Finding Myself 1

My name's Richard McIntosh, and until a couple of months ago I was a perfectly ordinary middle-aged businessman, husband and father. I'm 45 and work as an area manager for an international finance company in a large city a couple of hours from London. My wife is Alison, my eldest daughter Pippa has just started university and my youngest, Katie, is in her last year at school. I'm just under six feet tall, broad shouldered and, despite weekly visits to the gym, I was maybe a stone overweight, some of the muscle from my amateur rugby playing days having turned to fat.

I suppose my, erm, issue, started perhaps 18 months ago. One night I was sitting in my home office on the computer, idly flicking through a porn site, as you do, ogling all the huge-busted 'college co-eds', when suddenly a male picture filled the screen. He was dressed as a cowboy – I think trying to look like one of the characters in Brokeback Mountain – except that his jeans were pushed down to the top of his fancy boots. His fist was wrapped around his enormous erect dick, which reared up towards the viewer. My initial reaction was shock, then I stared at the image for a few seconds before quickly moving to another screen. Before logging off though, not even realising I was doing it, I flicked back to the cowboy. For the first time I studied the picture, I mean really studied it. Being a typical hetero bloke I'd never really looked at other men's cocks, but his was quite impressive, it had to be at least ten inches long (I've got a respectable six inches), and thick too, with a forest of sandy-blond hair sprouting at the base. With the sun reflecting off the bulbous tip, and balls the size of melons hanging down, in its own way it was actually quite attractive.

And that's how it started. My obsession. Over the next few weeks I began to look at a few more pictures of naked men, just a few. Then I began to store the ones I found most interesting, and to compare one against the other. Within a couple of months I was no longer looking at girlie porn, but only at gay websites. Then I started to watch pay-to-view movies – I actually opened a secret bank account so I could run a credit card on it to pay for them without Alison knowing. One that I started to watch regularly featured a male US cop arresting a student and arse-raping him, then later on the kid seduced his own father and they had a 69 session in the family car. The plot was ridiculous, of course, but before long I was regularly tossing myself off to the sight of that incest scene.

For months I felt ashamed and confused. I'd never had anything against gays; but from having spent my entire life chasing women and never thinking twice about blokes as sexual objects, suddenly I was looking at men around the office and imagining what they would look like nude; or having daydreams about things I'd like to do to the younger, pretty, ones, thoughts that simultaneously disgusted me and made me feel almost sick with arousal.

I felt like I was turning schizophrenic. Half my brain was telling me the best thing to do was confront the issue, that I should go to the local red light zone, or up to London, and get my cock sucked by a queer to see if it was what I wanted; the other half was telling me not to be so fucking stupid, that I was obviously going through a bizarre midlife crisis and I should just ride it out, not start acting like some sort of pervert and put my marriage at risk. I seriously considered seeking psychiatric help, but I was too scared of my guilty secret being exposed.

Then, two months ago, I attended a four-day European business conference in Hamburg: several hundred earnest men and women from everywhere from Reykjavik to Rijeka stuffed into uncomfortable business suits listening to deadly dull lectures about the prospects for the post-recession global market, and networking in hotel bars over too many gin and tonics while wondering if that busty little blonde from Poland would come up to their suite with them for the night. Still, at least the weather in the city was quite pleasant, and on the first day following the conference session I decided to walk the mile or so from the stuffy meeting hall to my hotel. I passed a café as the opening chords of The Who's Who Are You? burst out of the door. I've always liked that song and, on an impulse I decided to stop for a coffee. The place had a British pop theme, with tattered posters of old gigs by bands like the Kinks and the Stones on the wall, together with glossy photos of various rock icons. The music was coming from a jukebox, and as I sat sipping my coffee and unfolding my copy of Der Spiegel the song finished, to be replaced by Deep Purple with Black Night.

There were only two other customers in the place, a couple of guys about three tables from me who, appropriately enough, were dressed like a '70s pop band, the Ramones, with shoulder length black hair, black leather biker jackets over white T-shirts, blue jeans and leather boots. One of them was quite thin and, ridiculously in the shady café, wore big sunglasses. The other was much stockier and looked like a bit of a bruiser. I put them out of my mind and (ironically, as it turned out) started to daydream about the possibility of finding a gay whore in Hamburg and testing the waters of my obsession. But I gradually became aware that the other two blokes were whispering about me and giggling like schoolgirls. At first I tried to ignore them, but after a few minutes I gave them a pleasant smile and called across the café "Güten abend, mein herren".

