Hayle (Part 2 of 4) (c) Oliver Jennings, 2004
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One of the defining moments that eased my guilt happened during a trip to Hayle with my dad. It was just him and I that weekend: I think Charlie was away on some hiking expedition with the scouts and my older brother Tom was at University.
The hostel was pretty full, as it always is before a rugby match, and my dad and I had to share a three-bunk room with four other men. He offered to take the top bunk of our bed, which was fine by me as it meant I got a better view of what was going on at waist-level among the other guys in the room.
I don't remember much about three of the men we were sharing a room with - I don't think my dad or I really spoke to any of them - but I do remember that all six of us turned in together at about half past eleven when the hostel bar had closed. It must have been pissing down with rain outside or something, because normally most of the men would head off into town to wander around the pubs, but for some reason everyone seemed to hang around indoors that night.
I got undressed quickly while the others were still coming upstairs, my erection already making a wigwam of the front of my boxers in anticipation of the strip show I was about to get. I got into bed and positioned myself like was just idly reading a magazine, giving myself the broadest view of the room that I could. My cock was literally throbbing beneath my duvet.
The first three guys undressed uneventfully, wandering in and out of the room making trips to the bathroom and gradually stripping down to their underwear. I lay there squeezing my cock underneath my magazine as they slowly revealed the curves and contours of their brief- or boxer-clad arses. Standard fare and, like I said, not terribly memorable.
Then my dad came in and hurriedly stripped down to his briefs, making occasional glances towards my magazine, as though he knew what was going on beneath it. I just pretended to be immersed in an article about The Eels and tried to ignore him.
While the other three guys got into their beds, dad said something like, "Is that the magazine with Martin Clunes on the cover?"
I shrugged. "I dunno."
He said, "Let's have a look..." and snatched the magazine away from me.
I grabbed it back almost immediately, replacing it over the bulge in the duvet. He smiled at me knowingly.
I muttered, "You can have a look when I've finished this article..."
He chuckled, "I've seen enough, Ollie..." He looked back down at my crotch. "I kind of got an eyeful..."
I went a little pink but shrugged it off. I thought, "Jesus - can't a guy even lie in bed with a hard-on these days?"
Then our fourth roommate came into the room and started stripping. Dad turned to face him, making a few bland pleasantries, with his brief-clad arse in front of my face.
I expected dad to climb up onto his bunk as the guy took off his shoes and socks, but instead he just stood there with his back to me, eclipsing my view almost completely with his arse. The other guy began asking about how often the two of us had stayed in the hostel and dad made idle chit-chat in reply.
I kept trying to peer round the side of dad's arse to see what was going on - the fourth guy was already hitching down his jeans - but every time I changed position, dad would move across to block my view again. I'd shuffle around a little as if trying to my myself more comfortable, and dad would take a step in the same direction. I'd pretend to yawn and move over to the other side of my pillow and dad would follow me.
I was thinking, "Oh come on, dad - give me a break! He's pulling off his teeshirt!" But my dad's arse would remain firmly in front of my face.
That's not to say my dad's arse wasn't pleasant to look at - for a guy his age, he had a pretty athletic pair of buttocks which filled the back of his white briefs pretty well - but I guess the fact it belonged to my dad made me a little uncomfortable about staring too hard at it. Interest in that direction would have seemed a bit too weird even for me!
When the fourth guy had stripped down to all but his briefs, dad finally stepped to one side to let me see what I'd been waiting for. It was worth the wait! The man was a builder or something and had a muscular, well-built body with a chiselled pair of buttcheeks at the back of him that looked like they would be strong enough to crack nuts. His briefs were white and so tight that they rode up into his crack, and when he turned around to face us, his cock and balls were so clearly defined inside the taut material that they looked like they must be painful to wear.
Dad coughed gently and I looked up at his face. He was looking down at me, smiling knowingly again.
I blushed for a second time and his grin broadened.
I wondered whether he was smiling at the fact he'd playing a game by pushing his arse in front of me or whether he realised I'd been trying to spy on the other guy. Before I could work him out, dad turned and said to the guy, "Jesus, mate. Looks like you could have done with a bigger size..."
