[This story can be read on its own, but it continues the story of Jonathan and David into the next generation.
All institutions and characters in the story are purely imaginary.]
One of my earliest memories is when I was about six years old being taken for a walk by Uncle Arthur Rockwell in the wood that he and my cofather had planted at Ixton some eight or so years before.
The trees had grown to a respectable height, though nothing like as high as they would ultimately get, and the previous summer they had been thinned and coppiced to allow a decent growth distance between each tree. My little sister Cathy, who was four, had stayed at home with our cofather, whom we called Pop, to distinguish him from our other father David Scarborough, whom we called Dad. The wood is on a steep slope, and it required a lot of care and effort for us to climb the slope. “When the trees are more than three metres high,” said Arthur, “we’ll create a path through the woodland. This was your cofather’s first planting, Luke. There are now little patches of woodland all over the country, and he and your Uncle Robin are still looking for new sites. You should get him to take you with him in the summer holidays. He used to go in a motor caravan that you could sleep in. You would like sleeping in one of those.”
I was rather taken with the idea, and asked Pop if we could do it. “Yes, why not?” he said, “and Cathy can come as well. There may even be space for Dad, if we can find a week when he has no engagements!” That afternoon walk led to one of my most enjoyed childhood holidays, a week spent visiting the woodlands of Pop’s Afforestation Trust, and looking out for new sites for planting. We slept in the relative comfort of the rented ‘motor home’ each night, and each morning Pop would cook breakfast for the four of us. The weather was warm and dry, we walked a lot and we visited some towns as well as the woodland sites. We even spotted a plot of land by the river in the town of Dunchester that would make an admirable spot to plant willow and alder trees. Pop instantly called Uncle Tim on his mobile phone and asked him to open negotiations to buy the land, which being in the flood plain was quite unsuitable for building. In a similar way, we identified at least four other prospective sites, and Pop resolved that we should do this every year. We kids loved the idea, it appealed to us much more than three weeks in a villa in Tuscany, which our fathers had been considering for the following year, even though they warned us that one year it would be cold and wet! The problem was that because of Dad’s hectic schedule of gigs and opera house fixtures, we had to book the space for summer holidays as much as two or even three years ahead.
The other thing that happened about now was the commissioning of our swimming pool in Rockwell’s Barn. The plant had all been installed when the house was completed, some eight or so years before, but my parents decided not to proceed with its commissioning because of the running costs. It was only economic to have the pool when we were resident there permanently. They moved in full-time soon after I was born, but in the interests of safety, the pool was not commissioned until Cathy had reached the age of five, to prevent any risks of accidents with small children. Once the pool was up and running our two fathers tried to teach us to swim, but it was clear that they had neither the time nor the training to manage proper tuition. Still, it was nice for us all to play around in the water. Eventually Pop decided to investigate private tuition, and approached the manager of the Camford Men’s Fitness Club to see if any of his staff gave private lessons. One guy volunteered to teach both of us on Saturdays for a fixed hourly fee plus mileage expenses for his car. He seemed a very nice young man in his early twenties. We were not sure whether he was gay or not (some staff at the centre were, as were many of their clients), but it did not worry us one way or the other. In addition, once I started at Winton College school, I got lessons at school in their pool.
It was about this time that I started singing. I used to listen to Dad practising, and I found myself singing along with him. When he heard me, he made a phone call and then bundled me into the car and drove us into Camford to Uncle Marcello’s house. Dr Marcello Fabioni was now in his early seventies, but was still as active as ever. He accompanied Dad in an English song ‘Dear pretty, pretty youth’ that I had heard him sing many times. Then he said to me “Luca,” (he always called me by the Italian version of my name), “do you think you could sing that from memory?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. He played the introduction and I began the song and sang it through without much hesitation. He listened intently, then asked me to sing it again while Dad played.
I did so, and Marcello said “He’s got the Scarborough gift of a good singing voice. I advise you to get him auditioned for Winton College choir school. He would get a good education and excellent musical training at the same time.” Dad made another phone call and found out when the next voice tests were scheduled, and I was duly taken along and auditioned. A place in the choir school was offered to me starting the following September, when I would be seven.
Because of the nature of the training, I had to become a weekly boarder. Cathy was about to start at Ixton primary school, where I had been very happy for the last year, so clearly Pop had to stay in Ixton, even though we still had the flat in Camford. Each Friday afternoon in term time, my cofather and Cathy would come about 5 pm when evensong was over and collect me from school, and I would have to be back there by 5 pm on the Sunday, when the service was an hour later than on weekdays. Weekly boarders were allowed Saturdays off. From the school we would either go straight home to Ixton if Dad was at home, or go into Camford and have a meal at a restaurant. There was a nice Italian restaurant called Venezia, where we often went, and where the staff were very nice to us children. Pop would talk to the staff in Italian, and the food was always lovely. Both our fathers were fond of Italy and everything Italian, and of course Uncle Marcello and Auntie Caterina encouraged that.
