bag and the liturgy was over.

Within weeks I was wanking up to five times a day. Quite regularly three. Certainly averaging two. I would often lie prone with a pillow under my crotch, standing in for a prone boy's arse, and dream - so many beautiful boys, and this arse - and rub against pillow, and come without hands in heavy heavy shots. Or I would lie on my back and then rub my still half flaccid dick between my own buttocks, and even into my own arse hole: remember that fully erect it merely pointed away, not up. Only once did I come there, pumping hot spunk all around my very own sacred heart, wetting it through so thoroughly. That was very often how and where it began, given the nature of all my dreams.

OK, I remember, just once, just once, I spent one more night out with Phil. Lust called him down there. Shame gave the lecture. Mad compromise found us rubbing noses like eskimos, chastely enclosed in our own sleeping bags. Passion took over, as sure as snogging three years before. On and on it went, rub rub rub. Then I came in my sleeping bag, without so much as a touch, five heavy heavy pumps, one final kick, so much passion, a great hot pool. The end. The end of Phil.

On holiday early that summer, in a bath in a cottage far away, horny as hell, I explored my own arse with a probing middle finger. Somewhere inside I touched something absolutely magical, and I came and came and came.

Mid-summer, at Scout Camp, I lay in the tent next to one of the three from the year before. As he lay on his side, facing away, I rolled over and into him, moulding my body right into his, just our two sleeping bags pressed thin between us. Once or twice he pulled away. Mostly he did not. When I pressed against him really quite hard, he shouted, for the benefit of the others, for the rise, my name, and "Stop trying to bum me!" But no-one responded, so there we settled, there we spent the night. But nothing was said. And nothing was done.

Same week, we all had to bivouac out: make a shelter in the woods, and sleep there. Lust engineered for me to spend it with Phil. Shame prevented any action. Only weeks after the fuck, all I could do was embrace - "an innocent hug" - oh but it felt so good. The one thing which had been missing on fuck night was the only thing we had there in the woods.


There remains just one more story to tell. The astute will have noted that Peter's arrival had spoiled my unbroken record - of having had every contemporary boy's arse in the street. Peter's arse I had not yet had, and he had been there now three years. With both of us now thirteen - all three of us counting in Andrew as well - the score chart was now about to be made complete once again. And that most dramatically.

Late summer, and Andrew and I somehow decided a tent night would be an idea. And Peter was to join us, even though we had hardly kept in touch. We never met Peter now outside of Scouting. We all went to different schools. But there he was, right next door, so for the first time in a year, we knocked, and we invited him to play. He said yes.

My motive for this was singular lust. Andrew's - who knows.

In the tent that evening it was Peter who started strip poker. Read that again, because it's true. Let's play cards, let's play poker, let's play for strips, said Peter. Said Peter. Said Peter. It was him. Strip poker, he insisted. My third arse messiah. My new, my latest saviour.

Strip poker - is foreplay for beginners.

When is strip poker supposed to end? When one person only is naked? That would be so unfair! It would lack even the simple conspiratorial justice of "You show me yours and I'll show you mine." And it abandons this brilliant game right at its most exciting point. No, it is only fair - and it correctly reflects the momentum of the game and the level of fun - to play on at that point, until everyone is exposed. It's only fair, between naked or virtually naked compassionate friends.

And so, late in the night, as Peter was the first to lose his very final cover, exposing his confident erection at the centre of his naked frame, the game had more momentum than at any time so far. The three of us being good friends, all naked or not far from it, full of the excitement of the moment, wanting to be fair, it was entirely inevitable that we would play on. Three boys wore between them only two pairs of underpants and one pair of jeans. So close already, surely we would all be completely naked soon, surely we would all have our erections exposed as Peter now had. It's only fair. And already so close. We dealt again, one cock naked, one in just a cotton slip, one in jeans. The rest was already bare flesh. It was only right, three boys, three garments, we three.