The man laughed. "Yeah... my wife always buys them like this. Two sizes too small. She kind of... er... likes them like that...!"
Dad chuckled. "Not too comfortable for you, though..."
The guy smiled. "A permanent wedgie is a small price to pay to keep her happy..."
"Yeah? Must be true love..."
The guy laughed again and said, "Nice to get them off though..." And he quickly yanked them down. I think he'd been pleased that someone had given him the opportunity to take them off so that he didn't have to risk looking weird by being the only one to sleep in the nude. His cock and balls burst out from them like they were relieved to get a some air after their day of captivity. I noticed that the guy's pubes were trimmed, emphasizing the length of his cock and the drop of his balls. Obviously another preference of his girlfriend's...
Then he turned to stuff his briefs into his rucksack, revealing his spectacular arse in all its naked glory. Apart from the pink lines where the hems of his briefs had dug into him, his buttocks were perfect: full, firm and as round as melons.
I glanced back up at my dad and found that he was staring at the others guy's arse as intently as I had been. Then, when the guy bent low to pick up a couple of things that had fallen out from his bag, I was even more surprised to look up and find my dad subtly craning forward to get a better view of the man's parting arse cheeks.
My dad looked back over at me and smiled again. I guess I must have just looked confused. He nodded over at the guy's arse and his grin broadened. I looked over to see what he was gesturing at. The man's small pink hole was clearly visible between his muscular buttocks; it looked like a tiny rosebud nestling in swirls of wispy dark hair.
I looked back up at my dad's face and he nodded, still grinning. I smiled back tentatively.
Were we both thinking the same thoughts? Did he, like me, find what we were looking at interesting and attractive; or did he just think it was amusing to see another guy's arsehole? Could this part of a game or a test of my sexuality?
My dad said something like, "Yeah... I think I'll follow suit..." and to my surprise he pulled down his own briefs. Sleeping naked in hostels just wasn't normally done in our family.
He threw his underwear onto his bag and then climbed the ladder at the side of our bunks to get onto his own bed. As he did so I noticed that his cock was not exactly what you'd call limp. It was obviously a long way from being fully erect but it stood outwards from his balls, as straight as a rod, and looked swollen and thick. I'd seen enough of my dad in the nude over the years to know that his cock just didn't normally look like that.
I thought, "Shit! He really was getting off looking at that guy's arse! I'm not the only one!"
I almost laughed out loud! All that time I'd spent looking for answers about what I was feeling, and here they were right in my own family. It was a bit bizarre, but it made sense: it was a family thing. Like father, like son - all that crap! Maybe it was genetic. The arse-loving Jennings gene!
While I lay in the dark with the other men going to sleep around me, I began to wonder if maybe it wasn't only dad and I who had an interest in the rears of our own sex. Perhaps my younger brother Charlie would sometimes get a little interested in his mates' arses; maybe even straight-as-a-die Tom would occasionally get off fantasizing about some guy's crack.
But after a few minutes it began to seem too incredible; too far-fetched to be taken seriously. My dad had just thrown me a conspiratorial smirk about the fact we both had front-row seats to the view of the other man's most private spot. He'd taken his briefs off because he likes to sleep naked at home and the fact the other guy had stripped off had made him feel less self-conscious about doing so himself.
It was as plain and simple as that.
The Jennings gene was just a case of wishful thinking.
But after five or ten minutes I began to feel the bunk bed vibrating gently and realised that my dad was discretely masturbating in the bed above me. At first I thought that maybe it was one of the other men in the other beds trying to have a quiet wank, but the occasional telltale slapping sounds were obviously coming from above me and dad's breathing was definitely speeding up.
In all the time I'd slept in hostels, tents or hotel rooms with him, I'd never heard my dad masturbating and for those first couple of minutes I felt acutely embarrassed. I couldn't believe that I was lying beneath him hearing his hand working away on himself and hearing his pleasure beginning to build. These were sounds I shouldn't be listening to: this wasn't exactly a traditional part of the father-son bond.