The skinny one sniggered and, in quite a light voice, responded languidly in English, "Hi honey". Pointedly ignoring them I returned to my newspaper. The next time I looked up though the skinny customer – clearly waiting until he caught my eye – stretched his arm around his friend's neck, pulled him in and started to kiss him on the lips. The big guy immediately responded, and within seconds they were in a clinch, kissing each other quite passionately. Finally the thinner one broke off with a grin, pretending not to look for my reaction. Clearly he'd intended to shock me, and I was shocked, though not in the way he thought. What shocked me was the way my stomach began to knot at the sight of two men kissing, and the manner in which my cock had started to rise to half-mast! Hurriedly swallowing the tepid remnants of my coffee I folded my paper and rushed out of the place, no doubt leaving them laughing at the stupid Englander they'd just driven away.

That night as I lay in bed my mind kept turning to that scene in the café, and almost before I had realised it I was stroking my stiff cock, replaying the image of the leather boys snogging in my mind. I had trouble concentrating on the economic debates at the conference the following day, and as I left I drifted, almost on auto-pilot, back towards the café. I didn't imagine for a moment the gay couple would be there again - and even if they were, so what, I was of no interest to them – but even so, I walked into the place and ordered myself a coffee.

When I looked up I saw that in fact one of the guys from the previous day was there – the skinny one. He noticed me and, with a small laugh, said, "Well, hello again honey, you're getting to be quite a regular, isn't he Otto?" The old man behind the counter just smiled and turned back to whatever he'd been doing before I entered. The other customer having spoken to me gave me an excuse to sit close to him, at the table across the narrow corridor of the café. My heart was pounding and my stomach was knotted, but I realised I didn't have the slightest idea what it was I intended to do, if anything. The other guy was reading a magazine which lay flat on his table, apparently having already forgotten my presence, and, feeling a bit of a fool, I sipped my coffee in silence, the jukebox playing nothing.

My fellow customer wasn't wearing his shades that time and I surreptitiously – or so I thought - studied his face. Now he reminded me more of Marc Almond than the Ramones, with pale, delicate features, and big dark eyes emphasised by mascara. I thought he was in his early 30s, trying to look ten years younger. After a couple of minutes, without taking his eyes off his magazine, he asked, "So, you like what you see sweetie?"

Feeling my face flush with embarrassment at being caught out I splutteringly tried to change the subject. "So, er, your friend isn't with you today?"

At last looking up at me he gave a strange little laugh and replied "No, Tommy works late most nights". He seemed to study my face for a few seconds, a calculating look on his features, then he moved to sit across from me at my own table and asked archly, "You want to know what I'm looking at, schatzi?" Before I could respond he slid the magazine across to me. I glanced down at it then did a double-take as my breath caught in my throat. It was open at a double-page spread of a pale, naked young blond boy, probably 18 or 19, with his lips around the prick of a muscular black man. At the same time another muscleman, a Latino this time, had his hands on the blond's hips and his cock positioned at the opening to the boy's arse, about to sink his thick shaft into him.

I stared at the picture, my stomach churning and my mouth dry. I flicked the page and there was a similar image, this time a young man and a much older guy sucking each other's cocks – so like the movie I'd taken to watching. I could feel my cock rising in my trousers; I looked up and saw a knowing smile on my companion's face. Just as I wondered where this was going he stood to leave, saying "I need to go and meet Tommy now.". Feeling slightly dizzy I pushed the magazine back towards him, but he said "It's okay, you keep it." After a moment's pause he gave me a wink and, in an undertone, added, "Give it back to me tomorrow honey."

After he'd left I hurriedly stuffed the mag in my pocket and made my way back to my hotel. All that evening I felt...well, I didn't know how I felt. Excited? Scared? Confused, certainly. I still wasn't sure what had just happened. Had I made my first gay date? Or was my German friend simply stringing me along, amusing himself with the ridiculous foreigner? And if it was a date, did I actually fancy him? He was quite attractive certainly, with pretty, feminine, eyes. I finally thought, sod it, beggars can't be choosers, and I was going to go back to the café again tomorrow to see if he was serious about meeting up. Before I went to bed I looked at that magazine from cover to cover, playing with myself.