Peter's cock, standing there, naked and erect as we played another hand, was boy cock still. I was so disappointed. I wanted more. And I already knew that Andrew's was still a boy. So this night was not to be the night of nights: just another marker on the way. But this was still my first sight of naked sexual Peter - freely offered by Peter himself - and it was truly very pleasant. Bare arms. Bare feet. Bare legs. Smooth chest, smooth stomach, smooth hips, smooth crotch. Cock. Plenty of foreskin. Solidly upright. Softly sheathed. Desirable. Definitely the best. The best boy cock. Definitely the best one.

I was very aware of the monster that I was still hiding. It was only a matter of time. But what now if naked Peter lost again? A forfeit of some kind was required, just in case. His cock had been examined, and so it was agreed: the forfeit was an inspection of his arse.

With three of us playing, each round took for ever. The anticipation was extreme. I lost next and Peter had his first sight of something very different. But after the inspection there was still no doubt about what was to happen next: another hand would follow. The momentum was undiminished. And with the next hand - Peter and me completely naked, Andrew still in jeans - Peter lost and willingly knelt on all fours for the inspection.

Andrew in jeans was even keener than naked me to examine naked Peter's arse. Examine we did, most thoroughly: touching, spreading, passing comment; four eyes, four hands, on one proffered arse. My first sight of Peter, bumping heads with Andrew, pleasant odours around; firm curves, pink heart.

Score chart once again complete. Full house. Every contemporary boy's arse in the street. Every single one had been offered to me as part of some deliberate and pleasure seeking game, and every single contemporary boy had taken mine in return, deliberately, playfully, seeking pleasure. Every single one. Every single boy. Not a single one had missed out. Not a single one had I missed. I had had every single contemporary boy's arse in the street in play. Score chart completed again at thirteen. With the arse of a third messiah.

A half hour later, Andrew naked at last, and Peter already inspected again, they were both peering in to me - "lots of hairs" - and with the momentum to play undiminished at all, further forfeits were now required.

We decided a menu of forfeits was good: the loser would have to choose.

"Give a wanking demonstration." - Peter's suggestion, first item on the new list.

"Pretend to bum someone. They get to choose who." - That was mine.

"How about running naked round the outside of the house." - Andrew's idea.

"Or a pile up." - Me again.

"What's a pile up?" - Peter.

"One person lies on the floor, face down; the next one lies on top of him; the last one lies on top." - My simple explanation. Nakedness assumed. We were all sitting round playing poker with three erections and not a stitch on. "The loser decides what order."


More cards were dealt. It all took time. Nothing could be hurried. Each one of us, stark naked, had time to plan what we would choose if the lot fell to us.

As the night went on, only two of the forfeits were taken up. Twice, Andrew ran naked round the house. Every other game ended in pile up.

With three of us, there were six permutations, and every one was tried. The dream place was in the middle. Peter and I soon had no shame in requesting it. We were getting into sex and into each other. So the dream place, the middle: first an arse below, between the cheeks of which to place one's cock, tip perhaps touching the actual hole; and then, that still in place, the cock of another above, slipping gently between cheeks, perhaps with its tip in turn deliciously found right on one's sensitive entrance way. Cock and arse both stimulated, both an arse and a cock possessed. All six permutations, several times.

And whilst Andrew was out running, a shared conspirators thought from Peter: "We could have a wanking competition. Everyone has to stand up doing this till they come. I've come before. You'd win but I'd come second. Andrew'd be here till next year."

Getting very late, momentum finally flagging, it was time for more items to freshen the menu. Ideas all mine: "OK, you can choose from these. Pretend bumming's already on. Or you can choose real bumming, and choose who with, or dick sucking, and who with, and which way round, or a pile up but with real bumming instead of pretend."

Peter: "But hang on, if the loser gets to choose which way round, he could make someone else suck his dick, and that's like getting a prize, not a forfeit, like it was something they wanted."

"No, its horrid whatever way round, surely. They just get to say what."

"OK. Yeah." A pause, and then: "I'm not gay or anything. I just want to see what it's like."

