There are plenty of people with an unusual area of specialisation that comes from a holiday or student job. Thanks to two summers spent working in Madame Tussauds when he was in his late teens, my brother's quirky area of expertise is Victorian murderers. Neil Cream, Dr Crippen, Adelaide Bartlett: he knows them all. Despite an absence of interest in finance, my mother can advise on how most convincingly to fill in a credit application, as a consequence of her first summer job, back in the seventies, processing handwritten forms for Rediffusion Ltd from young couples wanting to buy their first colour TV.
Mine is arthouse cinema. I mean, I'm not actually terribly interested in it, to be honest, but I can tell you that "Jules et Jim" has a running time of just over 100 minutes, and that if you walk out before the end of "The Bad Seed" you'll miss one of the best bits of the movie. I can also make popcorn (one scoop salt; one measure oil; one squirt of flavouring) and I can spot a dropped wallet under a theatre seat at twenty paces. It may or may not therefore come as a surprise to know that in my last year of university I worked as a duty manager in a small independent cinema in London.
The job itself was pretty crap; I rolled up in the late afternoon, changed into a white shirt made from material so cheap and thin that practically every heartbeat was visible through the fabric, pulled on a slightly shiny dinner jacket that I shared with the other duty managers, and got ready to face my public. My public was one of the best things about the job: a student crowd, it was always fun to cruise the foyer, checking out the cute boys. And of course there were occasional opportunities for sex: one wintry Saturday afternoon after a lunchtime weekend showing of "Taxi Zum Klo" I ended up in the manager's office with the door locked, while a sweet blond teenager from Edinburgh knelt in front of me and skillfully sucked me off; silently lapping at my balls and helmet while his wet fingers rhythmically rubbed up and down my cock shaft, until I gasped and shot my load into his quiff.
Most often I picked up after the show. The single boys were easy to spot; they would stand in the emptying foyer, pretending to read through the forthcoming attraction leaflets. I would approach them, ask them if they enjoyed the film, a bit of chit-chat, and then explain that I would be off-duty in half and hour and suggest that perhaps they might like to wait in the foyer while I locked up the building with Phil, the security guard.
Phil was one of the other good things about the job. He wasn't much older than me, perhaps 23 or 24; tall and dark, with cropped hair and a vestige of stubble. The contractors who employed him dressed him in tight navy uniform trousers that accentuated his beefy, muscular thighs and bulging calf muscles. He wore a nasty polyester jacket over a white shirt and clip-on tie; but after the last customers had left he would pull off the tie, remove the jacket and roll up the sleeves of his shirt, showing tanned forearms and hairy wrists.
Phil was only six months out of the army, and had been accepted for the Metropolitan Police. "Can't fucking wait, mush." He was dismissive of the army. "Mug's game. I mean, I'm starting with the Met as a PC, and I'm getting two grand more than I was getting after my four years. And I'm not gonna get myself killed, either. Mad, innit?"
Why had he left the army? A shrug. "Well, it's the money, yeah, but the missus got fed up with me not being around. And the little ones, as well--I mean, I see them in the daytime, and I take Jade to nursery most days. `Course, it'll be different when I'm doing shifts with the police, but I might as well make the most of it now." There was an absent, slightly goofy tenderness in his smile when he thought or spoke of his daughters, two delightful brunette dots who occasionally came to Kid's Club screenings on weekend mornings with Phil's wife, Janine.
I found Phil's easy physicality quite sexy. He worked out in the local authority gym a short walk from the cinema. Often he would go for a swim before starting work, and then turn up at the staff entrance red-faced and glowing, his hair still damp from the shower. "Getting well in shape," he boasted to me one afternoon. "Have a feel," he suggested, flexing his arm. I gingerly felt the warm muscle through his jacket. "Abs," he said. He undid a shirt button just above his waist before grabbing my hand and slipping it inside his shirt, pressing my palm to his flat belly. I felt hot, bare, hard flesh, scattered with short hairs. "What do you think?" he asked, moving my hand around just above his trouser waistband so that my fingers grazed the trail of pubes below his navel.