At school, and this applied to Cathy as well as to myself, no-one bothered to ask about our mother. The headteachers knew of course that we had no mother but two fathers, but the kids seemed quite uninterested. The house-mother at Winton choir school was a lady in her early fifties whose own children were grown up. She did ask once about my mother, but I had learnt by then when saying that I had no mother, not to add that I had two fathers. She was very nice, and could deal with problems of minor injuries, tummy-aches and homesickness very expertly. Any boy who was homesick she took into her private sitting-room, gave him a jam-tart and let him watch a children’s DVD. All the boys loved her. We were very well looked after, and we learnt a lot. Classes were small and the staff dedicated. One of the most useful things that I learnt at Winton College School was to play the piano. There was also a senior school, so that when boys’ voices broke, they just moved into the senior school, where there was a majority of boys who had never been in the choir. Some of the really good singers ended up as choral scholars in the college when they were eighteen. I made a number of friends in the choir school, some of whom I still see regularly twenty years later.
My schooling had a big effect on our family Christmas and Easter arrangements. Although Winton College chapel was not a cathedral and did not have sung services outside university terms, it was still expected that the choir would sing at services over the two major Christian festivals that fell out of term, so we had to sing on three days over Christmas and the ten days over Easter that ran from Palm Sunday to Easter Monday. So our tradition of spending Christmas with our grandparents at Loxton had to be broken. Instead my grandparents and Uncle Jeroen came to Ixton for Christmas and the new year. Similarly our tradition of spending Easter seeing our other grandmother in Nice also had to be changed. We went to Nice on Easter Tuesday and stayed for four days, and this worked well most years when Easter was not too early or too late. Dad was absolutely rigorous about refusing all offers for singing gigs over the Christmas and Easter periods when I was at home, so in spite of his often missing birthdays and other celebrations he never missed the times that I was at home. Moreover, he always came to the Christmas and Easter services at which I was singing, and grandad came with him every other year. Grandad was a churchwarden at Loxton, and could not be away every Christmas and Easter, so he arranged with his fellow churchwarden to do his duties every alternate year, and to come to Ixton and join his wife and the rest of the family for the belated celebrations when I came home from my Christmas duties. It was great to have grandad to share the late celebration, and made me realize at a very early age that some people have to work on Christmas Day.
My father’s career over the period from my birth had progressed rapidly from minor roles like Basilio in ‘Le Nozze di Figaro’ in which he made his operatic debut in Bristol, to major roles like Don Ottavio in ‘Don Giovanni’ and Tamino in ‘Die Zauberflöte’ at Glyndbourne, leading to Cavaradossi in ‘Tosca’ at Covent Garden, by which time he had learnt to be a good actor as well as a singer, something that he found very difficult. He also sang in recitals and oratorio in Britain and the Netherlands and increasingly in Germany. He was a regular in presentations of the Vlaamse Opera in Antwerp and Ghent. More recently he had become big in the wider international scene, with operatic engagements in Italy, Vienna and New York. Although operatic runs are short, and lieder recitals and oratorio tend to be one-off performances, he was away from home for at least 50% of our childhood, and I could see as we got older, how much he regretted this.
Pop, our cofather (his name is Jonathan Singleton) also had a career, albeit part-time, for most of our childhood after we had both started school. Cathy did not come home from school on the days when Pop was in Camford, but went to the Rockwell’s where Mrs Rockwell kept an eye on her and taught her all kinds of domestic skills. She did this out of the goodness of her heart, but every year during the school holidays, when he had no college commitments, Pop paid for her and Arthur to have two weeks holiday in any place of their choice, staying in the very best hotels, while their son George looked after the farm. Our house had once been a disused barn on Arthur’s land, hence its name of Rockwell’s Barn. Pop had a substantial investment income and did not need to work for a living, but he felt that after years of being a high-powered postdoctoral research assistant he should do something in the university, but was lacking a track record of getting research grant money and that ruled out a university lectureship. In addition, he spent time on his two charities and on the committee of the Men’s Fitness Centre. So he got the job of tutor/lecturer teaching first-year chemistry undergraduates of St Boniface’s, his and Dad’s old college.
He became an immensely popular tutor, mainly because every summer after the first-year exams, all the Boni’s first-year chemists were invited to a party at Rockwell’s Barn. A minibus was provided to bring the students from Camford, they were encouraged to bring swimming kit and use our pool, and there were huge quantities of food and drink laid on, bottles of good wine, a barrel of decent beer. The only condition, which was strictly enforced, was that they were not allowed to bring guests. The number varied a lot from year to year, from as few as four to as many as sixteen. (St Boniface’s was a small college). We children were allowed to participate, and as we got older, were expected to help serve drinks and food, a role that a regular academic would have had research students to do, but Pop of course no longer worked in the lab. The July weather was usually good and an enjoyable time was had by all. Only rarely was there drunkenness or other bad behaviour. St Boniface’s chemistry alumni would reminisce about these parties for years.
Sometimes Pop left Cathy with Mrs Rockwell on a Sunday night when he dined on High Table with his friend, the Rev Dr Edward Bairstow, the college chaplain of Boni’s. Edward, now a married man, though he still retained his affection for my two fathers, had been appointed to a fellowship at St Boniface’s when he got his Ph.D. On other occasions Cathy stayed for the night with the Fabionis, while Pop and Dad both whooped it up with Edward on High Table, but that only happened if Dad was at home for the whole weekend.