In a new and concentrated silence, the cards were dealt again. Andrew lost and ran. Then I "lost" a hand and it was time for something new. I chose to suck: to suck Peter. He assented, of course; leaned back, elbows behind him, hard boy cock high in the air. I leaned over and closed my lips around its very base, so that the whole of it was in my mouth, and from there, with my lips, I gently pulled soft foreskin upwards over the tip, and then closed my tongue on to it inside my mouth, feeling its whole form against the roof of my mouth, sucking gently, then pulling away. Another life achievement, I guess. Peter said "Wow."

It fell to me again. I requested the reciprocal. It was clearly within the rules, no matter how outrageous. I asked that Peter suck my cock. He did not object. I leaned right back on my elbows, cock tall from my crotch and vertical up in the air. He did not touch with his hands. He lowered his mouth over the top, only just able to open it wide enough. The whole glans disappeared into the cave of his mouth, but nothing touched: then he closed his lips into an 'O', making one full ring of contact round the shaft: nothing more. No softness of tongue or inner cheeks round the glans. Just that sealing ring, and then off. It was new. It would do.

Peter next took the middle of a pile up, Andrew below, myself above, and then it fell to me again, and I announced real bumming. But with whom? I knew who I wanted: I lusted for him, but I had to pretend not to care. After all, none of us was gay or anything. So I said not him but Andrew. Andrew lay prone on the floor, surprisingly willing tonight to give it a try, perhaps even charmed to be chosen. I knelt over him and tried and failed to push it in, though he wriggled to try to help.

Peter, watching our efforts: "You could try it like this."

I looked around and there was another surprising sight. Peter was lying on his back and with his arms he was holding his knees up by his shoulders, arse hole exposed in a way I had never imagined. Rather than begin negotiations with Andrew about going up on all fours, I simply turned round and pushed the tip of my cock hard on to the inviting hole of inviting Peter's arse. Still it would not go.

Andrew, behind me: "This is fun." I turned around. Another surprise. Andrew was copying Peter, doing the same, rocking on his rounded back. I shuffled over and pressed on to him, also now inviting, peering down: cock on arse hole, but nothing would move.

"It won't go in," - my complaint.

"Never mind." Peter. "We'll let you off this time. Pick something else next time."

Glumly for me, cards again. It took so long but the game dictated it was Peter's turn to choose.

Peter had already made his choice of forfeit, and solemnly now he announced it: "OK, real bumming, with..." and he said my name.

I wanted this. I so wanted this. It was a total surprise. I had not even dreamed to expect it. But now here comes naked Peter. And he wants me.

I played by the rules as thus far established. I lay fully prone on the floor. Peter mounted me, making like pile up games, only this time he was working his cock with one hand, working it into the very hole at the heart of my arse. There was prodding and pushing and little achieved, but he was not going to give up. He persevered. He pulled foreskin forward and positioned again, his dick on the opening at the heart of the heart of my arse. And he pushed. It went in. And some more. And some more. A tiny prepubescent thing, a boy thing, tickling around, his balls touching down. He held it there as deep as it would go. I could feel its entire length, right through my arse hole and into me. I think he came. At least he moved around, and then shuddered, and gasped.

And then slowly he withdrew. Naked Peter had fucked naked me as naked Andrew looked on. And Peter was satisfied. Fantastic.

"OK, let's call it a day. Let's get some sleep." That was Peter.

Peter was gone before Andrew and I woke up. It reverted at once to how it had been: we only saw him at Scouts; and then not at all, when I left the next year.

Score card complete. Every contemporary boy in the street. Every single one. At thirteen.

And then I did not have another naked arse for five and a half long and incredibly painful years - my longest ever break.