The next day my resolve began to weaken. I started to ask myself whether I was really up for a physical encounter with another man or whether I just liked looking at pictures. I had visions of my 'date' and his burly friend taking me down a dark alley and kicking the shit out of me. I thought about my wife and daughters, and what their reaction would be if they knew I was contemplating...doing things...with another man. A dozen times during the course of the day I must have decided I definitely was or was not going back, then changed my mind. At the end of the day's conference session I started walking in my usual direction, my heart pounding, my pace slowing with each step. I hung about for probably twenty minutes on a street corner near the café, plucking up my courage, but I couldn't see whether or not he was inside. Finally, deciding I was being ridiculous, I took a deep breath and marched across the road and through the door.

The jukebox was playing something by Blondie. For the first time there were three or four other customers in the place, and seeing that I nearly turned tale and ran. But my friend was sitting facing the door and saw me and, raising a hand, called, "Hi schatzi, I was starting to think you'd stood me up."

I blanched at that, but the other customers took no notice of us so, feeling as if my knees might buckle at any moment I walked over. Standing over him, my voice sounding unusually gruff, I said, "I've brought your magazine back."

He grinned and told me to sit. I went to sit across the table to him but he waved me into the chair right next to him. We were silent for a few seconds, then he said, "So, I'm Johnny (ah-ha, I thought, like Johnny Ramone), and you are...?" I told him my name was Richard, and with a little laugh he said, "Okay Ricky, let's get a drink." He held up two fingers to the old guy behind the bar; I was expecting coffee, but he brought over two small glasses of a clear liquid. It was schnapps, and I welcomed the alcoholic jolt it gave me. Johnny half-drained his glass in a single gulp then turned his body towards me, looking intently at me with a small smile on his face. I could feel myself blushing, and stared at the table. I gasped and jumped slightly as he reached out a long finger and stroked it across the back of my hand.

Still gazing at me, still stroking, he spoke quietly. "I used to meet a lot of guys like you; when I was a kid, working as a callboy – I think you say rent boy – down on the Reeperbahn. Normal, straight men who had this curiosity, to know how it felt with another guy, to have him suck your dick, and slide his cock into your ass. A lot of them didn't much like this curiosity, but it was like an itch they had to scratch. So they paid me to scratch it for them." As if by magic the waiter appeared at my elbow with another two glasses of schnapps. My hand shaking slightly, I lifted one to my lips. I felt curiously light-headed: Johnny had just described me to a tee!

When we were alone again he continued. "You liked my little kiss show with Tommy, didn't you. That was when I knew you were one of these first-timers, one who wanted to know. And now, Ricky, here we are, you and I." Feeling sick with anticipation I was about to ask him how much he charged, but it was as if he read my mind. "I don't take money for sex anymore, if I like a guy I just let him fuck me, or I fuck him. And it's a long time since I had a first timer." He leaned his mouth very close to my ear; I glanced around nervously, but still nobody else in the place was taking any notice of use. Whispering seductively, Johnny continued, "So liebchen, how much do you want to know?" I shuddered and my eyes flickered shut as his hand dropped to my lap, to my erection rising like a tent pole in my trousers. Johnny chuckled, "Oh schsatzi, you really want to know, don't you." His fingers stroked up and down the outline of my shaft. My pulse racing, I took another glass of schnapps, one meant for him, and downed it in one. Christ, I felt as if I was going to cum right there and then if he continued touching me. After a few seconds silence he murmured "I think we'd better go and scratch your itch, don't you? We can do all those things you've thought about, then you can go back to wifey and live your nice, normal straight life."

Johnny rose and half-pulled me to my feet, then dropped a banknote on the counter on our way out. Walking side-by-side, we went a few hundred yards to a grubby looking apartment block. He opened the front door and led me down a corridor to an internal door on the ground floor. Opening it, he called out in a sing-song voice, "Tommy, I'm home, and I have a little friend with me." I'd forgotten all about his boyfriend. For a moment my mugging fantasy returned, and I nearly bolted. But having got this far, and buoyed up by the alcohol warming my belly, instead I walked into the room Johnny indicated.