I can’t remember my sister being born, but she is different from me. Dad is really my biological uncle, and my mother (his sister) lives in Italy. Cathy’s mother was a surrogate, a girl student with whom my parents arranged to have an A.I.D. baby using Pop’s sperm. They were not allowed by law to pay her, but via his business manager Tim Ingledown, Pop arranged a comfortable confinement in a private hospital and saw to it that the girl’s living expenses were covered for the three months in which she breast-fed baby Cathy and for six months afterwards, until she could resume her studies. Although her name appears on Cathy’s birth certificate, she was just as unknown to us children as my biological mother and father. Getting Cathy legally recognized as Pop’s biological daughter took all the forensic skills of Uncle Tim Ingledown’s family court specialist, in spite of conclusive DNA evidence. This was before such surrogacy arrangements were recognized by law. Because we have different fathers, our parents decided that Cathy and I should have different surnames, although we regard ourselves as brother and sister. Cathy is Catherine Helena Singleton, carrying on the Scarborough tradition of having a Dutch first name, in this case my grandmother’s, as well as being named in honour of Mrs Fabioni, my godmother. My name is Luke Cornelis Scarborough, my surname being the same as my mother’s. To safeguard our inheritance, our fathers’ wills mention our full names.
My father David and my grandfather are both devout members of the Church of England, and my godfather Edward is a priest, so it is fortunate that I have inherited my grandfather’s staunch belief. My grandfather was thrilled when along with my grandmother and my two fathers and Edward and Caterina my godparents, he saw me confirmed in Winton College chapel when I was ten years old by the Bishop of Fitchey. It gave him great pleasure that when I was a choirboy I spent at least an hour a day for 26 weeks of the year engaged in the praise and worship of God, and it gives me great satisfaction to have had that privilege. I’m getting nearly as formal in my phraseology as my two fathers! Try reading the two earlier books about them, and you will see what I mean. Formal language, punctuated by quotations, is mixed with crude men-only language.
But I have NEVER had cause to regret having no mother. The two men who have brought my sister and me up have lavished love on us as well as discipline, and when I saw the results of marriage breakup in the case of two boys in the choir, I thanked God that I was the fruit of a permanent lifelong union, even though my two parents are not and never could be, married. Although my parents would have been very happy for me to see or get letters from my mother, she strictly adhered to the rules of natural parents of adopted children and made no attempt to contact or meet me. But every year on my birthday, a sum of money was transferred into my bank account from an Italian bank, and my grandparents got letters from her occasionally, but always asking that no-one contacted her.
Around the age of thirteen, my voice began to break. By singing with care, I managed to get to the end of the school year, but then it became necessary to leave the sheltered life of the choir school and enter the teenage rough and tumble of the senior school. Several of us boys experienced this at the same time of course, and our schoolwork continued without much interruption.
My cracking and pitch-changing voice did not of course signal the beginning of puberty. By the age of eleven I had discovered how to wank. No-one taught me, it is a hormonally directed instinct. At first I was not entirely sure what I was doing, but being an avid reader, I soon found out all about it. Wikipedia was then in its infancy. Rather late in the day, when I was about twelve, Pop decided to tell me about the implications of becoming a man, at least in the physiological sense. He said that if we had been an all-male household, he would have done it earlier, but the presence of my sister somehow inhibited him. He reassured me that wanking was not something to be ashamed of, but a valuable lifelong advantage of being a male, but asked me to be careful in cleaning up after myself, especially at school. He then went on to talk about homosexuality. He said that of course I had always known that I was the child of two gay men, but that did not mean that I would myself be or become gay. He pointed out that my irresponsible Italian biological father who had led my poor mother astray was certainly not gay. He went on to say that the topic was always one that I should feel able to discuss with him or with Dad, or best of all with both of them, but that if Dad was away, I should not delay in seeking advice, both spiritual and practical from him, or even from Uncle Edward. In particular, he asked me NEVER to feel self-conscious when he or Dad kissed me.
“Whatever your feelings,” he said, you must never doubt that whatever you do, even a crime, we will both always love you, even when you have found your own love with a woman or man. “Moreover,” he continued “even if you find yourself in love with a boy at school, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you are gay, both male and female teenagers nearly always go through a homosexual phase. But by the time you get to university, you should be able to make up your mind. I always knew that I was gay, but Dad was very unsure of his sexuality when he came up to Camford, until I made him think hard about it. We had been friends for six months and I wanted him desperately, but I had to let him decide for himself what he was going to do.
“And remember too that a lot of men are bisexual, and for them any decision is not irreversible. I know that David thinks that he is gay because he knows what men want from sex, whereas men have to learn what pleases a woman, and he does not want to go down that route. And I can tell you that I am forever grateful to God that David chose me. He is the one that brought me to realize the power of love. Before I met him, I was lonely, mechanical and wealthy, also shy and frightened of women. David’s mother, your grandmother, cured me of being frightened of women. I owe a lot to the Scarborough family. Your Grandma and Grandad are my true parents. My mother has always been a stranger to me, as you may have noticed.