I considered getting up and going to the bathroom while he finished himself off, but was stopped before I even got out of bed by the memory of something that happened a year or so earlier. Dad, Tom and I had been staying at Hayle, possibly in this room, and had been going to sleep pretty much like we were now, with the other beds filled by strangers. I'd been feeling horny - you can probably guess why - and had tried to attend to my cock beneath my duvet with as little noise and movement as I could. A couple of minutes in, as my forehead was beginning to sweat and the rhythm of my fingers was making my cock ooze precum, Dad whispered curtly over to me, "There's a time and a place, Ollie... and it isn't now..."
I'd stopped, my cock limp in my hand before he'd even completed the sentence and my sweat feeling like it was beginning to freeze on my face. I hadn't replied; I'd just lain there as if dead, not even wanting to breathe. As though my silence right then would undo the sounds I'd been unknowingly making in the minutes earlier.
And now here was the same guy doing exactly the same thing he'd reproached me for.
So I lay back down and, for a couple more minutes, listened to my own father wanking in the bed above me, hearing him occasionally sighing gently as his pleasure built and his rhythm increased.
I cleared my throat to let him know I was still awake but it made no discernible impact. He knew his son was listening to him masturbating but he didn't care.
I thought, "Jesus, you'd think at his age he'd be able to control himself a bit more..."
But then it occurred to me that he might be doing this to make a point: sort of saying, "Hey, Ollie... what we just saw there really turned me on..."
I thought again about the guy's pink arsehole and my dad's stiffening cock. If the two things were unrelated it was a very bizarre coincidence that they had occurred almost together. Perhaps my dad really had been aroused by the sight of another man's arse. Perhaps he was thinking of it, gently opening to reveal its puckered secret, right now. Perhaps he was thinking about himself 'bumming' it.
At the thought of that my own cock began to reawaken and I held it in my hand, enjoying the sensation of it slowly lengthening.
I wondered if my dad might have been pleased to see me showing an interest in the other guy's arse. Pleased that young Ollie was following in his old man's footsteps. Whether he'd worked out that, like him, I thought about other guys' backsides when I masturbated and whether he was, right now as he tugged at his own cock, wondering if I fantasized about sliding my own cock into one.
As though he'd been reading my thoughts, my dad's movements became faster and the bed started rocking, the frame making rhythmic squeaking noises. The slight slapping sounds of his fist against his cock became louder and I realised he'd pushed back his duvet to masturbate in the open air.
Were any of the other men in the room aware of this? Were any of them thinking, "Christ - that guy's wanking off in front of his son!"?
By now my own cock throbbed at full size. The fact that my dad was masturbating right above me still wasn't, in itself, turning me on; it was the knowledge that we were both secretly attracted to the same forbidden fruit, and that we both knew we were.
I pushed back my own duvet and began masturbating myself to the same rhythm as my dad was using on himself. The extra movement made the sounds from the bed-frame intensify and the whole bunk swayed to our beat. Dad paused briefly, as if confirming to himself that I was joining in with him, and then got back to business as we both enjoyed pleasuring ourselves.
I wondered what the other guys, if any were still awake, were thinking now. That this was a bit of an unconventional father-son moment? How similar our techniques were in silhouette against the dim white wall behind us?
I don't know what my dad was thinking about when he climaxed, but I clearly remember my own thoughts. I was imagining the two of us, my dad and me, sitting side-by-side on my bunk wanking our separate cocks and occasionally smiling at each other. In front of us were the four guys in the room, naked, with their backs to us and their arses firm and round. Sometimes they'd bend over to put things in their rucksacks, and their cheeks would open with their holes looking pink and shiny inside. Dad and I were watching them, enjoying noticing each man's differences and similarities with the others, masturbating our cocks quickly and panting gently.
Occasionally my fantasies would run away with me, and I'd be unable to stop myself imagining my dad striding over and driving his cock into the arsehole of one of the men. I didn't want to think about that - I didn't want find myself getting aroused by that idea. So I'd stop that one in its tracks even though, right then on that first night, I was certain that it was something he had already done.
And sometimes my thoughts would veer off in the direction of me penetrating one of the men's bums. My dad staring at me, smiling and nodding encouragingly. But, again, I cut that one short; the idea of me actually having sex with a guy's arse was a road I wasn't ready to go down right now.
