and I. Rarely at night, when shadows claimed the furniture, and a mysterious softness enveloped the bleach-cleaned atmosphere of the flat. Never in the morning, even though, as is usual with young men, we woke with erections. Either the sun was too merciless; or we had overslept and Edward was late for work; or we were hesitant to kiss until we’d brushed our teeth, at which point we found ourselves awake, our minds on other things.
No, the tea hour was our time: the hour, in England, for starched collars and crumpets. How thrilling and dirty it was to strip off at five in the afternoon, to stand naked and hard in the immodest light, while upstairs our lady neighbors spread their toast with Marmite and spoke of the Royal Family! I liked to fuck Edward against a particular wall where the sun came down in louvered columns. Bars of light bisected his rump while he leaned there, hands in the air, his mouth against the wallpaper. As cooking smells wandered in from neighboring flats, I’d take him like that, bugger him relentlessly, until he came in a wet patch against the wall. It was always dark by then. Half naked, I’d rush to the kitchen for a cloth to wipe up the stain. Then we’d clean ourselves off, turn on the wireless and cook supper.
It is curious to me, in retrospect, that though I fucked him routinely, Edward showed little interest in doing the same to me. I wondered about this. I never had been buggered, although once I’d experimented with a carrot from the larder—the sensation I recalled most vividly, from that attempt, was numbing cold. And certainly I hadn’t experienced anything like the paroxysms of pleasure that claimed Edward, those afternoons against the wall—paroxysms so intense I couldn’t help but wonder what I might be missing. A carrot, after all, is not a cock—at least, judging from the way Edward carried on.
One afternoon we were horsing around on the bed. I lifted my arse in the air and just stayed like that. At first Edward seemed taken aback. He did nothing. Then he wrestled me around onto my stomach.
Another time, when he came home from work, I arranged myself against the wall where I fucked him, in much the same position he usually assumed. “Doing stretching exercises?” he asked as he headed into the kitchen to pour himself some tea. “Stretching exercises, yes,” I said. If indeed Edward understood what I was trying to tell him, it appeared he was not going to let on. Indeed, I couldn’t help but wonder if, having discovered in me a dependable source of pleasure, he feared lest I should become so addicted to the joys of taking it up the bum that I’d lose my interest in “being the man” for him.
In those days I enjoyed an active social life. There seems to be so much to do when one is young! Dinner parties, salons, soirées . . . A wealthy dowager who enjoyed the company of clever homosexuals invited me regularly to her Thursday afternoons, and I usually went, if for nothing else then for the food, which was good and plentiful. Then there were those little suppers concocted by my Cambridge chums—clumsy, drunken evenings where one ate spaghetti off mismatched plates, standing up in the kitchen, and argued politics. And I had other friends, wealthy friends like Rupert, who hosted balls at country estates where the lawns glistened wetly and hundred-year-old carp swam in the ponds. These activities I relished—I think all writers do, trapped as we are most of the day in the solitary confinement of our brains. Indeed, until he came to live at my flat, it never occurred to me that Edward’s arrival might curtail them. Now, however, with each invitation I received, I found myself obliged to make a choice: should I bring Edward along (and in so doing offer our relationship up for public scrutiny)? Should I continue going out alone (and risk hurting him)? Or should I simply stop going out altogether?
I confess that for the first few weeks I opted for the third, and
No, the tea hour was our time: the hour, in England, for starched collars and crumpets. How thrilling and dirty it was to strip off at five in the afternoon, to stand naked and hard in the immodest light, while upstairs our lady neighbors spread their toast with Marmite and spoke of the Royal Family! I liked to fuck Edward against a particular wall where the sun came down in louvered columns. Bars of light bisected his rump while he leaned there, hands in the air, his mouth against the wallpaper. As cooking smells wandered in from neighboring flats, I’d take him like that, bugger him relentlessly, until he came in a wet patch against the wall. It was always dark by then. Half naked, I’d rush to the kitchen for a cloth to wipe up the stain. Then we’d clean ourselves off, turn on the wireless and cook supper.
It is curious to me, in retrospect, that though I fucked him routinely, Edward showed little interest in doing the same to me. I wondered about this. I never had been buggered, although once I’d experimented with a carrot from the larder—the sensation I recalled most vividly, from that attempt, was numbing cold. And certainly I hadn’t experienced anything like the paroxysms of pleasure that claimed Edward, those afternoons against the wall—paroxysms so intense I couldn’t help but wonder what I might be missing. A carrot, after all, is not a cock—at least, judging from the way Edward carried on.
One afternoon we were horsing around on the bed. I lifted my arse in the air and just stayed like that. At first Edward seemed taken aback. He did nothing. Then he wrestled me around onto my stomach.
Another time, when he came home from work, I arranged myself against the wall where I fucked him, in much the same position he usually assumed. “Doing stretching exercises?” he asked as he headed into the kitchen to pour himself some tea. “Stretching exercises, yes,” I said. If indeed Edward understood what I was trying to tell him, it appeared he was not going to let on. Indeed, I couldn’t help but wonder if, having discovered in me a dependable source of pleasure, he feared lest I should become so addicted to the joys of taking it up the bum that I’d lose my interest in “being the man” for him.
In those days I enjoyed an active social life. There seems to be so much to do when one is young! Dinner parties, salons, soirées . . . A wealthy dowager who enjoyed the company of clever homosexuals invited me regularly to her Thursday afternoons, and I usually went, if for nothing else then for the food, which was good and plentiful. Then there were those little suppers concocted by my Cambridge chums—clumsy, drunken evenings where one ate spaghetti off mismatched plates, standing up in the kitchen, and argued politics. And I had other friends, wealthy friends like Rupert, who hosted balls at country estates where the lawns glistened wetly and hundred-year-old carp swam in the ponds. These activities I relished—I think all writers do, trapped as we are most of the day in the solitary confinement of our brains. Indeed, until he came to live at my flat, it never occurred to me that Edward’s arrival might curtail them. Now, however, with each invitation I received, I found myself obliged to make a choice: should I bring Edward along (and in so doing offer our relationship up for public scrutiny)? Should I continue going out alone (and risk hurting him)? Or should I simply stop going out altogether?
I confess that for the first few weeks I opted for the third, and
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