“David has taught me to use my wealth responsibly, and not selfishly and to think of other people. He also brought me first to belief in God, and then to recognition of God’s manifestation of His love in Jesus Christ. Edward also played a role in my conversion, but David sowed the seed, literally actually! It was through lovemaking with him that I came to understand God’s love for human beings. You are too young to remember, but you were about three when Uncle Edward baptized me in St Boniface’s college chapel. Marcello and your grandad were my godfathers and Caterina is my godmother, just as she is yours. I was confirmed the following Eastertide at a college confirmation with two nineteen-year-old undergraduates by the Bishop. So it was only seven years later that he confirmed you!”
This information from Pop took away any apprehension and embarrassment that I had about sex, and about religion, and I found myself able to talk about both topics freely at home, as long as my sister was not around. However, Cathy had always been used to a house with no females in it, which is why my parents encouraged her to spend time with Mrs Rockwell. At least when she was there she didn’t have to hear us males belching and farting all the time. But she got used to hearing crude language, and could use it herself when the need arose, although most of the time she was very ladylike. We never expected her to have a mothering or housekeeping role for the rest of us, but we were glad that she did learn some feminine skills with Mrs Rockwell. But her sweet presence did very much to cheer us and help us in times when things were not going well. I never regretted that I had a sister and not a brother.
Back to Camford
At the same time as I moved up into the senior school and no longer needed to board, my sister finished at Ixton Primary School. Our parents decided to take the opportunity to move back into the flat in Fountain Street, Camford, where they had lived when they were at the university, so that I could live at home again. There was a small box room in the flat that was used to store books. We cleared this out, moved the books to Rockwell’s Barn, and bought a small bed and chest of drawers and turned it into a bedroom for Cathy. I had the other small bedroom where Dad had kept his clothes when he first moved in with Pop. He had never slept in the bed! My parents went to a lot of trouble to find a suitable school for Cathy, and ultimately fixed on a medium-sized private girls’ school with a good academic reputation. They felt that it was vital that she should grow up with some female companionship.
With hindsight, I think that I would have been much closer to my sister if I had not been gay. Most men need a mother figure or some other kind of female support in their lives, but I never had the reserve and almost lack of trust that a lot of male teenagers have with their fathers. Because of them being gay, both Dad and Pop awoke in me total trust, and I knew that their own experiences had made their advice very valuable, and I never felt the slightest desire to go against their wishes, which must have made me a very untypical male teenager! In some ways, I felt sorry for Cathy, for exactly the same reason, and I think she probably later regretted not having a mother figure in her life, unless you count Mrs Rockwell. My fathers used to get lots of fun though, going to parents’ evenings and other school events and talking to the women teachers. The school did have some male staff, especially in science, but I think the girls gave the poor men a hard time.
Life in the sixth form
I hated school sporting activities and team games of any kind. This may have disappointed Dad, who in his college days had been a basketball player. I was not lazy and inactive, indeed I was pretty fit. I walked to and from school each day and I was good at swimming. But on the whole I was hyperstudious. After our GCSEs, in which I did rather well, being a few months older than most other exam candidates, with top grades in nine subjects, I was looking forward to sixth form work. My social skills were pretty minimal. I was more interested in computers and playing the piano. About this time I passed the Associated Boards Grade 8 exam in piano, although I did not get a distinction. I would sometimes go to the cinema, or to the swimming pool with one or more of my friends, but we were a pretty tame and unexciting bunch, more interested in getting on with our work than experimenting with drugs or under-age drinking.
It was a pity in some ways that I went to a boys’ school, because it meant that I did not meet a lot of girls. My schoolfriends were always talking about their girlfriends, but I never found out where they met them. It didn’t worry me much, because I didn’t find girls very interesting. Eventually the penny dropped and I realized that my lack of interest in girls was due to an increasing awareness of my fellow boys. Even in the sixth form, we had an hour’s compulsory PE each week, followed by compulsory showers. My group of friends seemed highly uninterested in their bodies, which in most cases was not surprising, as they were quite unremarkable.
Then at the end of our first year in the sixth when I was nearly eighteen, a new boy joined our class. He had just moved to the area with his parents. He was older than me, in fact was already eighteen. He was beautiful and I felt instantly attracted to him. He had longish dark wavy hair, but was tall and thin in build, even skinnier than most actively growing male teenagers.
Mark and Luke
In spite of my parents’ scientific background, I was doing languages in the sixth form. In fact I had been selected as one of the elite few to do four A level subjects, Latin, Greek, French and Italian and had been entered in the Camford entrance exams. My choice was probably influenced by Pop’s fluent French and Dad’s fluent Dutch.
The new boy, whose name was Mark, was doing science, so I only saw him at morning registration and in assembly, where I had a daily fifteen minutes to admire his face and figure. However we were both in the same after-school chess club. I was not a good chess player, but our school’s team was weak, and I was recruited mainly because I could play and was available. A lot of sixth-formers had to rush off after school to deliver evening newspapers to earn spending money. Mark and I usually sat next to one another in the weekly chess practice sessions, and got talking.
We both turned out to like French and Italian films, so often on a Saturday we would go to an afternoon showing of a film at the Rialto, Camford’s art-house cinema that was still eking out a precarious existence in an era of mass-market multiplex rubbish. Only in Camford could such a place hope to survive. We would then go and eat in a cheap restaurant somewhere in the town. I was not really in love with Mark, but I felt happy and comfortable in his company. His ideas and tastes enhanced my appreciation and love of classical music, and we would go to concerts together whenever an orchestra visited Camford. I discovered later that it was at just such a concert that my two fathers had met!