Not its nakedness, but I did have the shape and form and softness of Andrew's arse for one last time late in that same summer. We were spending the night in the house extension. We were talking dirty, making home spun porn. The excuse being the chaste acting out of a story that we were making, I lay on top of him, both of us prone, both of us secure in our sleeping bags. But my erection lay on top of the shape of his wonderful beautiful deity of an arse - the god I had known for a decade of summers. Better this than any pillow. Covered, yes, but the real thing none the less: Andrew's genuine arse in my groin at last. I clung hard on to his shoulders and pushed and pulled as inconspicuously as I could, and I came heavily, at last, after all of these years, for no dream but at the genuine shrine of Andrew's beautiful fleshy arse (my God for a decade): huge wet heavy pumps. And then I hid the fact - but a thousand angels sang. They sang for that moment. They sang for the decade. Thirteen and thirteen.

Five and a half years later, age nineteen, I was lying on my back with my first boyfriend's nineteen year old arse right in my face - my first sight of arse for five and a half years. And at last I was kissing that softest and most beautiful place ... whilst simultaneously his tongue was probing deep up my own arse. Man cock at last, and this arse, and that tongue: I was in love, and salvation had come.


It was ten years after my fuck with Phil that I met him by pure coincidence in a city miles from either of our homes. We bonded immediately just like old times, and met up more formally to talk and to talk.

Recalling our first summer, when I was ten, he confirmed that yes, I was his first. And he did it because he wanted to, with me. And he knew it would be OK. And he knew, despite the world, that it was no crime, no crime at all.

And his only other dallying between then and our fuck was that Scout Camp strip tease as described here. But the interesting story is what followed our fuck. Whilst I collapsed in on myself and my shame, Phil flourished. It turned out that Phil and Stephen had had a florid affair, that very term between that Easter Scout Job Week and that sad summer bivouac hug. It all began in the school toilets - the urinals - and mostly happened in the cubicles there. Phil said he could not quite remember how it all began. But I know them both well enough to imagine.

Stephen would do anything for attention, for the rise: anything at all, and hardly cared who knew. Phil was totally relaxed about sex: had a gay uncle, liberal parents, knew it was OK; his attitude was, I enjoy it, so what the hell. So my guess is that Stephen would make the first move, a tiny gesture, provocative but excusable, standing by Phil at the porcelain, either giving a flash of cock, or taking a peek at Phil's. It could be either. And then Phil, far from shying away as other boys would, would favourably react: obviously taking a look, or offering a clearer view. And from there it was just a case of gradual escalation, loitering outside or inside the toilets, giving each other the nod, taking a closer look, a touch, a rub; until they were wanking each other off in the cublicles, meeting secretly during lesson times, even once getting caught, and getting away with a smoking charge - though neither of them smoked. All of this latter part Phil did describe. And triumph of all, whilst Phil still thought of me all those years later as his first partner, it was with Stephen that he disappeared into the woods, on that same summer camp as my tragic bivouac hug, to share his first blow job, first this way then that.

"Stephen was a Big Boy."

Phil was laid out on the floor telling this story. I was in a chair, but only just. It would have been so easy, so natural, so right, to lay down beside him and start to undress us, to strip and to kiss and to fuck. I refrained because the boyfriend back at home would be hurt. That was the only reason.

I told Phil all of this. He felt exactly the same.

I have never attempted to trace the rest of them, though I suppose that I probably could. In my nightmares I see them in their heterosexual homes determinedly avoiding all thought of our shared history - which is their history as well - finding it far too challenging to the inadequate, imposed, western adult theory of life by which they doubtless now tragically live. And I see them adding to the pain of the next generation by denouncing the very pleasures which they themselves enjoyed.

In my dreams, in contrast, I find each one of them just as I found Phil: delighted to have made love with me all those years ago, still full of intimate affection, and still willing. That is certainly how I feel for them: I know that I could make love with them again, and I know that I would want to. I even feel that I owe it to them, like a polygamous husband, to support them all, for ever, my lovers, my harem, should any one of them turn up lonely or in need. It would be both a duty and a joy to be their friend and lover all over again. For me, that is the pledge of what we shared, from four to fourteen. The things that they did to me then. The things that we shared.