This is a story that involves sex between males. if such a story is offensive, or illegal for you to read where you live, then do not continue, go and surf elsewhere.
This is a work of fiction and in no way draws on the lives of any specific person or persons. If there is any similarity to any real persons or events it is entirely coincidental.
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My thanks to Brian who have read this through and made a number of corrections and suggestions. Any remaining errors, grammatical, spelling or historical or whatever are entirely my fault.
Inky White and I Chapter 9
Resume:- Inky White has just finished telling his old school friend Phil- the narrator - about his first sexual experience with a male after many years of marriage.
Chapter 9.
"So how did you feel about it, the morning after the night before?" I asked.
"Initially I felt great, Phil. I felt as though I had rediscovered my true self. I was sure that my true self was essentially gay."
"You use the word, 'initially'; so does that mean the feeling did not last?"
"Yes, that feeling of euphoria did not last long. I was on my way back to Newcastle, when it suddenly hit me: I had been unfaithful. I had broken my marriage vows. Was I to say anything to Brenda? We are very close, I was sure she would immediately realise something had changed, something was wrong. With Donald the evening before, I had worried whether I would be able to perform with a man after all those years; now my fear was that I wouldn't be able to perform with Brenda that evening. Even one day apart was usually consummated in bed the first available opportunity. As I drove along, great waves of shame and guilt swept over me. I felt awful. I pulled into the first available service station, and sat in the car for at least half an hour with my head buried in my arms resting on the steering wheel. I then went off and bought myself a coffee.
"I drove the rest of the way back to Newcastle feeling grim. I almost wished I could have an accident."
"Were you suicidal?" I asked.
"No, not quite that bad. I think I just wanted to delay getting home and coming face to face with Brenda. The closer to home I got, the worse I felt."
"So what did you do?"
"I was on the outskirts of Gateshead, just a few miles from home, when I did something I had never done before, which was not me in any way."
"What on earth did you do?"
"I had just passed a church; I turned into a side road, parked the car, and went back to the church. It was only when I got in that I realised it was a Roman Catholic Church. You know, Phil, that is even less me. If anything, I'm respectable non-church-going Church of England. Have to be dragged into any church.
"There had just been a big service, I think a funeral. There were two or three people at the very front, clearing up and putting things away. I think I walked half way down the nave, that's what it's called isn't it?"
I nodded.
"I went and crouched in a pew, bum on the seat, leaning forward with my arms on the pew in front. I buried my head in my arms and wept. I don't know how long I was like that. It must have been quite a while. When I became conscious of my surroundings, the church was quiet. Everybody seemed to have left. I raised my head and just sat. I heard a movement, it was the priest coming up the aisle towards me. When he reached my pew, he stopped. 'You all right?' he asked, with a very soft southern Irish accent. I looked up at him. He looked about my own age, rather young to be a Catholic priest. I think I had always pictured them as all old and wrinkled. I nodded. 'You sure? Do you need to confess?' 'I'm not a Catholic,' I replied, 'I wouldn't know how to go about it.' 'That doesn't really matter,' he smiled. 'If you want just to talk then?' 'No thanks. I'll be all right, but thanks all the same.' He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small card. 'I'm Father Patrick,' and he extended his hand. 'I'm Inigo, but usually called Inky.' 'Your nick name is certainly easier to remember.' He handed me the card. 'This has my details, including telephone number on it. If any time you want someone to talk to, get in touch.'
"He looked into my eyes and gave me a gentle smile. I got up to leave. He walked with me in silence to the door of the church. 'Remember any time,' he said, and we shook hands again. Again his eyes looked into mine, and I felt he was seeing rather more than I wanted him to see. I went down the confetti covered steps onto the pavement. I put his card into my pocket, and I made my thoughtful way back to the car. As I turned off into the side road, I looked back and saw Father Patrick still standing at the door of his church watching me. I got into my car and drove home.
"Fortunately, Brenda was out when I got home. This was not entirely unexpected. Always when that happened, I prepared the evening meal. I was busy in the kitchen when she bustled in and gave my cheek a kiss. I think she did ask if my conference had gone well, but she was full of something that had gone wrong at her work. I listened, grateful that the focus was on events in which I had no part. That night she didn't want to make love, and I was relieved.