Early in January, I celebrated my eighteenth birthday. My parents arranged for me, themselves, Cathy, and such friends as I cared to invite, to go out to dinner at the Venezia restaurant. I invited three of my oldest friends and Mark to come for the occasion. Cathy seemed perfectly happy to be present at an all-male occasion, indeed she was on sparkling form, and charmed us all, especially my three straight friends! After the meal, Dad, having paid for drinks, including my first legal alcoholic drink in public, went home with Pop and Cathy and left us boys to continue drinking. Dad knew very well that we did not have enough money to get drunk!
Mark had spent several weeks of the summer abroad and still late in January had a faint suntan. When I noticed him in the showers after PE, the white area of his arse and genitals emphasized his suntan. His pubic hair was thick and abundant, and he had a respectably sized tool. In fact, I was obliged to wrap a towel round my hips to cover up the hard-on that I instantly developed when I saw him. He looked at me, noticed the bulge in the towel, and grinned at me without saying anything.
Mark was much more sophisticated than I was, and I learned a lot from him. He was also more outgoing, and it was not long before we were holding hands in the darkness of the cinema, and one afternoon early in February, I put my arm round him. He responded by turning in his seat (looking round to make sure all eyes were on the screen) and kissing me gently on the lips. My temperature started to rise and my pulse to race. I found it impossible to concentrate for the rest of the film. It was an Italian film, and reading the subtitles requires concentration.
By the time we emerged from the cinema, it was dark, although still early evening. As we walked in the direction of the small cafe where we usually went to eat, we passed a park on the other side of the road. I nudged Mark and whispered “Let’s go in there.” We entered the park and although there were no leaves on the trees we found a secluded seat amidst thick shrubbery. We sat down and threw our arms round each other and began to kiss passionately. I had actually shaved that morning, something that I only did about once a week, so my face was OK. Mark’s face was deliciously smooth, he obviously had much less facial hair than me. We nuzzled each other as we kissed and Mark opened his mouth and used his tongue to push my mouth open. We played with each other’s tongues for a few minutes, and sticking my left hand out I found that Mark had just as hard an erection as I was experiencing myself. I could feel the copious damp precome in my underpants. After five minutes or so, we started to feel cold and let go of one another and stood up.
“That was fantastic,” I whispered to him as we walked along.
“Yes, it was,” he replied, “We must find somewhere private where we can make love sometime soon.” Without much further discussion on this matter, we entered the tearoom and ate our evening meal.
When I got home, Pop asked me “Did you have a nice time, Luke?” and I smiled and said that I had. I wondered how long I should wait before admitting to him that I was gay. I decided that the time was coming when I would have to bring Mark home to meet Pop.
A relationship develops
Mark and I soon found an opportunity to deepen our relationship. One Saturday just before Easter he invited me to come for tea at his house and stay for the evening. He was an only child, and his parents were going out to visit friends and would not be back till late, so we said that we would watch a DVD in Mark’s bedroom, on the small television set that he had been given for his sixteenth birthday. We made sure that Mark’s parents were well out of the house before we fell into each other’s arms, and began to kiss furiously. I started to undo his belt and unzip his trousers, pausing to let him do the same for me. We removed one another’s shoes and socks. Then I pulled his T-shirt over his head, leaving him in his underpants, with his rockhard dick already oozing moisture. He removed my shirt and underclothes and we fell once again into a deep embrace, our rampant cocks rubbing against one another. “We’re going to try cock-sucking,” he announced.
“Have you ever done it before?” I asked.
“No, but I’ve got a book that tells how to do it,” he said. “It’s called ‘How to give good head,’ and it’s really intended for the heterosexual market, but it applies just as much to gay sex. The first thing to bear in mind is to keep your teeth always beneath your lips. You should be able to close your lips and touch your closed lips from inside with your tongue, so that you never bring upper and lower teeth together. The next thing is to use your tongue as much as you can. Don’t try and actually swallow the other guy’s dick, you’ll just gag if you do. The big pleasure lies in using your lips and tongue, and the guy being sucked should not try to fuck your mouth violently. Who’s going to suck first?”
“Well, as you have read all about it, maybe you should suck me.” I was certainly ready for it, the precome was steadily dripping from my ironhard tool. Mark bent over and started to lick the precome from the tip. Then he ran his lips over my rolled-back foreskin and started to nibble the fleshy ring gently. I shivered with enjoyment. “That’s wonderful!” I whispered. He moved slowly along my shaft and rubbed his lips and face in my pubic bush. Then he started to lick my balls. He then changed direction and moved up my tool till he reached the head. He took the first 5 cm or so of my cock, basically the head, and chewed it gently. I nearly went crazy. Now I knew what a man’s cock was for! Previously I had just considered it a pipe for pissing and a stick for fucking, but I now knew that it had its own role as an organ of sensitivity and pleasure in itself.
Mark was giving me greater enjoyment than I had ever obtained in jacking off. I could feel the excitement and tension building up inside me, and I pushed my dick a little further into Mark’s mouth. I reached out and got hold of him behind the head, as if to steady it while I fucked it, but I started to breathe heavily and loudly, and in a matter of seconds I came and shot my load into his mouth. He smiled blissfully as he savoured the taste and then swallowed my spunk.