It was a small parlour, rather untidy with newspapers and the odd bit of clothing on the floor, and an acoustic guitar leaning against one wall. Tommy was sitting on a couch which, incongruously, was covered in a swirly rose pattern. He nodded to me expressionlessly. Johnny eased my suit jacket off my shoulders then sat me down next to his friend. He disappeared through another door for a minute and returned juggling three glasses, filled to the brim with something golden brown. It was a cheap whisky, and burned in my throat as I swallowed. Then Johnny flopped down beside me, effectively sandwiching me between the two of them. I sat half-excited, half-terrified, wondering what happened next.

Johnny sipped his drink then, placing it on a low coffee table, said, "Let's get you a little more comfortable, huh Ricky?" He reached out and began to undo my tie. At the same time I felt Tommy's arm casually stretch across the back of the couch behind me; it seemed like this was a scenario they'd played out before. Johnny pulled off my tie then, dropping it to the floor, undid the top two buttons of my shirt and slipped his hand inside. I jumped as he trailed his fingers across my chest. Resting his head on my shoulder he breathed, "Mmm, you have a nice hairy chest darling." As if it was a signal Tommy's arm curled around my shoulders and he started to pull me towards him. I turned my head to him but, before I could say anything, he'd pulled my face to his and pressed his big rubbery lips to mine.

My mouth opened in surprise and in an instant Tommy had thrust his tongue inside. It felt as big as an ox's but tasted quite sweet. It was a strange sensation, another man's tongue exploring my mouth, his seven o'clock shadow rubbing against my face, but one I found I was beginning to enjoy, and I stroked his tongue with my own. A moment later that all slipped to the back of my mind: I felt a hand curl around my suddenly exposed cock, then warm wet lips slide down my length. Half a dozen women had sucked me over the years, but I couldn't remember enjoying any of them as much as what Johnny was doing to me. He was a real expert cock-sucker, and I moaned into Tommy's mouth, grinding my face against his, my hips twitching up towards Johnny and one of my hands locked in his long hair. It didn't last long, maybe thirty seconds, before I exploded into his mouth, my bum lifting right off the couch as I thrust at him.

I slumped back, amazed at the realisation that I'd finally been sucked off by another man. I was only vaguely aware of them undressing me, then I felt hands manoeuvring me into a kneeling position on the floor. Immediately in front of me sat Johnny, also naked, his cock rearing up before my eyes. His body was slim and very pale, and completely hairless. His cock was quite stubby, only about four inched long but surprisingly thick. He leaned forward and, cupping his hand around my chin, gently pulled me forward on all fours and muttered, "And now it's your turn honey."

I swallowed nervously then closed my mouth over my first dick. It felt silky in my mouth, like an iron rod covered in some fine material, with a rubbery tip pressing against the roof of my mouth. I wasn't sure what to do but I slid my lips up and down him, stroking my tongue up the underside of his shaft and around the tip, and he seemed to be making the right appreciative noises. I had no sooner started than I felt Tommy moving in behind me. As his hands started to pry my buttocks apart a wave of nervousness passed over me – I wasn't sure if I was ready to have my arse penetrated yet – but then he moved in and the most incredible sensation started to pass through me. It took me a moment to realise, with astonishment, that it was not Tommy's cock that was probing me, it was his tongue. Several timed he licked all the way from my balls to the top of my bum crack, and when he pushed his face into me and started to press the tip of his tongue against my anus I actually pushed back against him.

My reaming lasted for a minute or so, then hairy thighs rubbed up against my bum and it was clear that this time Tommy was going to actually fuck me. I felt his fingers, covered with some cold sticky substance, roaming swiftly around my anal cavity, then he gripped my hips and pushed ito me. At first it just felt like a dull pressure against me, then it hurt like hell for a second or two, then it got easier as he began to rhythmically pump his cock into my arse. Johnny opened his eyes and with a big grin shouted "Spit-roast!", and I realised I was in the exact position that had so turned me on in pictures, with one guy's cock in my mouth and another buried in my arse. It felt as though these two young Germans were using me as their bitch but I didn't care as I slurped on Johnny's dick and Tommy rode me. Johnny suddenly groaned "Scheiss" and pulled his cock out of my mouth, finishing himself off with his own hand before shooting his load onto my chin and throat. Tommy continued to fuck me for another couple of minutes before cumming with a grunt and a last huge thrust. When he pulled out I realised with relief, far too late for caution, that he'd used a condom.