"So the next couple of months passed. My encounter with Donald began to slip into the past. The memory was good, and when I thought about it I usually got at least a stirring down below. That was alongside a now diminishing sense of guilt at what I had done. Brenda and I made love fairly frequently, but my heart was not in it in the way it had been at the start of our marriage. There were even times when making love when I consciously wanted the firmness of a male body and a hard cock to suck or to penetrate me. When that happened, there was a feeling that I was betraying Brenda. They were not a happy couple of months.
"Then one evening when Brenda was away for a couple of nights, I went to a gay pub in Newcastle. Such places aren't really my scene, but I went to see what went on. It was rather noisy. I was neither chatted up nor tried any chatting up. There was one item of information that I gleaned, that there was a good cruising area off a main road leading out of Gateshead. A month or so later I headed off down there. Found the lay-bye as described. Met up with a guy for a mutual wank, but that was not very satisfactory, standing there in the wet bushes, rather fearful of who might be around. I wanted it as it had been with you when we were at school, or as it had been with Donald.
"Those were not very happy months. So many different emotions mixed up inside me, and no one to talk to. I think I was somewhat depressed by my situation, loving my wife but wanting a man. I felt I was unique to be in this predicament. Was I some sort of freak? When you get into that frame of mind you feel very lonely."
"Did you ever think of trying to talk about it to Brenda?" I asked.
"No, Phil. I didn't think she could take it. I was trying to sort myself out, to find out where I was, or perhaps it should be, what I was. Then one day I happened to be searching for one of those loyalty cards that stores give you, to encourage you to go back. I expect your wallet is like mine; to the fore are the cards you frequently use, and tucked away in some inner pocket those you rarely need. I came across the card that Father Patrick, at that Catholic Church, had given me months before. I remembered his offer to talk with me whenever I felt the need. Was now that moment? I think my initial reaction was to put it back and forget about it. I certainly was no Roman Catholic. Would I be prepared to tell a Roman priest what my problem was? Perhaps I should make an appointment to see some counsellor or a psychiatrist? I think a memory came into my mind of being told that Roman Catholic priests are under the seal of the confessional, and wild horses will not drag from them what they have heard in the confessional. I wondered if just talking with him would have that degree of confidentiality. I didn't do anything about it then and there, but the thought remained with me.
"Then one day at the office, I was feeling wretched. I wanted a man. I had not enjoyed my encounter at the gay Pub, nor the fleeting encounter at the cruising area, so that was not the way. I got out my wallet, and pulled out Father Patrick's card and rang him. I think I was lucky to get through to him, and not get some answer-phone. I told him my name, and how we had met well over a year before. Somewhat to my surprise he remembered me. We arranged for me to go round to see him.
"Two afternoons later, I went to the presbytery. It was a large Victorian house, with an untidy front garden, and in need of a coat of paint. I rang the door bell, and very quickly Father Patrick opened it and welcomed me in. We shook hands. The hall was large, with a tiled floor and lots of varnished wood. I would have found it depressing. He showed me into a room. There was a desk covered with files and paper, a bookcase and three arm chairs, all of which looked as though their better days were long past. There was a small gas fire, which was endeavouring to warm the room. There were some rather sentimental religious pictures on the walls. The word that came into my mind to describe the room was – drab.
"But Father Patrick's welcome was warm. He offered tea or coffee, and I chose tea. He said that it was his housekeeper's day off, so he had to get it himself. I sat in one of the chairs while he went off to make the tea. This did not take him long. He asked some general questions about my work, family situation and where I originally came from. 'Your accent shows that you do not come from these parts,' he said. 'Yes, we are both in-comers, or foreigners,' I replied. We both laughed, and talked about life on Tyneside for a short while.
"I then got down to business. I told him my whole story. I found myself telling him more than I had originally intended. I went into greater detail. I told him about our sexual activities at school, and about Godfrey and Adrian too."
"Was he shocked or disapproving?"
"His face was largely expressionless. Sometimes a slight smile when I put an amusing slant on what I was saying. Sometimes he would ask a question to clarify what I was saying. I thought he listened intently, and without any judgemental expression at all. I told him about the more recent incidents, the session with Donald the waiter, and the gay pub, and the cruising areas. I concluded by telling him my dilemma.