“You taste good!” he exclaimed.
“I wondered what you would do with the man-juice,” I said.
“You should always swallow it, unless it tastes foul,” he grinned. “Let’s have a short rest and then it’s your turn to suck me!”
I spent the time that we were resting running my hands over Mark’s chest and belly and kissing his arms and shoulders from time to time. When we were recovered, our erections had subsided, but I knelt down and took Mark’s limp cock into my mouth. It immediately started to stiffen and as I ran my tongue over the head and nibbled slightly at his foreskin, it rapidly attained full hardness. “That was nice!” he said. “It was rather splendid to feel my dick stiffening while it was in your mouth!” I pulled away from his cock head temporarily and started to lick the sides of the shaft, rubbing my tongue over every little lump and vein that I could feel and coating his man-stick with saliva. I played with his foreskin with my lips, pulling it and letting go. Then I took the head of his tool into my mouth and savoured it with my tongue, sucking and making slight chewing movements as I felt its round and smooth surface. Mark was not content with my rather slow actions and started to move his dick inside my mouth pushing it forward with fucking movements. The sensation of this glorious slippery cylinder in my mouth was highly enjoyable, and I stretched my mouth as much as I could and pushed myself as far forward on him as possible to try to engulf his male organ to its maximum, which of course I totally failed to do. By now I could feel his trembling and tensing muscles and after perhaps half a minute longer he shouted “Luke!” and came and squirted not one or two but three shots of jism into my wide open mouth. I slowly withdrew my mouth and started to savour his man-juice. It tasted quite nice, somewhat salty, but not spectacularly flavoursome. I swallowed it but retained a little in my mouth and smeared it over my lips and kissed him back on his mouth, thereby transferring some of his come back to him again.
“Thank you, thank you, Mark,” I said, “now I know what sex is like! It’s even better than I thought it would be!”
“Yes, that was pretty good! Next time, we’ll try sixty-nine.”
“What’s that?” I asked naïvely.
“Basically, sucking each other off at the same time,” he explained.
“Sounds good!” I said.
I come out to my fathers
It seemed to me that there was no longer any point in not telling my parents about my sexual orientation. As a pair of gays they would obviously not be surprised or shocked that I had the same orientation, even though they might be disappointed at the thought that I would be unlikely ever give them any grandchildren.
I chose a weekend in which Dad was at home. He was just back from a week-long recital tour of the Netherlands. We had decided to spend the weekend at Rockwell’s Barn and Cathy had gone to visit one of her old school friends in the village. We were still using the pool at that stage, and the three of us had just done 20 or so fairly relaxing lengths. When Cathy was not around we used to swim naked. We all climbed out of the pool and started drying ourselves and it seemed a suitable moment to explain to my fathers how I felt about myself. “I hope that this does not come as a shock to you,” I said to them. “But I am pretty sure that I am gay. I am seeing and dating a boy at school and I would like you to meet him.”
They were not shocked, but they did look a little concerned. “Are you quite sure about this?” asked Dad. “You can’t have met very many girls, as you go to a boys’ school. ”
“Yes, that’s true” I said, “but really I don’t have any interest in girls whatsoever, and I am extremely interested in boys. You must both know how you feel like when this happens! When can I bring Mark to meet you?”
“Well,” said Dad, “before we meet him, I think we need to have a discussion with you about gay sex. I realize that you might think that we are being excessively nosy and being pruriently interested in things that do not concern us, but you must remember that homosexuality is a risky life-style. Legally in the UK you can now have sex with a man, but you should think in some detail before you get too deeply emotionally involved with a boy of your own age. Within a few months you will be off to university and it could be a major disadvantage if you have tied yourself down emotionally with someone from school. Another piece of advice is that I strongly advise you not to get involved in fucking. You can get a lot of fun and enjoyment out of jacking each other off, sucking and rimming but please don’t go for the ultimate unless you are desperately, desperately in love. And if you do go down the fucking route, remember always, ALWAYS use a condom. But the most important thing is: don’t under ANY circumstances let your relatonship distract you from your schoolwork. We want you to get into the university here, either at Winton or at St Boniface’s.”
“Unless I manage to get a choral scholarship at Winton, which is unlikely, because I’m a baritone, not a tenor, I’ve decided to apply to Buckingham.”
“Yes, because it’s a gay college, and still refuses to admit women. I want to be a member of the only men-only college left in Camford University!”
“University will give you a chance to meet girls. Why diminish your chances of meeting a nice girl by going to a gay college?”
“I don’t WANT to meet a nice girl, I want to meet a nice boy!”
Shortly after this, we heard the results of our Oxbridge and Camford entrance exams. Mark and I both knew that our relationship would not be a long-lasting one, because we were both hoping to go to different universities, I to Camford and Mark to Oxbridge. My performance in the entrance examination led to Buckingham College summoning me for an interview, so one Monday morning early in May I left the flat in Fountain Street and walked the few hundred metres into the town centre and five minutes later arrived at the porter’s lodge at Buckingham.