So I orgasmed with the thought of me and my dad sitting alongside one another masturbating, both getting aroused by the sight of four men's arses and the excitement of seeing their bumcheeks part as they bent forwards.
As my climax subsided and my cock stopped spurting semen over my chest, I realised that my dad had already come. The smell of us both was thick in the air; his juice smelled almost identical to mine and served only to intensify my already cloying odour.
While I lay there recovering my breath and felt my chest grow cold from the pools of semen splattered across it, dad climbed down from his bunk and fumbled in his rucksack. Another man coughed lightly, clearly wide awake: one person, at least, had witnessed our joint pleasure.
Then dad threw me one of his teeshirts to clean myself off. He climbed back up to his bunk with, I presume, his discarded briefs to wipe himself down.
Within minutes he was snoring, leaving me to worry about what the hell we'd just done.
Next morning he woke me with a poke and a grin. "Sweet dreams, Ol?"
Before I could croak a response he said, "When I was your age, I'd have wanted to stay in bed until everyone else was up... at least give all the other guys time to get dressed..."
I nodded, smiling slightly, and he grinned broadly at me.
Then he said, "I'll leave you to it, then. I'm going for a shower..."
And I chuckled, appreciating the verbal thumbs-up he'd just given me.
Clearly, my understanding of him had been right: he did enjoy the sight of other guys' arses and he'd done so since he'd been at least my age.
Perhaps there really was something in the idea of a Jennings gene.
I don't know which of the other men in the room had heard dad and I wanking the previous evening: I watched them all get ready with more than my usual interest, but none of them did so much as throw me an unusual glance. Maybe whoever it had been just assumed he'd had a surreal dream!
In the months afterward, dad and I never spoke again, directly or indirectly, of what had happened that night nor of our shared interest in guys' arses. For me there was no need to: the anxiety that I might be the only person to feel attracted to girls but to fantasize about other guys' arses had been lifted from me. There seemed to be no reason to compromise my relationship with my dad by bringing each other's clandestine fantasies out into the open.
So I got on with dating girls, working my way to third and then fourth base, all the while having a recurrent idea presenting itself to me. It started out as an occasional, intermittent fantasy but it grew by the following summer into an almost overwhelming obsession. It got to the point at which every time I found myself looking at a guy's arse - whether clothed, in underwear or naked - I began wondering what it might be like to push my cock into it.
My mate Harry would bend over during a Chemistry practical, picking up a dropped pair of tongs, and his arse - round and tight in his trousers - would be level with my crotch. Right away I'd be mentally fucking him, sliding my cock in out of his arse, and the two of us would be gasping and writhing, oblivious to the liquid boiling over from the beaker on our workbench. Or my mate Jonathon and I would be getting dressed after sport and he'd bend over in his underwear to pull on a sock. His bumcheeks would open a little, prizing apart the white cotton of his briefs, and straight away I'd be in there: yanking down his underpants, pushing his vest up to his shoulders and slamming my cock into his eager arsehole. We'd be fucking like animals right there in the changing room outside of the coach's office.
I coped with this developing fixation in a way you might find rather vulgar. Anyone who went to a school like mine knows how bad the boys' toilets can smell, especially at the end of the day. To put it crudely, you walk in and the smell of other lads' shit overwhelms you.
Well, I guess it was that stench that helped me keep thoughts of me fucking other guys at bay (by now my mates were making jokes about lads fucking other lads; no-one of my age said 'bumming' any more). I'd say to myself, "That's what guys' arses smell like, Ollie... do you really find that attractive?" And the memory of that base, enveloping stench would drive all arousal away. The bulge in my school trousers or the rod in the front of my briefs would quickly wither away. Within a matter of seconds, I'd feel like my thoughts were my own again!
But then came Kai and Franziskus.
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In the next part, an encounter with two German lads makes me realise that the beauty of a guy's arse can't be fully appreciated by just looking at it...
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Comments/suggestions always welcome: southwest_ollie@yahoo.co.uk Ollie's group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ollies-group/ Ollie's website: http://stories.remoworld.com