"Very nice," I said, both embarrassed and turned on. He laughed shortly and released my wrist, quickly buttoning his shirt. "Yeah, I was a right fat bastard when I came out of the Army." He slapped his belly twice. "Gotta get in shape for the old Bill, haven't I?"
One afternoon we were both drinking tea in the staff room; there seemed to be nobody else around, and we were relaxing in shabby easy chairs. Conversation turned to body modification: piercings and tattoos. "My mate had one of those bolts through his cock," Phil grimaced; "his old fella looked like Frankenstein, you know, when he had a hard-on, like two fucking bolts through his neck." He shook his head, then brightened. "Did I ever show you my tattoo?"
"No," I said, intrigued.
Without ceremony Phil stood up and loosened his belt. "Don't get any ideas, mate" he said jokingly as he undid his trousers and let them fall to his knees. His thighs were broad and muscular, dusted with brown hairs that grew more thickly further down his legs. Under his trousers he had a pair of wrinkled grey trunks. The curve of his cock was indistinct, but I could see the spreading bulge of his scrotum through the cotton flannel. He swivelled slightly to show me a small regimental badge mid-thigh on one leg, tattooed in indigo; I was still looking at his cock and balls, and the half-smile on his face made me suspect that he knew it. The door down the corridor squeaked and Phil quickly dragged up his trousers and fastened his belt before sitting down. He grinned, and winked at me as the cleaner and her daughter entered.
That evening's screening was a turgid French-language film with Juliette Binoche. Half-full, the auditorium emptied quickly and Phil and I remained to lock up. The cashier had left shortly after the film began, and the takings were secure in the absurdly huge Victorian safe in the box office. After locking the main foyer doors and dragging the iron grille across, Phil and I walked up through the foyer. I had switched off the background music, and there was a background hum of air circulating, and the faintest, visceral rumble of a tube train running somewhere below us.
As part of the building's closing procedure there was a set route for the duty manager and security guard to take on their final walk through the cinema, just to make sure that everything was secure: all doors and windows locked, and nobody hiding behind a potted palm. Foyer and public areas were first, followed by the theatre and projection box; then into the administration offices and staff areas; and then I would set the intruder alarms, and the pair of us would leave quickly through the back door into an alley that ran alongside the tube station.
Tonight Phil was very chatty. He talked about his forthcoming holiday to Cyprus with Janine and the girls, to his parents' timeshare; and described the sauna he was installing at his brother's house. "You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you?" he asked as we walked up the sweeping staircase towards the main theatre. "Gays and saunas and that," he added for clarification.
I laughed. "God knows, Phil; I've never been in a sauna."
"Oh yeah? I know you lot, always in saunas and public bogs," he scoffed mockingly, "down the steam room doing all sorts..."
"You seem to know all about it," I challenged him.
Phil shook his head solemnly, "Yeah, well: you see a lot in the army, don't you? `Join the army and see the world'. And then kill it or fuck it."
I tried to think of something clever and flirtatious and failed.
Phil stood aside to let me open the main rear doors and we walked into the cinema. We shuffled along to the back row in the dark and I felt over the rear wall, which was covered with thick carpet to absorb sound, until my fingertips found the lighting cupboard. I switched on the house lights and Phil and I each took an aisle and slowly descended the length of the cinema, peering along the rows of seats for lost property.
We crossed at the bottom of the cinema, walking in front of the screen stage and trudging back up the steps of the aisles.
"I mean," Phil said unexpectedly, speaking loudly across the theatre as we ascended the steps, "I've been around, and all that; and I would never, not for one moment, think you're gay." He looked across the rows of seats. "It's not... I mean, I just don't think you act gay or anything. I don't believe it." He shrugged.
"What, I'm making it all up?" I suggested tartly.