The interview went well. There were three persons interviewing me, the Senior Tutor, the language tutor and a third don whom I failed to identify. They asked me why I had chosen Camford, rather than Oxbridge. Would it not be better not to be studying in the town where I lived? I replied that I had family reasons to remain in Camford, as my parents had strong academic connections. I added that we only resided in the city for educational reasons, and that our family home was actually in Ixton, where my parents would return after my sister and I had left school. I was asked why I had chosen Buckingham College rather than any other college. I said that it was because it had an Italian tutor. Italian was the language in which I wanted to specialize, though I was happy to study French, and I had a grandmother who lived in France. I added that the all-male composition of the college appealed to me as well. That was the nearest I went to declaring myself gay, but I guessed that they could read between the lines. Things had moved on somewhat in the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ tradition since my fathers had been students.
They asked me to withdraw for five minutes, and when I was recalled they told me that I had a place in the college to study for the honour school of Modern Languages starting in the following Martinmas Term, provided that I got A grades in all my four A level subjects. I went home in a state of near euphoria. It was not worth going back to school for the rest of the day, so I looked at my watch, and when it was break time at school, rang Mark on his cellphone to tell him that I had a conditional offer at Buckingham College. He was delighted, and within a few days himself was summoned to interview in Oxbridge. My parents of course were also pleased at my offer. On reflection they had realized that it would not be good to for me to be in a college at which my cofather was a tutor, albeit in a totally unrelated discipline. Mark received a similar offer from the Oxbridge college to which he had applied.
Mark meets my parents
As the weeks went by, our opportunities for sex were of course quite limited, and we were also busy swatting for our exams in late June. Nevertheless, we did manage a few 69 sessions when we told Mark’s parents that we were collaborating on a homework project, and developed quite a skill at synchronizing our orgasms, as well as a taste for semen!
With few opportunities for sex, we did seize every opportunity during the school day to meet up and canoodle with one another in a quiet corner out of doors where we were unobserved. This habit however brought about a big downfall in our social acceptance. One day a group of our year came past as we were engaged in a heavy kissing session. News rapidly spread round the sixth form that we were a pair of faggots, and a number of unpleasant comments were made, as well as many jocular ones. There was an element of glee among some of the boys that two of their older classmates had been spotted in a compromising situation. However, neither of us gave a shit. As long as our behaviour did not come to the attention of the school authorities, we were not unduly worried. Luckily there was no Facebook in those days. The resulting lack of popularity did not in any way have any impact on us. It was probable that the story reached some of the teachers, but as we were of the academic elite (the ‘crème de la crème’, as Miss Jean Brodie called it in Muriel Spark’s novel), nothing was said or done, although there was some jeering by our fellow students when we were seen together.
One day at school, I said to Mark, “I want you to meet my parents. No strings or implications about our relationship, just as my friend. I’ve told them about you, and been warned of the dangers of forming emotional attachments when we’re about to go to different universities. They know all about how difficult life is for gays, as they’re gays themselves.”
“Were you brought up by two men then?” asked Mark.
“Yes,” I replied “I saw my birth mother when I was about three, but have never seen her since. Of course I can’t remember it. She lives in Italy. Can you come for a weekend, and we can all go to our house at Ixton? I’ll ask Pop to ring your mother and invite you. Then we’ll be able to use the pool.”
“Do you miss not having a mother?”
“No, my two fathers have always done everything that a mother would do. The only thing that they couldn’t do was to suckle me, so I didn’t actually live with them till I was about six months old and had been weaned.”
Pop rang Mark’s mother and invited him to come and stay with us at Ixton over a weekend. As soon as I got home from school, I was bundled into the 4×4 along with Cathy and we picked up Mark from his home and drove to Rockwell’s Barn. Dad arrived shortly afterwards from Oxbridge, where he had been singing, accompanied by Brian Shaw. Brian dropped him off and went on to Fitchey. When Dad arrived, I introduced Mark to both my fathers. He shook hands with each of them, and they looked at him appraisingly, as gays do at all males, especially young ones. “So you and Luke are having good times together?” said Dad in a slightly ambiguous way. We wondered if he meant ‘Are you and my son fucking together?’ To avoid any embarrassment, we just said “Yes.” Pop had prepared an excellent meal of pork pie and salad followed by fruit pie and custard. We consumed a bottle of a nice Italian white wine called Orvieto.
Mark had to use all his charm (and he had a lot of charm, much more than I had) to make us all feel comfortable, but in the end my two fathers warmed to his conversation, and we spent much of the evening talking about music, while drinking coffee and Marsala. Mark had never drunk Marsala before and obviously enjoyed it.
After we had eaten, Cathy said that she had homework to do and would go to bed afterwards. My fathers said they would pop in later and say goodnight. Pop then said to Mark and me, “We won’t disturb you when you go to bed, but don’t do anything stupid. In particular, Mark, if your parents found out that we had permitted you and Luke to have it off together in our house, there would be all hell to pay. We are treating you as two adults, not as a pair of thick randy teenagers, so please behave discreetly and responsibly. I take it Mark, that you’ve not come out to your parents?”
“No,” he replied.
“Then for heaven’s sake when you do so, please do not betray the confidence that we have placed in you.”