"He summed it all up: 'So Inky, you love your wife and want a man?' I thought that summed it all up perfectly. He sat looking into the fire for several moments. 'And what do you wish from me, apart from listening to your predicament?' 'Well, I do feel somewhat better having put into words, not just my story, but to start thinking what I am to do.' He looked at me. 'I cannot tell you what to do; you're not even a Catholic, let alone a member of my church here. What you do is your decision, and yours alone. I can point out your options, and perhaps even give you some advice, but I cannot tell you what to do, though I know many of my fellow priests would do just that.' He smiled.
" 'What do you see as your options, Inky?' he asked.
" 'Stay married with Brenda, or leave. If I stay with Brenda, I know the frustrations and tensions will continue; if I leave her, I'll feel guilty. Very guilty, and I'll be forced to come out to my kids, and my parents are still alive. They're getting on now, and I think they'd take it hard.' Father Patrick sat looking into the fire. 'And you've not told Brenda?' 'No,' was my simple answer. 'What do you think her reaction would be if you did?' It was now my turn to be thoughtful.
" I told him that on our first or second date, I had told Brenda that all my previous sexual experience had been with boys, and that she had said she would set me straight. But I had not stressed the extent of that experience. 'So she thought it was all the usual fairly innocent young school boy stuff?' I told him I had wanted to give that impression. 'What if you told her now of the extent of those youthful escapades, and that you were now troubled by the memories?' he asked. 'I think she would be surprised and possibly angry that I'd not shared all that with her before,' I replied. 'Perhaps you should share it all with her, even at this late date.' I told him I'd think about it.
"There was a lengthy silence before Patrick spoke again. 'There is, of course, another alternative.' 'What's that?' I asked. Patrick gave a rueful smile. 'Pope Benedict would have my guts for garters for mentioning this, even more than suggesting the possibility of your leaving Brenda. That is, you continue as you are doing. Play away when you can, with not a word to anyone.' I told him I thought that would be difficult, but I'd think about that too.
"We talked on for a while, there was nothing of any further significance. Eventually I stood to go. 'Remember any time you want to talk,' said Patrick. We had a very meaningful shaking of hands, with real eye contact. I seemed to see the loneliness of the man, and his concern for me. I thanked him and left."
"So what did you do, Inky?" I asked.
"I tried the first course of action. I stayed with Brenda. I resolutely kept away from any places or sources of temptation. Not that I had been a frequenter of gay pubs or other places where gay men meet."
"I gather from the way you are telling me, Inky, that that did not work."
"You're right. It didn't. I found that the pressure was building up within me. I could control my actions to a large extent, but controlling my thoughts was a totally different matter. I tried to keep completely occupied with work of one sort or another, but my mind would wander. I would find my memory going to back to the times with you when we were both at school. Also, the waiter at that hotel kept returning like a ghost into my mind. Then something else started to happen. Brenda and I were still making love. Fair enough, not as frequently as in the early days, but we both have a high libido. In the middle of making love I found myself thinking, no wishing, she was a man. I wanted to make love to a man with a cock that would fuck me, and an arse I could fuck too. I felt guilty about those thoughts, ashamed of them. But worst of all, Brenda was sensing something was different. She asked if I was pre-occupied with some problem at work; I was, after all, working very hard. I think she even wondered if I was having an affair. I suppose in a way I was, having an affair with men in my imagination. After two months, I decided to go and see Patrick again. It is a strange thing, just having someone to talk to helps clear the mind, and having a good listener somehow lightens the load.
"It was one of those dark late winter afternoons, when it seems Spring, sunshine and warmth will never come. His home seemed even more gloomy than ever. There was a basic chill and neglect about the room in which we met. I don't think it had been decorated for at least twenty years, and the pictures on the wall were of that sentimental religious kind that Roman Catholics sometimes seem to go in for. Why is it that a faith that has inspired such great art of all kinds, also appears to encourage such kitsch art? Patrick greeted me warmly, and went off to get the usual pot of tea. We sat close together on a couple of easy chairs huddled in front of the fire.
"'So, Inky, how have things been with you since we last met?' he asked. I told him what I had endeavoured to do, and the results in my mind and of my love making with Brenda. He was thoughtful and silent for quite a while. 'I suppose I should tell you to persevere, to continue with the treatment.' 'I was afraid you might say that,' was my reply. 'But I am not saying that,' he quickly interjected. He stood up, and walked across to the window. I turned to look at him. For a while he just stood there looking out into the dreary, rain sodden, unkempt garden.