"Nah, I'm just telling you that it's interesting. I'm just... well, I find it difficult to believe. I mean, personally." We were at the top of the stairs, and walked together towards the switch cupboard where the lights were concealed. He deliberately bumped his shoulder against mine. "Go on; it's bollocks, isn't it?" He looked sideways at me and licked his lips. His eyes were bright and mischievous. I stopped, and he moved close to me, almost toe-to-toe; so close that I could smell his deodorant and feel his faint, warm breath on my lips as he spoke. I imagined that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"I just can't believe it," he repeated softly and deliberately, half-grinning and shaking his head slowly. "It's bollocks." He stepped back from me and smiled slyly; he moved his feet apart and I was conscious of the way this emphasised the tight fit of his trousers over the compact form of his body; the discreet, flattened bulge at his crotch, and the meaty curve of his calves and thighs.
I cleared my throat. "Oh yeah--so... what, I've got to prove it?" I asked, a note of disbelief in my voice. I paused at the switch cupboard and looked back at him.
Phil stood for a moment, considering, staring at me. He blinked and narrowed his eyes. "Well", he began softly, "I dunno; how would you prove it?" He hooked his thumbs into his pockets and shifted slightly where he stood, rocking backwards and forwards. I tried not to look at his crotch. "You'd have to convince me," he said slowly. He half-shrugged and one hand slid into his trouser pocket; I saw the navy material of his trousers bunch and swell rhythmically as his fingers began a slow massage at the top of his thigh. "I mean..." he shrugged again and fell quiet. His eyes challenged mine.
I cleared my throat and took a step towards him. "Well, I guess you could... I mean, giving another guy a blow-job would probably persuade you, wouldn't it?" I could feel my cock beginning to harden. I was suddenly breathless.
"Go on, then," Phil breathed. "You going to get down or what?" He withdrew his hand from his pocket, and began to use it instead to grope his crotch through the front of his trousers; I saw him run his forefinger along the curve of his cock, its bulge evident. Silently I walked towards him and knelt on the carpet directly in front of him, my chin level with his belly. "Go on, then," he repeated. "Get it out, then."
I raised my hands to his waist and ran my fingers along the waistband of his trousers to his belt buckle. Phil sighed and let go of his crotch, leaving his hands to hang, relaxed, by his sides. The trousers made his erection jut out in shameless arousal; his hardon tugged upwards as I unbuckled the stiff leather belt and Phil winced slightly. "Easy, mate" he said softly. I pulled the belt through the trouser loops and tossed it on one side. I negotiated the fastening button and then gently pulled down the zip; the fly parted to reveal the grey trunks bulging with cock; the buttoned, half-open fly of Phil's underwear awkwardly skewed to one side by his hard prick, revealing a flash of dull pink flesh straining for release. Above me, I heard a whistle as Phil exhaled hard through his teeth. I looked up to see him looking down at me, and smiled. He grinned back and thrust his hips forward invitingly to send his prick jutting almost into my face. "Go on, mate," he said again.
As I slid the trousers down Phil's beefy thighs I inhaled a waft of warm air from his crotch: the sweet floral scent of fabric conditioner overlaid with a faint meaty, manly smell of ball-sweat, tinged with a sexy animal sourness that made me want to breathe in and bury my nose between his legs. As the trousers reached his knees Phil shifted his legs so that the fabric fell to the floor with a clatter, and his dick waggled in his cotton trunks. With thumb and forefinger I delicately unbuttoned the fly of his trunks and his fat, veined dick slipped out, foreskin gathered and hanging at its tip like a tropical blossom. I slid my left hand up his hard, hairy leg to his crotch, nosing my fingertips up the leg of his underwear to his nuts and tickling his ball-hairs before gently holding and squeezing his warm, moist scrotum.
With the other hand I slid back Phil's wrinkled foreskin, revealing a glossy pink helmet. His cock had a clean, sour smell. I heard him gasp as I ran my wet tongue over his helmet, making it slick with spit and lapping up his sweet-salt pre-cum. I felt his hand on the back of my head, gripping my hair and roughly caressing the nape of my neck. "Fucking hell," he breathed; then, more boldly, "not too cheesy, is it?" I shook my head gingerly, not wanting to stop tasting his prick, and slid my mouth further up the shaft of Phil's cock towards the rough swirls of brown pubic hair around its base, gripping his balls and pulling them downwards while I tongued the flattened underside of his cock. This time he let out a soft moan which tailed into an embarrassed chuckle, and his other hand joined the first to guide my mouth. "Fuck me," he breathed. "That is fucking unreal." I squeezed his bollocks again and heard him gasp. "Yeah, fucking do that, mate. Keep pulling on my nuts." I tugged again, "Fucking aces. Yeah, man, that's mental." His insistent hands forced my mouth up and down the length of his dick until I choked on cock and, with a splutter, had to pull my lips off his shaft and get breath.