After a very pleasant evening, we all went to bed about 11-30 pm. Mark was to sleep in the spare bed in my room, and he got into it while I was saying my prayers. But as soon as I got into bed, naked, as I usually slept, he hopped out of bed and got into mine. “This is the only chance we’ll probably ever get to sleep together!” he said, and started to kiss me. “I hope that your arse-crack is nice and clean,” Mark continued, “because I’m going to rim you,”
“I’ll just go and give it a good wash,” I said. I came back from the bathroom bringing my towel with me and spread it on the bed. I lay on top of it, spread my legs and waited for Mark. He pulled my arse-cheeks gently apart and buried his face in my crack. I moved the lower half of my body into a kneeling position and bent forward to improve his access to my fundament. He licked the hair on either side of my hole before pushing his tongue into my sphincter and running it round the rim. I nearly swooned with the pleasure of the sensation. How, I wondered, does this guy know how to give so much pleasure if he’s never done it before? But then I just relaxed and gave way to enjoying the attention that my anus was being given. The kissing and lingual exploration continued for about five minutes, and my dick was getting harder and I could feel the tension building up as I approached a climax. Mark set to work again with his tongue and teeth, gently nibbling my anal hair before endeavouring to push his tongue inside me. The pre-orgasmic tension began to build up inside me and I suddenly and with great violence, came and shot my load onto the towel. Mark gave my buttocks a final kiss and I turned on my side, got hold of him and began to smother him with kisses. “That was wonderful!” I said. “I bet that whatever my parents are doing, and I bet they fuck like rabbits, they won’t be enjoying it as much as we are! You’re a great lover, Mark. What would you like me to do to you?”
“Just suck me,” he replied. His dick seemed bigger than I had ever seen it before, and he had obvious got a big turn-on by rimming me. I took it gently into my mouth and began to lick the head. Then I began to suck and gently chew it, my hands stroking his hips and smooth belly. I licked the sides of his shaft and moved down and began to lick his balls and gently took one into my mouth. He wriggled with delight. “You’re getting good at this!” he exclaimed. I took his dick back into my mouth and before very long he discharged his man-juice into my mouth. I swallowed the white blood eagerly and began to kiss his belly. After about half an hour of kissing and cuddling, we cleaned ourselves up in the bathroom and I rinsed the spunk stain from my towel. We got back into bed, and soon fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.
Next morning, instead of further lovemaking, we got up early, put on bathrobes and went down to the pool, where we disrobed and swam fifty lengths each naked, just to satisfy ourselves that contrary to the stories about us at school, we were not lazy effete faggots, but loving energetic teenagers. We got out of the water and showered in the men’s changing room, again without much intimacy, and I had to shave. We then put our bathrobes back on and went into the kitchen, where Pop was cooking bacon and Cathy was already eating.
“Good morning, boys,” she said. “Did you have good swim?” and grinned at us in a knowing way. “What college in Oxbridge are you going to, Mark?” she asked.
“Holy Cross College,” he replied.
“Is that a gay college, like the one that Luke’s going to?” she asked.
“No, it’s a perfectly ordinary co-ed college, founded in 1472,” he replied.
“Will you miss one another?” she then asked.
“Of course,” I replied, “but we are each going to be very busy and no doubt we will form new friendships.”
“We’ve learnt a lot from each other,” said Mark, “but we both know that it’s too early to get involved in a fixed relationship.”
“So long as there’s no heartbreak, then of course you’re right,” she said wisely.
I leave school
August came and with it our exam results. Mark and I had both got straight A grades. Our parents were of course delighted, and so were we, but we both knew that when we left to go to our respective universities, our sexual relations would end, but we also knew that we would remain good friends. It was a relief, in spite of honour awards and certificates, to get away from the stultifying atmosphere of school into the adult world.
The other important happening was that Dr DC, the senior chemistry tutor at St Boniface’s telephoned Pop to say that he was going to nominate him for an honorary fellowship of the college on the dual grounds of his tutorial services (Pop’s first year students always did very well) and the fact that he was a substantial financial benefactor. He had been donating £10K per annum to the college for the past thirty years or so. Pop’s nomination was seconded by Edward, and at a meeting of the Governing Body at the end of September, he was unanimously elected with the enthusiastic support of the President, Lady Howarth. She was in her final year of office, and was due to retire at the end of the academic year after about twenty-five years in the job. Indeed it was she who had promoted the amendment of the college statutes to provide for a fixed retirement age for the President of 75. Up till then, no retirement age had been stipulated and some Presidents had remained in office until they dropped dead. She had had a glittering career, rising from being Dr Elizabeth Howarth via Dame Elizabeth Howarth and then round about the turn of the century, raised to a life peerage as Baroness Howarth of Laurifax. Since the breakup of her marriage due to irreconcilable disputes with her husband about their gay son, whom Mr M wanted to disown, she had been a strong upholder of gay rights and recognition of the contribution of homosexuals to Camford University’s academic distinction.
But none of these events made much impact on my life as a student, and equipped with the necessary towels and bed-linen, at the beginning of October Pop drove Luke Scarborough the new freshman to the porter’s lodge of Buckingham College with a large suitcase, and left me there standing on the pavement and drove away to garage the car. My life away from home had begun.
TO BE CONTINUED…