"'I need to come clean with you, Inky.' There was again a long pause. 'I know what you are going through. I can perhaps be more definite than you. I know I am definitely gay. I have no, and never had any, sexual attraction towards women.' He stood there, looking out of the window with his back to me. His head was bowed. He got out a handkerchief and mopped his eyes. I got up and went over to him, and put an arm round his shoulders. 'Life can be hell at times, can't it?' He turned and gave me a grim smile. 'We're both in the same boat. We're both married. You're married to Brenda, you love her and yet are desperate for a man. I'm married to the Church, and I love my Church, but it regards homosexual activity as totally wrong, and I want a man too. We both have a couple of jealous, demanding wives. Both our wives would sling us out if they really knew!' I thanked him for telling me. I felt understandably relieved. What he had told me explained the look of hurt and loneliness on his face.
"I had told him the last time we met about my activities at school, so I dared to asked him the obvious question. 'Patrick, have you ever?' He went back to his seat by the fire. He nodded, and said that he had.
"Patrick told me his story. He went to one of those pre-clergy training schools, I have forgotten what they are called. I asked him if he had got started by being abused by a member of the staff. He said he hadn't been, though there was some abuse by one staff member at that school. For Patrick, it had all started because he was not good at Latin. In fact, he was quite poor at it. There was a lad a couple of years ahead of him who was brilliant at Latin for a boy, in fact he was quite outstanding in all subjects. The Latin master got the older boy to give Patrick some coaching. To begin with it was just Latin coaching, but this involved sitting close together. The older boy started poking Patrick in the ribs when he got something wrong, and giving a hug when he got something right. One day, quite unexpectedly, Patrick got an ablative absolute correct, and the older boy was so pleased that he gave Patrick a kiss. Patrick made some comment about making sure he got more things correct. One thing led to another, and you don't need me to spell out what happened. They were managing to get together for an hour or so after lights out for a couple of years, when the older boy left that school to go to Maynooth, the big Irish college for the training of priests. Patrick said he missed him a lot. Two years later, Patrick too went to the seminary at Maynooth. The older boy was still there, and they resumed their interrupted relationship. It was exceedingly important for them both. Then the older boy left, and was sent over to the North East of England to work, as many young Irish clergy were sent in those days. They both thought that that marked the end of their friendship. Then to their mutual surprise and delight, Patrick was sent to the same part of the world. Their relationship was now deeper and more affectionate and important than ever. They managed to work it so that they spent days off together. This went on for several years. Then Patrick's friend was summoned to Rome, to work in the Vatican. Patrick says he's almost certain to become a curial bishop, and possibly might even get a red hat. They knew the posting marked the end for their relationship. He told me that they formally ended their relationship, and released each other from their mutual commitment, and in church thanked God for what they had given and meant to each other."
"I bet that would have scuppered his friend's promotion prospects if J.P.2, or Cardinal Ratzinger as he then was, had known," I said, and we both laughed.
Inky went on telling me what had happened. "Patrick found no one, but his friend soon had a young and attractive Italian priest, who delighted to be be fucked regularly and hard by this Irish priest."
"So did you and Patrick.....?" I asked.
"Not straight away. In fact, the next couple of visits were just talk, more mutual sharing than when I first went to him, except that when I left we gave each other a hug. I could tell Patrick enjoyed that, and I know I did. I found myself getting a hard on, and wondered if it was the same for Patrick. Then one day in the late Spring, when it felt really warm out of doors for the first time, I went round to see Patrick. This time his housekeeper let me in. She was a woman well into her sixties I would guess, markedly lacking in humour or the real skills of home-making. She kept the place clean, and I think fed him quite well, but there were no homely touches in that house that often a woman brings. That afternoon there was a real sharing of our frustrations. I know I was wondering how long I could last out denying myself the relief of sexual satisfaction with a man. I knew what it was all about, what it could give, from our teenage times together, Phil. Patrick listened, nodded, and understood. When the time came for me to go, we stood up and moved into the now expected hug. This time it was longer and stronger. Then Patrick whispered in my ear. 'This is what I look forward to most in your visits, but I want more, Inky.' 'So do I,' I replied. I felt my cock really harden. Patrick kissed my cheek, and we pulled our faces apart and looked at each other. Before you could say Jack Robinson, we were kissing. He pushed his crotch into me, and I felt his cock hard against the top of my thigh. I moved so that he could fully feel my hardness. I moved a hand down his back and gave a buttock a squeeze. 'I'm desperate for you, Inky, but we cannot here. Miss Phillips is around. Though she would never come in here without knocking, even if you were not with me, here is just not safe.' 'I want you too, Patrick, all the way. But where?' We pulled apart from each other. 'My place is not safe; if Brenda is not around, there are always the children liable to be around.' 'I don't think I would really relax here, even if Miss Phillips was over in Carlisle visiting her family. We need somewhere safe and neutral.' 'I've heard of straight couples booking into a motel for a night or a few hours.' Patrick grinned, 'So I have heard, from several people'. I think I looked puzzled for a moment, and then the penny dropped; he had heard when hearing confessions. 'Give me some time to think', I said, 'I will make some enquiries, though we don't want you meeting some of your folk doing their straight things.' Then I remembered the cottage. It's an hour and half's drive from where I live, though not all that far as the crow flies. We got out our diaries and found a day we could both manage.