I rocked back on my haunches, fingers still softly caressing Phil's helmet, slipping backwards and forwards. A transparent trail of spit and precum looped between my lips and the tip of his cock before breaking and dropping, catching in droplets on the fuzzy hairs on his thigh. "How's that then," I asked breathlessly. "Convinced?"
He shook his head. "Never. You're gonna have to keep going, mate." His fingers bumped against mine as he gripped the base of his dick and waggled it invitingly. "Really get on my bollocks; get `em nice and wet." He tugged his hardon upwards to make his nuts more accessible to my mouth, and slid his feet apart slightly. I licked his ball-sac in long, firm strokes over its surface, feeling his balls rolling under the skin. After a while I pulled his bollocks forward, forcing the skin tight and glossy over his nuts, and tongued them with short, hard strokes that made him whimper with pleasure and pluck at my hair with his fingers. Then I worked back, down towards the perineum, hearing his breathing coarsen and become jagged as my tongue darted closer and closer to the warm, sweaty crack of his arse.
I pulled away as his legs began to quiver. Phil exhaled deeply and I looked upwards into his grinning face. "Fucking unreal," he repeated, shaking his head. He ran a finger affectionately down the side of my cheek and then gripped my hair in a businesslike way, winding his fingers into the short crop on my crown. "Finish me off, then," he suggested softly, guiding my mouth back to his helmet. His cock was rock-hard, pulsing with his heartbeat as I slipped my lips down its length. He shifted his grip to the back of my head, rhythmically fucking my face, forcing his prick in and out of my mouth at a pace he dictated. My hands crept up the back of his hard thighs until my fingers were kneading his buttocks, my thumb grazing up and down his warm, hairy arse-crack.
I could hear the soft squelching of my mouth and tongue on his cock, slipping in the warm saliva that lubricated its passage; I could also hear Phil's whispered commentary as he thrust, "Fucking hell... yeah, fucking suck it, mate... Jesus. Take my fucking knob in your mouth... give it a really good...ah! Yeah, mate, I'm gonna fucking spunk my load in your mouth, make you fucking swallow it...oh, that's it, you dirty fucker, go on, every fucking inch... that's it... oh fuck..."
When he fell silent and his knees bent slightly, I knew he was going to shoot. He viciously tugged my head back by the hair so that his warm, viscous spunk squirted in gobs against the roof of my mouth before falling into my throat. The last of his load spat over my tongue, and I swirled its foreign, exotic savour round my mouth before swallowing it with the rest. Phil held my head in place until I had licked his cock clean and dutifully swallowed all that he had produced; only then did he relax and step backwards, shaking his head in disbelief and laughing in a sudden outburst of tension.
In a Nifty story, this would be only the first chapter in a never-ending series of erotic adventures. In real life, things are less interesting and less predictable. I spent the next three months with a permanent hard-on at work; about twice a week Phil would find an excuse to stand behind me in the staff room and gently rub his hard cock against my arse, or simply whisper softly, intimately, "Wanna mouthful later?" and I would know that we would end the shift gasping in the half-dark, his hands forcing my mouth down onto his prick. He gave me a couple of souvenirs: a pair of worn trunks whose flies were stiff and crusty with his pre-cum, the crotch ripe with the smell of his bollocks; and a knocked-off Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt he wore to the gym whose slight whiff of stale sweat made me growl with desire. After three months he was moved to another site in another part of London; we swapped numbers, but never met up again.
Always happy to receive comments or have enjoyable chats on MSN: banana-dino@hotmail.co.uk