"We managed to make a date for a couple of weeks after Easter. I picked Patrick up from an agreed meeting place, and we drove out to the cottage. Patrick was somehow different. For one thing he was dressed mufti, but he was more relaxed, more at ease, more human. We chatted about all sorts of things, everything except the church and sex. He was having a day off from the first, and we were both looking forward to the second.
"We bumped along the track and eventually got there. Within five minutes, the wood- burning stove was alight, and the kettle was on for some coffee. I showed him around, and we stood close to the stove, sipping our scalding hot coffees. Very soon the stove began to take effect, and our outer coats came off and we sat on the sofa. I think we were both rather shy when it came to it. We both knew what we wanted and were expecting, but were unsure how to start the ball rolling."
"That's not the Inky I know from days of old," I said.
He laughed. "I decided to make the first move, and touched his hand. We looked at each other and grinned. We moved closer, and very soon we were in each other's arms kissing. These kisses were not the rather respectable pecks that we had allowed ourselves in Patrick's room. Patrick put his hand on my thigh, and I did the same. Very soon we were feeling each other's hard cock. 'I want to see you naked,' I whispered in his ear. 'And I want to undress you,' was his reply. The bed room was not yet really warm enough for nudism, so I suggested we get the double bed mattress down from upstairs, and put it in front of the stove. This took a few minutes. We now opened the stove up, so we could see the fire and feel the direct heat. Patrick now started undressing me, with some interruptions for kisses and exploring with hands. We were naked in front of each other. There we stood, two middle aged men with a couple of very rampant cocks, one cut and the other uncut, though you couldn't tell that then. We just stood looking at each other, with grins spread all over our faces. We had a long hug before getting down onto the mattress. There we enjoyed that close bodily contact.
" 'I'm essentially a bottom,' said Patrick, 'Are you happy with that?' 'I'd describe myself as versatile, but I am happy to do what you will most enjoy.' 'When I was going with Seamus, I was always bottom to his top. Now I want this lovely thick prick of yours to slip into me.' 'Did you ever fuck him?' I asked. 'Two or three times, at the very most five times in all the years we were getting together. We started one way, and we just continued. He is still top with the sexy young Italian priest, Giovanni, that he fucks at least once a day."
"Sounds as though he has landed on his feet with the move to Rome!" I said. "Better, his cock has found a very good home!" We laughed.
"We were about four hours at the cottage. Most of the time was spent naked in front of the fire, though we did break for something to eat and drink, and we had a cup of tea just before we left. We did a lot of talking as well as the expected activities. He certainly liked to be fucked, in every conceivable posture. I don't think I'd cum so many times in a session since our school days."
"Not even with Brenda?" I dared to ask.
"She's a multi orgasm woman, but I had got the hang of getting her there without going over the top myself."
"Did you and Patrick get together often?"
"Not as often as we would like. In the summer, we managed to get out here every three or four weeks. But we both would have liked more. We both felt it too risky where we lived. In the winter months we would drive well south and go to a motel, we found one fairly off the beaten track. I think it was used for similar encounters quite often."
That was really the main contents of our conversation on our walk that day. We got back to the cottage, got the fire going and had a meal. It would have been good to have gone out for a meal, but the cottage was remote, and the last miles of bumpy track put us off.
XXX
Jeffrey Fletcher - jeffyrks@gmail.com